Anselm headed towards an iron gate protected by a guard in a preposterous uniform. He entered the street aware that an obligation had been placed upon him; not at all sure he knew whose had been the laying hand.
3
Conroy was seated at an old olive press, installed as a table beneath orange trees in the middle of San Giovanni’s ornate fifteenth-century cloister. A large jug of wine and a bowl of peaches in water lay on the press. At Larkwood it would now be the Great Silence after Compline, but for Conroy it was time for ‘a bit of a wag’.
‘And there’s plenty more where this little divil came from,’ he said, nodding at the jug. ‘A bit rough, mind.’
Anselm pulled up a chair and they sat opposite each other like card players in a cheap Western surrounded by shooting cicadas.
‘Now, can you tell me what the holy men had to say?’ asked Conroy
‘No.’
‘Thought not,’ he replied, gratified.
Anselm remembered Conroy’s warning about mirrors twisting things out of shape. He had been wrong, which was not altogether surprising. The likes of Conroy, while highly entertaining, were not disposed to understand the subtleties of high office and the demands it placed upon its servants.
Conroy held the jug in his hand, saying, ‘There isn’t much time, you know, so give me that glass. We were born to celebrate.’ He poured, squinting at some private thought, and then, measuring his words carefully, said, ‘If ever you want information above and beyond what the holy men have told you, let me know I’ve got a pal or two in the library with very sticky fingers.’
Conroy dropped a peach in his glass.
Anselm shook his head. There was no need for any such thing. And then, with dismay, he heard himself say, ‘As a matter of fact, I do.’
‘Tell me, so.
It was as though another person was talking and Anselm was being helplessly pulled along. He said, ‘What is known about a French Priory, Notre-Dame des Moineaux?’
Anselm winced as he sipped savagely dry white wine. Conroy quaffed and said, ‘I won’t write that down, so.’
‘No, please don’t.’
‘And I won’t write down the answer either.’
‘No, please don’t.’
They looked at each other, conjoined by deceit.
‘Have a peach,’ said Conroy
‘I will,’ said Anselm, laughing for no reason, ready to celebrate he didn’t know what.
Then Conroy took off at a pace. ‘Did I tell you the story about me and the Cardinal? No? My God, well, listen.’
Conroy filled his glass.
‘After I got a clattering for my book, I was invited, invited I tell you, to share evening prayer with the Prince of the Sacred Congregation for the Defence of the Faith. Well, I made an awful hash of it. You know that antiphon for Lent, “Heal my soul for I have sinned against you”? Well, God forgive me, it came out wrong. As solemn as you like I spoonered the opening words, with emphasis, and Jasus, you should have seen his face:
Conroy was fishing in his glass, trying to grip his peach. ‘It was gas, I can tell you.
‘What book did you get into trouble for?’ asked Anselm, intrigued.
‘You won’t know it. I agreed to have it withdrawn. The clever boys behind the door weren’t happy with my Christology. Too low.’
‘I’d like to read it.’
‘I burned every copy, thousands of ‘em. But I’m thinking of writing another. Now, Father, your glass please, it’s empty.’
Anselm was rapidly slipping out of his depth. These were Roddy’s waters, not his. But by tomorrow night he’d be back in Larkwood obeying the bells, so he dived in with Conroy and swam for his very life.
Anselm woke between two and three in the morning, lying on the kitchen floor with a block of English cheddar in one hand and a potato peeler in the other. Conroy was nowhere to be seen. He could remember little of their conversation except for one exchange which seemed to bring them both to sobriety. Conroy had asked what Schwermann was supposed to have done, and Anselm had told him. Conroy’s face had darkened and his features had contracted in pain. He’d played with his glass, rolling its slender stem between his thick, gentle fingers.
Very slowly he’d muttered, ‘Once you’ve heard a child cry out to heaven for help, and go unanswered, nothing’s ever the same again. Nothing. Even God changes.’
Chapter Thirteen
The first notebook of Agnes Embleton. 2nd May
Father Rochet was right about the Germans. Within months of taking control a census of Jews was ordered. At the time I was pregnant, so this would be late 1940. Madame Klein and I had moved out of her apartment to a rental property she owned in the eleventh arrondissement. ‘I do not want to be too conspicuous,’ she said. But it was a strange thing to have done. For while she became just another face among the crowd — the crowd in question was unmistakably Jewish where, with all the others, she would easily be found. It was a poorish neighbourhood but many of her friends from our musical evenings lived there. I think she wanted to be with her people when the end came, for she knew I would be safe, come what may as a ‘Christian’.
Madame Klein obeyed the census. I did not. The first round-up followed a few months later, of foreign Jews. Shortly afterwards, every Jew had to hand in their wireless to the police. She did, and I didn’t. Then there was a huge round-up in our area, lasting about a week. By the time they’d finished, all our friends from the music group had gone. Do you remember Mr Rozenwerg? I saw him with two gendarmes. He walked calmly on to the bus wearing his prayer shawl and a wonderful big fur hat. Twice they came to our door. Twice they looked at my papers, nodded and told Madame Klein, my ‘grandmother’, not to bother looking for hers. Isn’t that strange? She would not give herself up to them, but neither would she take any forged papers from Father Rochet. But that was Madame Klein. The net began to close, for the next orders were that Jews could not change their address and had to obey a curfew
They knew where you lived and you couldn’t get out. The whole rotten, stinking business was under way
Then Father Rochet called together his knights.
