The Sixth Lamentation (18 page)

Pascal
said, ‘You’re so sure about Victor that I don’t know what to think. You see, I’ve
got two good reasons as to why you are wrong.

‘And
they are?’ invited Lucy

‘First,
Mr Snyman was a close friend of both Jacques and Victor—’

‘I know’

‘He’s
still alive; I grew up with him and he has no doubt that Victor would condemn
Schwermann if he was given half a chance. Victor’s problem, of course, is that
he was a collaborator. He can’t speak out without being accused himself— which
is why I am trying to reassure him.’

Lucy
thought: he really has no idea at all that it was Victor Brionne who betrayed
The Round Table. She said, ‘And what’s the second reason?’

‘I have
a feeling it was Victor who wrote to me, giving me the name Nightingale.’

Jolted,
Lucy asked, ‘Why?’

‘Because
the only other explanation is that it came from the individual or organisation
that helped him escape in the first place. I don’t see any reason why they
should undermine what they did.’

‘They
could have regrets. ‘

‘Possibly
But the letter was written to me, Jacques’ own blood, and that suggests a
personal motive.’

‘But
you wrote the article saying Brionne and Schwermann had found refuge in
Britain. You were the obvious person to contact. ‘

‘Again,
possibly you’re right.’ Pascal pouted doubt. ‘It’s far more likely that Victor
arranged to have it posted from France to cover his tracks.’

Lucy
pushed her salad to one side. She said, with polite impatience, ‘I can’t see
that it matters. Let’s suppose it was Brionne who wrote to you. It doesn’t
follow that he would give evidence against Schwermann in any trial.’

Pascal
looked with dismay across the river, to Hammersmith, to the rough area where
Lucy herself had gazed. ‘That is why I will do what I can to arrange the
meeting you want. ‘

As they left the veranda
and passed the debating lounge Lucy noticed a man by the door with a shock of
white hair and an amused, enquiring face, as if someone had just told him a
wonderful joke. A moustache and beard, also white, suggested both Gandalf and
Father Christmas: a dispenser of wisdom and toys. He gave Lucy a donnish nod as
if she were welcome to join his class.

Outside,
Lucy and Pascal shook hands and parted. She walked lightly to the Underground,
more quickly than usual, thinking how agreeable it was to have found a place
where you could argue for the hell of it and where people smiled at you for no
good reason.

Chapter Seventeen

1

Anselm and the Prior of
Notre-Dame des Moineaux strolled over neat lawns between graceful horse
chestnuts to the memorial plaque on the medieval refectory wall. The
Gilbertines had taken over an old Benedictine Abbey in the seventeenth century.
And so it was that the same Rule had been read on the same spot for eight hundred
years.

‘This
is where he was shot. We commemorate it every year.

A small
tablet of stone recorded the name of Prior Morel above an inscription taken
from the Prologue to The Rule: We shall persevere in fidelity to his teaching
in the monastery until death.

The
Prior was a short, stocky man with a rounded back, as if his spine were
strapped to a hidden tool of penance. He stood arched over his folded hands,
solemn and still.

‘It was
a most simple operation,’ said the Prior, taking Anselm by the arm and turning
away ‘Children were brought here in twos or threes during the day and placed in
the orphanage run by the nuns. We had our own printing press, turning out false
identification papers, baptismal certificates and the like. The children would
then move with couriers into the Occupied Zone and down to Switzerland,
hopefully to be reunited with their parents at some point in the future.
Frontier guides would take them over. As you know, it was tragically betrayed.’

‘By
someone unknown?’

‘Yes.
But whoever it was didn’t know very much. When the Gestapo came, no searches
were carried out. Not even the orphanage. They just shot the Prior.’

‘Why
were the children smuggled here on their own?’ asked Anselm, dreading the
answer.

‘Adults
are hard to hide, and easily found, and children were liable to give away their
hiding place. But here in broad daylight, among others, their chance of
survival was higher. That is one of the terrible things about this whole
episode. The parents were desperate. They chose separation from their infants
because they were certain it was only a matter of time before they themselves
were arrested.’

‘We’ve
no idea, have we, Father?’

‘None
at all. And do you know what I find most moving? The knights of The Round Table
were students. It was the young saving the still younger from the adults.’

They
walked on, momentarily distracted by the growling engine of an old tractor.

‘Unfortunately’
resumed the Prior, ‘there’s no one left from that time, so all we have are
stories handed on by monks with unreliable memories.’

‘Do you
mind telling me?’

‘Not at
all. Come, we’ll walk along part of the escape route. The railway line has gone
but it’s a pathway now It is a place charged with the actions of the past.’

They
left the Abbey grounds and took the lane to the abandoned station. On the
flanks stood endless regiments of vines, thickly woven over low hills, touching
the resplendent skies of Burgundy

‘One of the problems,’
said the Prior, ‘was that the smuggling operation relied completely on trust.
All the knights knew each other. They knew this place. The risk of betrayal is
nowhere more grave than at one shared table.’

‘Can
you tell me anything about Father Rochet?’ asked Anselm.

‘By all
accounts he was a most gifted man — well read, with a passion for medieval
literature — but his life here collapsed in disgrace.’

‘How?’

‘It has
never been substantiated, but it was said he formed … shall we say, an
attachment to a young girl in a nearby village. She died in childbirth and it
was said Rochet was the father. The rumour was not entirely fanciful. He had
apparently asked to be laicised, but he withdrew his application after the
death. He was moved out to a parish in the city … a very broken man. He
only came back to propose The Round Table. It is touching that he should later
lose his life saving children.’

In that
one dreadful sentence Anselm glimpsed an untold epic. He pursued the other
questions he had prepared. ‘How were Schwermann and Brionne known to the Priory
in the first place?’

