‘I think it was the next month.’
‘You are right. Yet you made no effort to contact the police. Why?’
‘I can’t explain …’
‘Why not? It strikes me that you have closely followed this case from the day the Defendant fled his home to the day this trial commenced. Is that so?’
‘I have, yes.’
‘Yet it is only at the last hour you come riding into court to tell us what you know Why now?’
Brionne lowered his head, unable or refusing to answer. Miss Matthews patiently leafed through some papers. She looked up and said without a trace of sympathy:
‘Are you frightened of someone, Mr Brionne?’
Still there was no response.
‘Mr Schwermann, perhaps?’
Brionne became totally still. He held on to the sides of the witness box, controlling his breathing. But he would not speak.
‘All right, Mr Brionne, if you won’t reply we’ll move on, said Miss Matthews contentedly ‘When you finally presented yourself to the police a few days ago, after the trial had begun, you related only one great incident of heroism on the part of the Defendant. Is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nothing about round-ups, internment centres, deportations or death camps. Correct?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Just one, brief, glittering moment when a boy’s life was spared, like Moses against the orders of Pharaoh?’
Lucy wanted to cry out: pick up the convoy sheets in front of you. The boy’s name must be there. Please, please, look now
‘I’m sorry but it’s the truth,’ Brionne said purposefully.
‘Is it indeed?’ Miss Matthews suddenly shifted direction to the dirty underside of the rescue story. Mr Bartlett showed no trace of surprise.
‘You proclaim he saved a boy from certain death at Auschwitz?’
‘That’s what I’ve said.’
‘Then tell me this. Can this jury safely conclude that SS-Unterscharführer Schwermann knew “deportation to the East” meant one thing, and one thing only: brutal execution?’
Brionne started, caught off-balance by the question.
She’s trapped him, thought Lucy as Miss Matthews said, with icy detachment:
‘Either the Defendant separated a boy from his mother for no reason, or he knew about the machinery of death. Which is it?’
Without forcing a reply the interrogator drew a slow line across a page, watching him all the while. Then she sat down, leaving Brionne with his head bowed.
Lucy smiled to herself, her heart racing. Miss Matthews had learned a neat ploy from Mr Bartlett: the strange power of a well-placed, otherwise empty gesture.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
1
The curved timber-frames and weatherboards of the cottage would have been simply captivating but for the wide splattering of red paint. It had soaked into the wood and plaster and would not be hidden, despite attempts to scrub it away This was the home of Sylvia Nightingale, lying by the banks of a river that ran through Walsham-le-Willows, a village thirty miles or so from Larkwood. Anselm drove there on a Friday morning, the day after his meeting with Max, the folder of documents on the seat beside him.
Before leaving Anselm had thought of making photocopies but didn’t. The notion of duplicating the names of the dead seemed somehow irreverent, an act of trespass. Listening to the radio during the short journey, Anselm learned the court would not be sitting until the afternoon owing to Bartlett having asked for time to confer with his client. That, thought Anselm, was an answer to a prayer he had not made. Once the ordeal of the morning was over, he, or the family could call the police, and that would prompt another more significant adjournment.
Max had already arrived when Anselm was shown into the cluttered, homely sitting room. The daubing had occurred two nights ago, explained Mrs Nightingale. It didn’t reflect the attitude of the community for it was almost certainly the act of an outsider. Probably drunk, just a one-off, the police had said, trying to bring reassurance to the terror thrown upon the victim. Their words had brought no comfort. Fear had settled into a rigid mask. She was heavily made up, a crafted brave face, displaying everything she wanted to hide. Rebuffing words of sympathy from Anselm, she was an absurd, pitiable folly of strength. Her hair, wound into a bun, had begun to slip free. The comfortable disarray of things in the lounge suggested the unexpected suspension of a busy life.
‘Charity work,’ she said, pointing towards a pile of leaflets, ‘until they said it was better if I didn’t help any more. I’ve become an embarrassment. ‘
The three of them sat as a triangle, reminding Anselm of a parish visit after a death but before the funeral. He explained, as sensitively as he could, the issues faced by the court, concluding with the revelation that Max had been entrusted with a folder of crucially important documents. Mrs Nightingale looked at her son, astounded, becoming angry.
‘Why didn’t you say anything, to me at least?’
Max said, ‘He made it sound as though the truth could only come out if no one knew anything about his secret.’
‘Listen to yourself, that’s utter nonsense.
‘I know’
‘Then why the hell did you … Oh Max.’ She looked aside, away from her son, with a look of total understanding.
‘Mrs Nightingale,’ said Anselm. ‘These papers demonstrate that your father prepared himself for this trial as soon as the war came to a close. He kept a record of one man’s betrayal, a disclosure that was made to him. That man gave evidence yesterday in your father’s defence. He must have done so under duress, to save himself. Nothing he said can be relied upon.
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 k
illing.
‘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. A
t 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.
The Sixth Lamentation Page 26