3rd May
My little boy was about ten months old. So that would be early 1942. It was the same group as last time. Except for Victor. Father Rochet had not spoken to him for months and someone said they’d seen him dressed as a policeman. Father Rochet nodded. Victor’s family apparently were very pleased with him.
The Round Table was ready to operate. Acting alone or in pairs, our task was to collect children from a pickup point and take them outside Paris where they would be hidden. Someone else would take over after that.
Jacques was the coordinator among ourselves. He would be the sole link with Father Rochet and would tell each person where and when to do ‘a run’, distributing any travel papers that might be needed. He was the natural choice because members of his family, based in Geneva, handled the other end of the escape route.
Father Rochet stressed that if caught, stay calm and blame him. ‘All you have to do is say I told you the parents were ill, and I’d asked you to take the children to stay with a relative. Leave the rest to me.’ I asked him wasn’t he frightened of what they might do to him? ‘No, no,’ he laughed. ‘I’ve lived among tombs all my life. I’m not scared of dying.’ Afterwards, Jacques said that worried him because there was a weak streak in Father Rochet. He often smelled of wine, even though he was a priest. He was the sort who might well cave in under the pressure. ‘Never,’ I said.
I did several ‘runs’, my own boy on one arm, a little charge in the other. They passed without hitch or hindrance.
4th May
About this time there was another order from on high. All Jews had to register the names of their children. That is what it was like. Every now and then there’d be a new requirement or regulation affecting the Jews. The next one was to wear a six—pointed star with ‘Juif’ printed across it. Jacques and some friends from the university decided to p
rotest by wearing a star with their names on. Come to think of it, I think Jacques’ said ‘Catholique’. He was duly arrested. The memory of that day is bitter for many reasons.
Almost overnight, thousands of people suddenly became visible, separated from everyone else by a single piece of yellow cloth. I saw two girls, twins, walking hand in hand, dressed in the same clothes, and with sky-blue ribbons in their hair. Over their hearts, neatly sewn, were these yellow stars the size of my hand. I stopped on the pavement and watched them pass, dumbfounded.
That makes me think of Madame Klein, a week or so before the regulation came into force. She is sitting by a tall lamp-stand, glasses on the end of her nose, carefully sewing the yellow cloth on to her black dresses. She has three of them. I don’t remember her going out any more. She took fresh air by the window, describing the statues of musicians in Parc Monceau, or the turns in the paths and the odd people she used to meet there.
Worried about Jacques after his arrest, I went to see Victor at Avenue Foch, hoping he could help. On the way I saw Father Rochet. He looked more dishevelled than usual and nipped down a side street. Anyway, Victor crawled from under his stone and I asked if Jacques was all right. He couldn’t even bring himself to speak to me. He just stared back in a way that scared me and showed me the door.
A few days later I bumped into him on the Champs-Elysées. ‘I know what you’re up to,’ he said. And he warned me to back off from the heroics. I suppose I should have seen it then, that he was capable of selling us all down the river. But it never entered my head. Instead, I did something which, I’m ashamed to say I have often relived these past fifty years. I gave him a great big belt across the face. It was glorious.
13th May
The end came on 14th July 1942, Bastille Day I had been given a ‘run’. It was straightforward enough. I went to a dummy social club, set up by OSE, and there I collected a little boy I met his mother. She was about my age but very beautiful, with dark green eyes. Needless to say she was distraught. It was like a scene in a film about a sinking ship. I am there, taking the boy who will survive, but with no space left on the lifeboat. Anyway the mother had no papers, so the plan was I would leave my boy with her and her son would come with me, relying on my papers if we were stopped. Her last words to him were, ‘I’ll see you very soon.
I took the train from the Gare de Lyon to a village in Burgundy I was met by a monk who took me to a convent with an orphanage. That was it. I took the next train back to Paris.
I got to the social club in the middle of the afternoon. They told me my boy had cried after I’d gone so I took him straight home. Trudging up the stairs, I heard a low cough from am open door. It was an old busybody who lived on the first floor, Madame Vigmot, who often complained about the noise. She shook her head, pointing up at the ceiling. I leaned in. She whispered that Madame Klein had been taken away She’d fought and they’d dragged her down the stairs by her hair. Then three others had come, half an hour ago. They were waiting upstairs. I asked for a description and one of them was obviously Victor. There was a German soldier and a nurse.