‘They
weren’t. Both men arrived as complete strangers.’

‘And
yet they were concealed even after the execution of Father Morel,’ said Anselm,
with the hopeless puzzlement of one gathering scattered jigsaw pieces.

‘And
now we come to the most disturbing mystery of all.’ The Prior recounted the
oral history carefully, making sure the terms used were accurate. ‘Father
Pleyon, the Prior of the day, decided both men would be hidden. All he would
say was that Schwermann had risked his life to save life.’

‘Save
life?’

‘Yes.’

‘How?’

‘Only
the Prior knew the answer to the riddle. But one thing is certain: whatever he
was told persuaded him that Schwermann and Brionne should be spared. He never
explained himself and died with his secret untold.’

Anselm
looked down at the black sleepers sunk deep into the path, all that remained of
the old railway line that had carried the children to Les Moineaux. He said, ‘I
assume the whole community knew about The Round Table — is that right?’

‘There
was no other way Some of these children didn’t speak French. They were German.’

‘How
many people would have known?’ asked Anselm.

‘About
sixty. But if you’re thinking one of them betrayed The Round Table, you’re
probably wrong. Remember, the Gestapo were ill-informed. If it was someone from
here the children would have been found, and the nuns hiding them would have
shared in the retribution.’

‘I wasn’t
thinking anything of the sort,’ lied Anselm.

‘Well,
I do, occasionally So I wouldn’t blame you.

Their
conversation turned to lighter things: the ‘Ontological Argument’, the shortage
of vocations and the acting ability of Eric Cantona. Suddenly, the Prior
changed subject:

‘Father
Anselm, you will appreciate the emergence of Schwermann has caused us
considerable anxiety. This Priory is revered as a place that served the spirit
of resistance. Every time an old man is exposed for crimes against humanity in
France I shiver. Is it him? Is he going to point to us? We have no explanation
to offer. And now it’s happened. As soon as he opens his mouth the Priory will
be drowned. Memories of the Occupation are raw and great stones are still being
turned over.’ He paused, suddenly troubled. ‘We’ve already had one visitor.’

‘Who?’
asked Anselm instinctively

‘A
survivor, one of the children. He asked me a terrible question.’

‘Yes?’

‘He
said, “Could it be that one of Herod’s servants once rested within your walls?”
I told him I didn’t understand. Afterwards, I realised I should have said “No”
… because my confusion was a sort of admission. He was a most unnerving man.’

Anselm
pictured Salomon Lachaise posing a question to a man who could not answer
without discovering his own shame. ‘I’ve met him. He came to Larkwood.’

‘Oh
Lord … us, and then you … he must know everything.’

‘I don’t
think so,’ said Anselm uncertainly ‘He told me he was the son of the Sixth
Lamentation.’

‘After
the Five of Jeremiah?’

‘Yes… I think he meant the Holocaust.’

They
walked in silence until the Prior said, ‘I hope you find Victor Brionne, for
the sake of my community and for the sake of Larkwood: He stopped, surveying
the treetops with shaded eyes. ‘I think you should talk to Mère Hermance,’ he
said. ‘She was here at the time. But be warned. She’ll make you buy a box of
biscuits.’

2

Cathy Glenton had
persuaded Lucy to have a Turkish bath after a particularly tedious lecture on
the demise of the novel.

‘It’s
an awful place,’ she said, ‘run by two former wrestlers from Lancashire. A
husband and wife team.’

‘What
do you do?’ asked Lucy horrified.

‘There
are three rooms, each getting hotter than the one before, and when you’ve
sweated yourself silly you lie on a table and one of the wrestlers washes you
down. Then you dive into a pool of freezing water. ‘‘It sounds like hell.’

‘It is
… but then comes paradise. You wrap yourself in a massive warm towel and
lie on a couch for as long as you like eating bacon sandwiches and sipping hot,
sweet tea. There’s nothing like it this side of the grave.’

They
were just about to leave Cathy’s flat when Lucy’s mobile rang. It was Pascal
Fougères.

‘Would
you be interested in having a minor role in the preparation of the trial?’

‘Pardon?’
she replied, incredulous.

He went
on, ‘It’s not much, believe me. I’m a sort of liaison officer between the
lawyers here and those with an interest in the case back in France. It means I
have small practical jobs to do for the prosecution. I’m sure you could help… with a stapler, or something. Look,’ he hesitated, ‘are you free now?’

‘Yes,’
said Lucy with muffled joy She lowered the mobile and said, ‘I’m really sorry,
Cathy, but I’ll have to cry off.’

Cathy
nodded through her disappointment while Lucy sorted out a time and place with
Pascal. When she’d finished, Cathy said, ‘I hear the heavy tread of a man.

‘Not
quite,’ replied Lucy, acutely self—conscious.

‘Name?’

‘Pascal.’

‘French?’

‘Yes… but it’s not like that.’

‘I know
It never is.’

‘Truly’

‘Does
he have a spare friend interested in a beautiful mind?’

‘I’ll
ask.’

An hour later Lucy met
Pascal outside the National Portrait Gallery. Traffic swept behind them in
surges, down into Trafalgar Square. Crowds, maddened by maps and itineraries,
jostled on the pavement, looking for the next sight. Pascal took Lucy’s hand
and they stepped out of the bustle into the mute halls of captured faces. They
walked from room to room watched by Audrey Hepburn, Paul McCartney and lots
more. Talking in long snatches, they leaned towards each other, looking around.

‘Are
you still a journalist?’ asked Lucy

‘Sort
of. After I found that memo I gave up my job on
Le Monde. They
give me
lots of freelance work so I survive. And you?’