Madame Klein was an atrocious driver, always banging into things. On this day, for once, it was not her fault. A van collided into the side of her car, breaking her right wrist. She never played the piano professionally again. However, the van had been driven by a young woman who worked for a Jewish children’s welfare organisation, ‘Oeuvre de Secours Aux Enfants’ (OSE). Its headquarters had moved from Berlin to Paris in the early thirties, after the Nazis came to power. It became Madame Klein’s life, just when she thought she had nothing to live for.
You have to understand what it was like then. Thousands of refugees had flooded into France, with children separated from their parents. You’ve seen something similar on the news. It still goes on. Then, as now, people did what they could. So Madame Klein was out each day, doing I don’t know what. It was not something she talked about. But she often took her husband’s violin.
On some evenings there were meetings with friends she’d made through OSE. I was never present. But the same men and women came. To my child’s eye they were always dressed in black and arrived in a long shuffling line after dark. They gathered in the salon, with its low lights and drawn curtains. I thought it was terribly exciting. And I was desperate to know what they talked about. So I started listening at the door.
You’ll find, Lucy, as you get older you start seeing yourself from the outside. Particularly your childhood. You’ll see a child enacting her part innocently while you watch, knowing what is going to happen, unable to intervene. As for me, the need to intervene, if I could have done, comes later. For now I can see myself in my nightie, with bare feet, bent over by a great white door with beautiful shining brass handles. I’m trying to breathe as quietly as I can, looking through the keyhole at those gesticulating arms and solemn faces.
They never seemed to converse. It was always an argument, even when they agreed. What was going to happen next? That is what they fought over. Were they on the verge of the greatest pogrom they had ever known? And what was to be done? The killings had been under way since 1930. Within months of Hitler becoming Chancellor, there were camps. I remember one voice from the far side of the room say fearfully ‘If they’ve killed us in the street, they’ll kill us in the camps.’ And then a deep voice by the door spoke, so close to me I almost jumped back. It was Father Rochet. ‘You are not safe in France. You’re not safe anywhere.’ There was the most dreadful silence after that. Through the keyhole I could just make out an old man with a stick propped between his legs. He still had his dark hat and coat on. I can’t recall his name, but I’ve thought for years about his face, caught in the yellow lamplight. He had a look of recognition: this was an old, familiar warning.
When I heard a chair scrape, I ran upstairs. Sitting on the landing with my arms around my knees I would hear them all troop out, as if in rancour, and from the window see them disperse into the night, in twos and threes, often arm in arm.
In time, these meetings occurred more frequently Events in Germany and France were followed closely Some talked about emigration. There was no need, said others. The Germans have got us out of their hair, we’re safe. Not yet, said Father Rochet.
He always stayed behind, Father Rochet, to confer in private with Madame Klein. I never found out what they talked about. Back by the keyhole, I only saw them huddled round a table, like mother and son, whispering. God knows why No one was listening.
Chapter Eight
Vespers was not for another half hour so Anselm had gone for a secret roll-up. He strolled along the bluebell path and took a narrow track through the woods leading to a stretch of sand by the water’s edge. Then he saw him through the laden branches and paused. Anselm guessed he was in his late fifties. He was a very small man with the smallest feet Anselm had ever seen. Whoever the stranger was, he kept perfectly still, like a sculptured memorial, silently looking over the lake.
‘I suspect you and I are asking ourselves a similar question,’ said the stranger without averting his gaze. His voice was disturbingly deep, like wet churning gravel; at once musical and melancholy
Anselm stepped out of the shade. The stranger continued:
‘You wonder why I am here. Just as I wonder why he is over there.’
Across the lake, just visible through the surrounding trees, shone the red tiling of the Old Foundry roof, where Schwermann had been accommodated.
‘May I ask who you are, and what you are doing here?’ said Anselm hesitantly, walking slowly to the stranger’s side.
The man peered solemnly at Anselm through heavily framed glasses, his eyes enlarged and penetrating, and said, ‘I’ve come to look upon the father of my grief.’
Anselm followed his gaze, confusion giving way to the first flutterings of fear.
