The Sixth Lamentation (35 page)

Father
Pleyon secured the passage of Schwermann and Brionne to England through
personal diplomatic connections in Paris and London. Contact was made with a
new monastic foundation in Suffolk that had been established by a French
motherhouse shortly before the war. Schwermann would stay with the monks for a
month while alternative arrangements were made by the British authorities.

Anselm
put the report back in the envelope and glanced at the fax machine, thinking of
his own brief letter to Rome. Its readers would already know that Eduard
Schwermann first came to Larkwood Priory in 1945.

3

Reading other people’s
letters without permission was the sort of thing that Freddie considered
abhorrent. It was one of the many admonitions he had stressed when Lucy was a
child and he was laying out the benchmarks for upright living. Which of course
turned out to be ironic because he would dearly have loved to learn about his
daughter if she would but tell him, and she wouldn’t, and that left peeping at
her mail, which he never did, not even when Darren’s distinctive letters had
fallen upon the doormat and Lucy had left them open in her unlocked room. She
had done that on purpose, knowing he would want to look, and knowing that he
would not.

So it
was genuinely an accident when her father picked up a letter to Lucy from her
college tutor referring her to Myriam Anderson, the counsellor, and giving her
permission to miss lectures and tutorials for several weeks. It had fallen on
the floor, out of a coat pocket, while she was visiting her parents, and Lucy
had left for Brixton none the wiser. He gave it back to her, with an apology, a
day or so later at Chiswick Mall. They were standing in the hallway, just as
Lucy was about to leave. She took it, flushing, and answered the trapped
question he would not ask:

‘I’ve
not dropped out.’

Freddie
studied her face for a long while. ‘But why, Lucy? What’s wrong?’ She’d
expected anger, more of the old dashed expectations spilling forth like dirty
water. But that didn’t happen. For once, he seemed lost, unsure of how to keep
hold of the threads that linked him to his daughter. He raised his hands and
Lucy felt the lightest of pulls towards him. She said, quickly, ‘I had a friend
who died.’

The
telling seemed to leave him winded. He didn’t even know about the friend, never
mind the death. To her astonishment he came forward and put an arm around her,
drawing her head into his neck. Lucy could not remember when that had last
happened. She started crying, not for Pascal, not for Agnes, but for herself… and for her father.

‘I’m
terribly sorry,’ he said.

‘So am
I.’

And
they both knew that their words went far deeper than a reference to recent
grief. They reached back, further than either of them could ever have intended
or imagined, deep into the unlit past.

As Lucy
pulled herself away, she met her father’s open gaze with dismay: how would it
ever be possible to tell him about the trial, about Agnes’ notebook, and about
his very self?

Lucy attended court the
next morning and took her seat. She asked Max what he’d done the night before.
Waiting on tables, he said. How awful, she replied. Pays the rent, he
responded. Mr Lachaise polished his glasses reflectively, listening to their
quick, simple exchange.

The
barristers filed into court but, unusually, the jury were not summoned. Mr
Justice Pollbrook came on to the bench. Mr Penshaw rose to his feet:

‘My
Lord, owing to a rather surprising development in this case, I fear it may be
necessary to have a substantial adjournment so that—’

‘How
long, Mr Penshaw?’

‘At
least the rest of the day’

‘You
can have this morning.’

‘My
Lord, the development is significant, and I anticipate the need to serve
additional evidence upon my Learned Friend. He will need to consider it
most
carefully’

There
was a pause. Mr Penshaw had spoken in Bar-code. The judge quickly scanned the
lawyers below

‘Very
well. You can have until two-thirty tomorrow That’s a day and a half. Mr
Bartlett, any objections?’

‘No, my
Lord, I’ve always enjoyed little surprises.’

‘Court
rise.’

Lucy
thought, faster than she could order her mind: it’s Victor Brionne. He must
have decided to speak out. Why else would he have come out of hiding? Why else
would the Crown so enjoy expressing their concern for Mr Bartlett? He comes to
strike down his former master.

Suffused
with exultation, Lucy turned on Schwermann in the dock, but was stunned to see
his relief and the slight trembling of repressed emotion: the look of one who
has heard the soft approach of his saviour.

Chapter Thirty-Six

1

Lucy returned to court
unable to forget the look of hope that had smoothed the anxious face of Eduard
Schwermann. But now, sitting in the dock, he looked to the public gallery with
growing agitation, directly towards the empty seat of Max Nightingale.

Mr
Lachaise was uncharacteristically wearied, like the front-runner who unexpectedly
limps to one side, unable to continue with the race. Another man, roughly the
same age as Mr Lachaise, caught Lucy’s attention, being a new observer among
what had become a familiar throng. He stood out not through that difference
but through the imprint of tension. His short silvered hair, neatly cut and
parted, suggested the boy as much as the man. She suspected that he was here
with Victor Brionne, who was about to give evidence on behalf of the
Prosecution.

When
Counsel were all assembled, the judge came on to the bench in the absence of
the jury

‘My
Lord,’ said Mr Penshaw, rising to his feet, ‘the adjournment has been of
considerable assistance. If I may briefly explain—’

‘Please
do.’

‘An
individual came forward from whom it was thought a contemporaneous account of
events involving Mr Schwermann might be forthcoming. A statement was taken by
the police which your Lordship has no doubt seen.

‘I
have.’

‘There
is nothing deposed therein which adds anything of significance to the
Prosecution case. I do not propose to call the witness.’

The
judge languidly raised an eyebrow ‘Has Mr Bartlett seen the statement?’

‘He
has.’

‘Good.’

‘My
Lord,’ said Mr Penshaw ‘That completes the evidence for the Crown.’

