The Sixth Lamentation (37 page)

Mrs
Nightingale stared at the carpet, her eyes brightening with resentment.

‘There
are other records,’ said Anselm reluctantly She looked up. ‘They list the names
of adults and children sent to Auschwitz.’

‘No,’
she said, shortly ‘No.’ She used the word as if it were a racket, knocking back
what she had heard, a slam past her opponent.

‘It’s
true, Mum, I’ve seen them,’ said Max.

‘Shut
up, you,’ she snapped. ‘Let me see.’ She threw out her hand aggressively
towards Anselm.

Anselm
withdrew the three sheets of paper and handed them to Mrs Nightingale. She
looked over each of them erratically scanning up and down, flipping from one to
the other, incapable of measured scrutiny her face becoming moist. ‘What do
you want me to do?’ she asked, for the first time transparently unprotected,
her anger subsiding into dread.

‘Absolutely
nothing,’ replied Anselm reassuringly ‘The police will handle everything.’

‘The
police?’ she said with the specific, tragic astonishment that is the last
defence of those who cannot face the obvious. She sat rigid on the edge of her
seat. ‘Have you any idea what this has meant for my family, for Max, for me?’
Her voice rose eerily. ‘How do you know what these mean anyway?’ She flapped
the papers in the air, like rags. ‘Who the hell are you to tell me what has to
be done? We’re the ones who have to live afterwards, not you …’ Standing
up, she raised the flimsy sheets before her eyes, crumpling their edges in her
grip. She shook the papers back and forth, as if they were the smooth, indifferent
lapels of circumstance; she let her despair loose into her hands, a groan
breaking out of her mouth.

Anselm,
scared by the unravelling emotion, sprang forward to retrieve the documents,
now slightly torn. In an instant he saw the dainty bracelet and rings: old
gifts, keepsakes of a lifetime, intimating the vast expanse of all she held
dear, brought down in public ruin without warning, without having done anything
to deserve the advent of shame. She stepped back, pulling her arms apart. In
the tearing that followed they all stood still, each suddenly horrified. She
walked hastily out of the room. Anselm looked at the few remaining shreds on
the floor, hearing the swift striking of a match in another room.

Mrs
Nightingale walked back into the room with the unsettling equanimity that
might come after a righteous killing.

‘I’m
terribly sorry.’ Her voice was light and fresh, as if from another woman. She
sat down, smoothed her skirt and wept.

Anselm
let himself out. As he walked away from the cottage he turned and saw the
mother held in the arms of her son.

Anselm drove quickly back
to Larkwood. He would have to see Father Andrew urgently, given what he had
learned from the documents, and what had just happened to them in the hands of
someone who could not face what they contained. Sylvester reminded him the
Prior was away for two days at a conference, but he’d mislaid the contact
number. Anselm left him thumbing scraps of notepaper and sought out Gerald, the
sub-Prior. Father Andrew was tracked down and he arranged to return to Larkwood
the next night.

Anselm
went to his room and tried to be still, knowing the trial was moving towards an
ending but that he alone possessed all the keys to its resolution.

2

The court reconvened on
Friday afternoon. Lucy greeted Mr Lachaise, who again seemed deeply tired. Both
of them commented on the absence of Max. The light conversation was a foil to
manage the strain of waiting. For that afternoon, without doubt, Schwermann
would give evidence. Lucy felt like one of those Spartan warriors on the eve of
Thermopylae, ambling up and down, naked, waiting for the onslaught to begin.
According to Thucydides they intimidated their enemy by leisurely combing their
long hair. She had done the same thing that morning. She would watch Schwermann’s
performance looking her best. He would not leave her beaten and dishevelled.

When
all the main players were in position, the jury were summoned. Mr Bartlett bade
them good afternoon and said, ‘My Lord, the following is a statement that has
been agreed by the Crown. It has been furnished this morning by the legal
representatives of Etienne Fougères.’

Mr
Bartlett read out the text: ‘I confirm Agnes Aubret had a child by Jacques
Fougères. As far as we know, both Aubret and the child met their deaths in
Auschwitz. My family are ignorant of the conduct ascribed by Victor Brionne to
Eduard Schwermann.’