‘Don’t worry,’ said the stranger dispassionately, ‘I’m not mad. But I do have a penchant for’ the telling phrase.’ He smiled paternally ‘My name is Salomon Lachaise.’
Anselm took in the loose cardigan and galoshes, the profound relaxation in circumstances that should have produced embarrassment — he was, after all, a trespasser within the enclosure. Salomon Lachaise was like a man in his own drawing room, receiving a guest on a matter of grave importance. Speaking as much to himself as to Anselm, he said, ‘Have you any idea how painful it is for me to stand here’ — he gestured uncertainly across the water — ‘knowing who sleeps over there?’
Anselm felt the slow flush of humiliation. Salomon Lachaise smiled sadly, drawing pipe and tobacco from his cardigan pocket. He began the endless ritual of packing with his thumb, drawing air and trailing match after match over the bowl. ‘I’m sorry. It’s an old rabbinic trick,’ he said through a swirl of smoke. ‘Posing the question to a man who cannot answer without discovering his own shame. Jesus did it quite a lot.’
Anselm was dumbstruck. Not expecting an answer, his interlocutor said, ‘It’s time for me to go. What’s your name?’
‘Father Anselm, but-’
‘Saint Anselm of Canterbury? Now there’s an interesting fellow A man in search of God. But not that fond of…’
At that moment they heard twigs cracking underfoot and three figures emerged through the trees, one in front, two behind. Anselm took in the calm, concentrated glance of the police officer in his Marks amp; Spencer casuals, one hand inches away from a concealed weapon, but Salomon Lachaise stared beyond, through the branches, to a shape moving through the shadows. A voice spoke lightly to a young man with his hands sunk deep in his pockets. Max, the grandson. He’d come every week since his grandfather had taken up residence in the Old Foundry.
Anselm shivered in the sun, alarmed by a sudden, dark prescience. A meeting of ways lay ahead: one of those rare instances where the past coagulates into the present.
Schwermann pushed aside some brambles with a stick and stepped into the open, looking up as if in a dream. His eyes rested lightly on Salomon Lachaise and then moved on to Anselm with a courteous nod. He smiled briefly, as if to a friend, saying, ‘I haven’t thanked you for your advice, Father.’
Anselm sickened.
‘Sanctuary is not what I expected and more than I could have hoped for.’
They had not met since that unfortunate exchange at the back of the church. Anselm studied him afresh: didn’t evil have a known face, angular and pinched? If so, this was not it. The eyes, awash with a dull black iris, lacked focus, and the slow, tired blinking suggested
… suggested what? For the life of him Anselm could not tell whether this was the torpor of old age or the persisting trace of ruthlessness. He looked no different to the stooped parishioner who waved the collection plate.
‘At least I can still paint.’ Schwermann lifted his paint box, like the Chancellor with his budget. ‘These enchanting woods help me to forget. ‘
At that, Salomon Lachaise groaned through his teeth and stumbled forward towards Schwermann, falling on his knees right in front of him. The policeman’s hand shot inside his jacket. With one great, savage movement, Salomon Lachaise tore ope
n his shirt from top to bottom, both hands ripping the fabric apart, exclaiming in a loud voice, ‘I am the son of the Sixth Lamentation.’
Schwermann stepped back, appalled, breathing heavily, the features of his face suddenly alive. ‘Gott… mein Gott… help me!’
The policeman swiftly placed himself before Schwermann and ushered him back through the trees. The grandson, paralysed, fixed wide, flickering eyes upon the man on his knees — the bowed head, the extended arms — and then, as if abruptly woken, turned and ran.
In a moment they were alone to the sound of feet moving urgently through the woods. Late afternoon sunlight slipped through pleated branches on to their shoulders. A light wind idled over the surface of the lake, crumpling the reflections lying deep in the water. Salomon Lachaise did not move until Anselm lightly touched his shoulder. With help from the monk he stood up.
‘Forgive me,’ he muttered thickly
‘What on earth for?’