‘Mr
Bartlett, are you ready to proceed?’

‘I am.’

‘Call
the jury please,’ said Mr Justice Pollbrook, turning a fresh page in his
notebook.

Desperate
and confused, Lucy grasped for an understanding of what had happened. How could
the Prosecution case come to an end without evidence from Victor Brionne? What
had he said to the police that was of so little value? As she threw the
questions like flints around her mind the jury returned to their seats, the
Crown closed their case and all eyes locked on to Schwermann who, at any
moment, would make his way from the dock to the witness stand. Mr Bartlett made
a few ponderous notes with his pencil. He sipped water. A collective
apprehension rapidly spread throughout the court. The judge patiently waited
and then, just as he opened his mouth to speak, Mr Bartlett suddenly rose,
saying:

‘My
Lord, notwithstanding the usual practice of calling the Defendant first, in
this particular case I call Victor Brionne.’

‘What?’
said Lucy, aghast.

Mr
Lachaise leaned towards her and said in a low, strong voice, ‘Do not worry.’ With
an affection tainted by anger she thought: it’s always the powerless who are
most generous with their comfort.

Victor
Brionne walked through the great doors. The appearance of the man who had
haunted so many lives mocked expectation. He was wholly ordinary — shortish,
with a wide, laboured gait; owlish eyes, his skin dark and deeply lined — the
sort of man you’d meet in the market. He took the oath. His eyes avoided the
dock, and he turned only once towards the handsome man three or four seats
away from Mr Lachaise. Then he faced the jury.

Mr Bartlett constructed
Brionne’s Evidence-in-Chief like a master stonemason. Both hands held each
question and every expected answer was pressed slowly into position. He halted
work frequently, allowing facts to settle.

‘Mr
Brionne, you worked with Eduard Schwermann between 1941 and 1944?’

‘Yes.’

‘You
are French by birth?’

‘Yes.’

‘You
joined the Paris Prefecture of Police in June 1941, at the age of twenty-three?’

‘Yes, I
did.’

‘You
were, however, not an ordinary policeman, in the sense that you were based at
the offices of the Gestapo.’

‘That’s
right.’

‘I
shall spare the jury an argument as to your status. Your place of work made you
a collaborator?’

There
was no reply Brionne’s lower jaw was gently shaking.

‘I asked
if you were a collaborator. Please answer.

Very
quietly, Brionne replied, ‘Yes.’

‘Louder,
please.’

‘Yes. I
was a collaborator.’ The words seemed to burn his mouth.

‘Please
tell the ladies and gentlemen of the jury how you came to work with Mr
Schwermann. ‘

‘I
spoke good German. I was transferred to an SS department within weeks because
they required a translator.’

‘And
was that the extent of your “collaboration”?’ queried Mr Bartlett, slightly
stressing the last word.

‘It was
enough.’

‘Mr
Brionne, I am now going to ask you some questions about an organisation known
as The Round Table. We understand Mr Schwermann was credited with uncovering
the smuggling operation. Did he ever tell you how he did it?’

‘Not
exactly, no,’ Brionne wavered. ‘All he said was that a member of the group had
told him everything.’

‘Did he
say who this person was?’

‘No.’

‘Did
you enquire?’

‘I didn’t,
no.

Mr
Bartlett’s voice was growing imperceptibly louder, imposing a sort of moral
force on to his questions. ‘Having discovered, or perhaps I should say, having
been presented with this information, what did Mr Schwermann do?’

‘He
made a report to his superior officer.’

‘And
the inevitable arrests followed?’

‘Yes,
they did.’

‘Do you
recollect the morning of the day the arrests took place?’

‘I do.’

‘Were
you alone?’

‘No. I
was with Mr Schwermann.’ ‘Please describe his demeanour.’

‘He was
anxious, smoking cigarette after cigarette. ‘

Mr
Bartlett contrived mild surprise. ‘Let us be absolutely clear. Is this the day
The Round Table was shattered?’

‘It
was.’

‘A day
for which he would later receive the praise of Eichmann?’

‘Yes,
that’s right.’

‘It
should have been a time of excited apprehension for him, should it not?’

‘Yes, I
suppose so.

‘Have
you any idea, then, as to why he was so anxious?’

‘No.’

‘Let’s
see if we can find an answer. You knew Jacques Fougères?’ The barrister was
speaking quietly now.

‘We
were the best of friends. The best …’ He’d become a mourner in a dream.

‘Mr
Brionne, did Jacques Fougères have a child?’ Lucy sat forward.

‘Yes.’

‘A boy
or a girl?’ ‘A little boy.’

‘Did
you know the mother?’

‘Yes. Agues
Aubret.’

‘By
reference to the racial regulations implemented by the Nazis, to which ethnic
group did she belong?’

‘She
was Jewish.’

‘And
the boy?’

‘The
same. He was Jewish.’

‘Even
though the father was a French Catholic?’

‘Yes.’

‘As far
as Mr Schwermann’s superior officers were concerned, the boy, if found, would
unquestionably have been deported?’

‘Yes,
unless she had forged papers to conceal her Jewishness.’ ‘Where is Agnes Aubret
now?’ asked Mr Bartlett quietly ‘She perished. Auschwitz.’

Brionne
was unable to continue. His face shuddered repeatedly with such violence that
the judge suggested he might like to sit down, but Mr Bartlett pressed on
urgently:

‘And
the boy, the boy; what happened to the boy?’

‘He was
saved,’ mumbled Brionne, turning quickly to the dock. ‘Mr Schwermann took the
child, before the arrests were carried out, and hid him with a good family.’