‘A
model of brevity, if I may say so,’ said Mr Justice Pollbrook with approval.

‘Indeed
it is.’

‘Mr
Bartlett, have you checked the deportation records?’

‘I
have.’

‘Is
there any reference to Agnes Aubret?’

‘Yes.
For your Lordship’s note, she was deported on the twenty-fourth of August 1942.
The text can be found in File Q, page one hundred and seventy-nine.’

‘I’d
like to see the original, please.’

The
master file was retrieved by Mr Penshaw, who opened it at the relevant place.
It was handed to an usher who gave it to Mr Justice Pollbrook. He leafed
through pages on either side and then said, ‘The actual text to which I have
been referred is a carbon copy. What happened to the original?’

‘No one
knows, my Lord,’ said Mr Bartlett with polished regret. ‘Perhaps it was damaged
in an accident.’

Mr
Justice Pollbrook studied the file again. He said, ‘All the names of the
victims have been ticked off, to confirm they were accounted for, but there is
a blank space at the bottom where the supervising officer’s signature should be
found. Why is that?’

‘My
Lord, I have no idea. What you have before you is the original file retrieved
after the war. There is nothing else. The relevant text remains a
contemporaneous document.’

‘Thank
you,’ replied Mr Justice Pollbrook uneasily. Abruptly suspiciously, he said, ‘Did
you look for the child as well?’

‘I did.
There is no mention of him whatsoever.’ Quietly his eye on the jury, Mr
Bartlett added, ‘It seems, my Lord, that the records confirm everything Victor
Brionne recounted to the court. Aubret was deported. The child was not. ‘

The
judge blinked slowly and, with an expression of profound disdain, said, ‘I
thought you might say that.’

Mr
Bartlett bowed slightly with his head. He then said, ‘My Lord, having had the
benefit of a conference with my client this morning, and in the light of the
document I have just read out, I do not propose to call Mr Schwermann to give
any evidence in his own defence.’

A great
sigh swept through the court. After its subsidence, Mr Bartlett continued, ‘I
am confident this jury already knows the direction in which their conscience
must take them. The case for the Defence is closed.’

Lucy
turned to Mr Lachaise who, throughout the trial, had become a quiet source of
steadiness, especially when reason saw no room for hope. But for the first time
he slumped forward, his gentle face pale and drained of emotion.

Mr Justice Pollbrook
adjourned the case, allowing time for Counsel to prepare their speeches and him
his Summing-Up. By the time the judge had finished his remarks to the jury Mr
Lachaise had recovered his customary self—possession. He suggested they have a
coffee and a biscuit. Sitting in a small café off Newgate Street Lucy said, ‘Why
isn’t he going to defend himself?’

‘It’s
far too dangerous,’ said Mr Lachaise. ‘If he was cross-examined, his present
position, however precarious, could only be harmed. He is on a knife-edge,
illustrated by the rather good point made by Miss Matthews — he either
separated a boy from his mother for no reason or he knew what was going on at
Auschwitz but managed to save a single life. I hadn’t thought of that before.’
He looked exhausted again, but continued, ‘Of course, the second alternative is
not a defence. If true, it’s a plea for sympathy against the enormity of what
he must have done. With a jury, pity is a sticky sweet. It’s often savoured
over justice.’

Lucy
asked, ‘Are you a lawyer?’

‘No,
but I grew up alongside a wonderful man called Bremer — the family solicitor —
and he passed on to me the maxims of his craft. I have made them my own.

‘Mr
Lachaise,’ said Lucy tentatively probing the inscrutable expression on his
face. ‘My grandmother was a member of The Round Table, and that explains me.
But can I ask, why are you here?’

His
large eyes glistened behind the heavy spectacles. Lucy could only fractionally
recognise the meaning of his smile: it had something to do with misfortune. Mr
Lachaise said: ‘You may ask me any question under the sun, but not that one.’
His voice dwindled to a whisper: ‘I do not know the answer.