‘I don’t know’ He covered his upper body as one shamed, hunching over the bared skin. Anselm’s arms were raised foolishly, as though he would start a Mass. He wanted to do something, anything, to touch with balm this astounding, wounded man who now, clasping himself, began to stumble along the path through the woods that Schwermann had taken. Anselm followed like a disciple.
After several minutes the stranger abruptly stepped off the track and made through the trees towards an old breach in the monastery wall, a hole that had never been repaired. Anselm thought, apprehensively, he knows his route: he’s been here before. Upon impulse he asked, ‘What brought you here?’
‘I’m a Professor of History at the University of Zurich. A medievalist, but I like to keep my eye on the modern period.’ He stepped carefully through the fallen stones towards a car parked on the verge. ‘You see, with one or two notable exceptions, he sent my family to the ovens.’ He patted pockets in turn, searching distractedly for keys. ‘I only wanted to see his face but now… we’ve actually met. Believe it or not…’ He sighed and held out his hand, letting his shirt fall open. ‘Shalom aleichem, Anselm of Canterbury.’
The great bells of Larkwood sang over the trees, summoning Anselm to Vespers. Torn by the obligation to run and the desire to stay, Anselm said, ‘Can we meet again?’ He scrambled for a reason: ‘Perhaps we could talk… go for a walk?’ The idea of leisure rang a ridiculous note but Salomon Lachaise replied quickly, sincerely ‘I would like that very much.’
He climbed into his car, still dazed. Winding down the window he said, ‘I’m staying in the village, at The Grange.’ The engine rumbled into life and the car pulled away, never quite gathering speed but moving slowly out of sight.
After Vespers the monks shuffled in procession out of choir and into the cloister. In the shadow of a pillar stood Father Andrew, waiting for Anselm. With a gesture he led Anselm to his room. Behind a desk, his chin resting upon the backs of his hands joined in an arch, the Prior said, troubled:
‘I’ve received a fax. Rome wants someone from the Priory to handle a particular matter on their behalf relating to our guest. I’ve recommended you. The flight has already been arranged.’
Anselm, instantly curious, said, ‘Have they said anything else?’
‘No.’
‘Just a fax?’ asked Anselm.
‘Yes.’
Anselm’s imagination perceived a nuance of irregularity which he tamed: ‘That’s odd.’
The Prior’s arched hands dropped on to the desk. ‘Indeed. I rang the Nuncio. Even he didn’t know anything.’ He eyed the telephone. ‘You’d think he’d have been briefed. Very odd.’
Awake in bed that night, unable to sleep, Anselm barely thought of Rome. Instead he listened again to the words of the trespasser confronting the man in the woods, and he thought of the five lamentations of Jeremiah, each mourning the destruction of Jerusalem, each placing absolute trust in its sworn Protector. What then was the Sixth Lamentation: the tragedy of a people, or a personal testament? In asking the question, Anselm felt a sudden chill, like the passing of a ghost. He didn’t want to know the answer. He closed his eyes and saw Salomon Lachaise upon his knees. Instantly Anselm prayed, wanting to cry but not quite knowing how to.
Chapter Nine
The first notebook of Agnes Embleton.
14th April 1995.
Of course, in the first weeks and months of my living with Madame Klein, I knew nothing of her past, nor what she did when she went out with her husband’s violin.
On my first night I was sent to have a bath and packed off to bed. I thought she could not possibly know how I felt to have lost my father. I was wrong. She eased my way through routine and piano practice. Three times a day: when I got up, before I could think, after lunch before going back to school, and every evening. She sat by me or in the corner, groaning loudly at my mistakes. She had a string of pupils. None of them paid (I later found out) and she was horrible to them all. It was through music that I got to know her, not words. I’ve never been one for talking, maybe that’s where it comes from. She used to say, ‘Your ears are more important than your mouth.’ And Father Rochet would add his bishop was of much the same opinion.
It was about a year later, 1935 or thereabouts, that Madame Klein started to host musical evenings every Sunday The same people came each week. Those who had come by night, as my child’s eye had seen them, returned, along with some others brought by Father Rochet. Six families from his parish and a couple of rather vocal atheists (‘My strays,’ he would say). It was the same with the Jewish group — some were devout believers, others weren’t. The first evening was stilted to say the least but that gradually lessened as the weeks passed, as we all listened to the same music. We were an audience of families providing the performances ourselves. That is how I met Jacques and Victor.