I walked out on to the landing. That was the turning point in my life. Because I could have walked down the stairs, on to the street and out of Paris. But it was only Victor. He’d come to explain about Madame Klein, with the nurse. All my papers were in order. There was nothing to fear. The German just wanted to know why I was living with a Jew Anyway, I hadn’t seen Jacques, I couldn’t just slip away So I went up the stairs. It all happened very quickly, but in my mind it is painfully slow
The German soldier was Eduard Schwermann. I had seen him once before, sitting with Victor in a café. Father Rochet had pointed them out to me. Well, Schwermann barked something. Victor asked for my papers; everything — birth certificate, baptism certificate, the lot. I passed them over. Another bark. He wanted my parents’ papers. Shaking like a leaf, I dug them out of the cupboard. My boy started to cry Schwermann didn’t look at a single piece of paper, he just put them in his pocket. He barked again. ‘Downstairs,’ said Victor. Off we went. The nurse followed.
I was taken into the street and round a corner, where a couple of parked vehicles were waiting — a truck with some soldiers in the back and a car. Both engines started. The rest is a blur. As I was being pushed into the back of the truck Schwermann pulled my boy out of my arms and handed him to the woman. She ran to the car and it pulled away I was dragged off my feet, kicking and screaming. I can’t remember much after that.
21st May
I don’t know how long I was locked up in Paris, and I don’t know when I left. But I was taken to La Santé prison and later transferred to Auschwitz.
It was in that appalling place that I had a bit of luck. I’d been there about four or five months. Up at 3 a.m. Standing in the yard until 7 a.m. Then labouring till I dropped. Constant, indiscriminate beating. One afternoon, a group of French women arrived. About two hundred or so. They marched through the gates singing ‘La Marseillaise’ . They were political prisoners and their detention at the camp was later the subject of a complaint by some government or other. I didn’t get to know them immediately because I got typhus. For ten months I was in quarantine, and that probably saved my life because I was pulled out of the Auschwitz regime just as I was losing the will to survive. For six months I lay in a bunk beside Collette Beaussart, a former journalist who’d been deported because of what she thought rather than anything she’d done. Every day we talked of the simple things we’d like to do if ever we were free. She wanted to make jam and I wanted to eat it. I can’t remember what else we said, but the words formed a sort of ladder and I clung on to them, unable to move up but not slipping any further down. When I came out of quarantine, the French politicals were being moved to Ravensbrück the next day in response to the protest. By some clerical error, or so I thought, my name was on the transfer list. In fact, Collette had told the camp officials I was one of their number.
We left Auschwitz in 1944 and I remained at Ravensbrück until it was liberated by the Russians. I worked like a slave in the Siemens factory, making telephone equipment. I thought it would never end. When it did, the Germans abandoned the camp, leaving a few of us behind to deal with the sick.
22nd May
I have often wondered whether I should tell you about your past, never mind my own. But now the two are inextricably linked. I cannot give you partial truths. So, read these words slowly and understand that I hope not to hurt you. I’m telling you part of your own history and, however painful it might be, it is yours and no one else’s.
I met a woman who had only just arrived in the camp. I could not understand her language, so I know nothing about her. Not even her name. I think she was Polish. She had two children and was gravely ill. Ravensbrück was a women’s camp so I can only assume her husband, your grandfather, had been taken from his family at some time in the past.
You don’t need words to express certain things, or to understand them. So I think, in what mattered, we made contact with one another. She knew she was dying. She knew her children would be left all alone. She knew I was the last person she’d ever speak to. Pleading sounds the same in any language, and she asked me to do something, over and over. I held both her hands, muttering helpless assurances in French. I knew she was begging me to look after her twins, Freddie and Elodie. And I knew she was comforted by my replies. She died while we were talking. Her hands lost their grip, as if she’d let go of a rope, and she fell back. I did not have a name for her, until you were born. I called her Lucy, after you. And you have grown to have her delicate, haunting features.
The rest you know I returned to Paris with fifty or so other camp survivors. We were all terribly thin and a waxy grey-green colour, with brown rings under our eyes. As we lined up on the platform at Gare de l’Est, everyone stopped and stared in silence. They began ‘La Marseillaise’ . It was the most moving moment of my life. The last time I’d heard it was at Auschwitz.
While I was in hosp
ital I met Grandpa Arthur, who was recovering from a broken foot. I found him talking to Freddie and Elodie. He introduced himself Over the next few weeks I told him everything. From then on I didn’t need to say any more. He understood. After that I knew I never wanted to leave him. I long to see him again.
When I was discharged I went to what was left of my home. Nothing remained of Madame Klein’s life, or mine, or anyone I had known. I made enquiries and pieced together what I could. Victor betrayed us all. Each and every member of The Round Table had been arrested on the same day as me, mostly that afternoon, in one swoop. Jacques’ family had managed to escape but he’d stayed behind. He must have waited for me in vain, for I did not come. He was arrested that night, in his own home.
I tried to keep my promise, to look after the children, but I failed. And I have never been able to forget the little boy who cried because I’d left him with strangers at the social club. Arthur helped me find out what had happened. My boy had been taken to an orphanage. All of the children were deported to Auschwitz in July 1942. The Red
Cross told me the obvious: no one with his name had survived. At least I spent some time in the place where he met his end. That has been a comfort.
The Sixth Lamentation Page 10