3

Lucy left the court and
went straight to Chiswick Mall. She found Agnes apparently sleeping. Her arms
lay by her side upon white sheets; her face was still, the mouth slightly drawn
at the sides; she seemed not to breathe. Lucy watched, her heart beginning to
beat hard upon her chest. She touched her grandmother’s wrist: it was cool,
the skin shockingly close to the bone. Lucy spoke, as hope fled, ‘Gran …’

Agnes
opened her eyes. Her face seemed to change, a minute animation suggesting
pleasure. Lucy drew up a chair and sat down. Relief loosened her limbs and she
wanted to sob. Holding her grandmother’s hand she said, ‘It’s almost over.

Agnes
blinked deliberately. Lucy knew — she sensed it from years of knowing her
grandmother — that Agnes wanted to laugh. Yes, she would have said, it is
almost over. Soon I’ll be dead.

Wilma
came through the door. It was the usual time for reading out loud, something
Lucy had done years ago when she was much younger and they would sit together
in the fading light. It was a pastime that had been resumed by Wilma and she
sat down and opened a pamphlet of poems.

“‘The
Burning of the Leaves”, by Laurence Binyon,’ Wilma said.

Lucy
turned away, unable to watch the intimacy that had once been hers being played
out with someone else. She fixed a stare upon the wall, shutting off her ears
to the sound. But Wilma’s hushed voice gathered strength and pushed aside her
defences:

“‘Now is the time for
stripping the spirit bare,

Time for the burning of days
ended and done,

Idle solace of things that
have gone before:

Rootless hope and fruitless
desire are there;

Let them go to the fire,
with never a look behind.

The world that was ours is a
world that is ours no more.

Agnes
raised her right hand off the counterpane. At the signal Wilma stopped. She
closed the pamphlet and left the room. The clean net curtains fluttered. Agnes
gestured with her fingers for Lucy to come nearer. She did. The fingers said
closer. Lucy bent down, almost touching the skin of her grandmother’s face.
Agnes barely moved but Lucy received the faintest touch of a kiss.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

‘Give me the whole mess in
order,’ said Father Andrew It was a cold wet night and a fire had been’ lit in
his study. The stubborn wood cracked and spat at the lick of the flames.
Anselm and his Prior sat close to the grate on creaking chairs. Flashes of
orange light danced upon their concentration.

‘It
began with resentment,’ said Anselm. ‘Perhaps it goes back earlier, to the sort
of differences of background and opinion we have here at Larkwood. But it’s
simple enough: Pleyon had his nose put badly out of joint by Rochet on more
than one occasion. Events conspired so that Pleyon got his chance to have the
final swing back. If what I’m told is right, it seems Pleyon may have been an
anti-Semite, and that spurred his attempt to pull down Rochet. He betrayed The
Round Table to Victor Brionne, who then told Schwermann. ‘

Father
Andrew listened, his bright eyes chasing the whirl of sparks. He said, ‘How do
you know Pleyon had any contact with Brionne?’

‘I don’t.
It’s just an assumption. There’s no other explanation for the facts.’

‘How
did either or both of them know all the names?’

‘I’m
not sure. I’ve a suspicion Pleyon only knew of Rochet, and perhaps one or two
others, but that Brionne already knew the rest from before the war.’

Father
Andrew gazed into the fire and said playfully ‘What a coincidence that they
should meet, each with a reason of their own to bring down their former friends.’

‘Tragedy
often arises out of coincidence,’ replied Anselm defensively trying to be wise.

‘I
suppose the pieces fit.’

‘The
assumptions are confirmed by what happened next.’

‘Proceed.’
The Prior seemed not to be taking Anselm altogether seriously.

‘When
the war ended the two runaways knew where to turn — Les Moineaux, and fortune
had conveniently lodged Pleyon in the Prior’s seat. He arranged their escape,
planning to tell Rome a fairy tale about deceptive appearances to cover his own
misdemeanour. But he died before he could really sink his teeth into the lies.
As it happens, Chambray had already told Rome the full story — which includes
the fact that Schwermann was passed on to us’ — Anselm glanced at his Prior: no
emotion disturbed the attentive calm — ‘and they did absolutely nothing.’