15th April.
Jacques’ father, Anton Fougeres, was a great friend of Father Rochet. Anton played the piano with an enthusiasm unsupported by talent. His wife, Elizabeth, sang. She was quite good, actually Apart from Jacques, they brought with them a man called Franz Snyman. He was a refugee, about Jacques’ age, who had been introduced to them by Father Rochet. Originally Mr Snyman’s family had come from South Africa, but business interests had taken them abroad. In three generations they had fled from Romania to Germany to France. He’d lost both parents along the way His father had been killed in Kishinev. They’d moved to Gunzenhausen. His mother had been beaten to death in a campaign for ‘Jew-free’ villages. Aged fourteen, he had made his way to the Saar, where a non-Jew family friend had offered him a roof. Then the Saar became part of Germany so off he’d moved again, coming to Paris on his own. Where he’d lodged with Mr and Mrs Fougeres. He always dressed in a suit. Perhaps that is why we called him ‘Mr Smyman’, rather than using his first name — it was a kind of affectionate, mischievous respect. He was a superb cellist and he and I played a lot of duets together. Jacques had an elder brother, Claude, who lived near the Swiss border. I don’t recall much about him. All I know is that after the fall of France he became a vocal supporter of Vichy and Petain. There’s nothing so strange as families.
I must now turn to Victor. He’s played an important part in my life. Victor’s father, Georges, was married to Anton Fougeres’ second cousin. But there’d been an almighty row between Anton and Georges, and the two families hadn’t spoken for years. The Fougeres family were committed Republicans, whereas Georges was a Monarchist. Another member of the Brionnes had even been a ‘Camelot du Roi’. They were a Royalist youth movement, and I’ll tell you about them later for it touches on Victor. And, I suppose, Father Rochet. Suffice it to say, Anton Fougeres disapproved and that was that. A major rift.
Victor, however, went to the same school as Jacques and they were best friends. He spent as much time at Jacques’ house as he did at home. So Victor had to pull the wool over his parents’ eyes whenever he went to visit the Fougeres. He once said it was perfect training ground for a spy
Same day
&n
bsp; In due course I found myself more with Jacques and Victor than anyone else at our musical evenings. They sought me out and I began to expect it and to want it. Even then, at that early stage, I knew I was coming between them. It seems to be the role of a girl, to split the covenant between two boys. It often happens. But I was only sixteen and they were scarcely older. At that stage there were no choices to be made. Looking at things from their beginnings we were all innocent then, even Victor, making our clumsy way forward, away from childhood. We became a threesome and I lay upon a dais in the middle, feted on either side. I led the pranks and they got into trouble on my behalf. My hair fell long over my shoulders and I would cast the whole lot to the wind, as if it was necessary Victor once caught me on camera, in full swing, but I never saw the picture. I wonder what happened to it?
16th April.
These gatherings went on each week, right up to 1940. In the summer we would go on picnics, driven by Father Rochet in a roaring bus. The exhaust was held in place by an old coat-hanger. Madame Klein was not allowed behind the wheel. She’d sit towards the back, shouting at him to go down driveways into private gardens and houses, always with that violin on her lap. For her damaged hand could draw the bow I see her mow, standing by the Seine, somewhere between Poissy and Villennes, playing dreadfully to the river. To think, she was taken away, beaten and gassed. And I didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye.
17th April.
I did very well at the piano and entered lots of competitions. Madame Klein, who never cried, wept every time I won. She said it was a complete catastrophe. When I gained a scholarship she made so much noise she was asked to leave the auditorium. So off I went to the Conservatoire in 1937. Madame Klein arranged a few classes under Yvonne Lefebure at the Ecole Normale, where I played for Cortot, but he didn’t think much of me. For what it’s worth I didn’t think much of him either, and neither did Madame Klein. Too many wrong notes. And it is those happy memories that bring me back to Jacques and Victor.
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