The Statement

by Brian Moore

  As always, when he felt the dagger of fear, he worried about his heart. As always, when that happened, he tried to think of something else. He thought now of absolution. Ego te absolvo: those words, the most joyous in religion. He remembered, long ago, when he was a boy in Sanary, coming out after confession, and feeling a sense of triumph. Confession was the greatest sacrament of the Church, a passport out of the flames of hell. Sometimes he thought that he might not be so religious a Catholic, so devout in his duties, if he did not have the relief of knowing that his sins would be forgiven. That was why he had come to Caunes. It was worth the risk, colonel or no colonel. Ego te absolvo.

  But these thoughts did not still his fear. He could feel his heart flutter, trapped in his chest. As he went up the lane that led to the little pension, he felt his pulse. Irregular. I took my pill this morning. Or did I?

  When he went into the little front hall of the pension, the proprietress, sitting at her desk in front of a poster advertising a Montpellier music festival, looked up with a hotelier’s false smile.

  ‘Monsieur will be with us for dinner?’

  ‘Alas, no, Madame. Could I trouble you to make up my bill?’

  ‘You found the Monsignor, did you?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  His room was on the first floor. It looked out on the yard where his car was parked. As he put his things into a suitcase, he saw, parked beside his Peugeot, a black Renault with an official licence plate. The engine of the Renault came suddenly to life and it drove out of the yard. As it passed below his window, the driver turned his head and looked up.

  He pulled back, stumbling over the bed in his hurry to stay out of sight. An officer in the dress uniform of the gendarmerie. He listened. The car noise diminished. There are no officers of that rank here in Caunes. Just think. He could have walked into the hall downstairs when I was talking to Madame.

  He shut his suitcase, checked that he had taken his razor from the bathroom, then went down the winding flight of stairs. She laid the bill on the counter. He paid it.

  ‘I’ve just seen a car go out, Madame. Was that a special licence plate, I wonder?’

  ‘I couldn’t say, Monsieur. I didn’t see the car.’

  ‘It was an officer. Gendarmerie, I think.’

  ‘Ah, yes – let me see.’ She bent over the registration book. ‘Yes, from Paris. You’re right.’

  ‘It’s a hobby of mine,’ he told her. ‘Registration plates. Anyway, thank you, Madame.’

  He folded the bill and put it in his pocket.

  ‘Bon voyage, Monsieur.’

  6

  Roux had studied the dossiers. They were remarkably complete for a subject who had no criminal record whatsoever. There had been years of reports by the police and intelligence services and even a confidential memo extracted from a source within the Elysée Palace. But the most intriguing dossier on Monsignor Maurice Le Moyne had been compiled by a young historian, a member of Cardinal Delavigne’s commission investigating Church involvement in the affair. Even now, with that dossier in his hand, Roux had no idea of how Judge Livi had obtained it. Yet here it was, a series of interviews, comments, a curriculum vitae: in all a psychological profile of a cleric of insignificant powers, thought by his ecclesiastical superiors to be politically naive, dismissed by the cardinal he worked for as a ‘silly ass’, yet who had somehow managed to manipulate and influence persons who held positions of the highest power. There was the Good Samaritan, the writer of endless letters admonishing his correspondents to remember the words of Christ: ‘Forgive and you will be forgiven.’ There was the relentless importuner, searching out testimonials for his shady protégé, even visiting former victims of the milice, to seek their aid, brazenly declaring that ‘as a Christian, and a priest I dare to ask a pardon for this man’. There was the letter to General de Gaulle in which he wrote: ‘It is in the name of Christ’s charity and for no other motive, neither interest, nor ambition, nor constraint, nor political aim, that I have acted in this case.’ But of course, as the dossiers showed, this was not the truth. In the same letter to de Gaulle, he had implied that Brossard was innocent of the crimes which he, Monsignor Le Moyne, surely knew he had committed. And in other letters to those in positions of power, he was guilty of similar deceptions. While in Rome in the sixties, serving as little more than a lowly functionary in charge of a French cardinal’s housekeeping staff at the Holy See, he had sent out letters to heads of government signing himself as ‘Private Secretary to His Eminence’, implying, falsely, that the letter was written with the Cardinal’s approval, and thus raising suspicions in the highest levels of the French government that Rome itself had a vested interest in protecting Brossard.

  And now with those documents in a folder on the seat beside him, Roux was driving up a narrow street in Caunes en route to the retreat house in Rue Danton. He had telephoned again, at 6 p.m., and had been told that the Monsignor would, as usual, be taking supper there. Supper was at seven. He planned to arrive at seven-thirty and surprise his subject at table. There was an element of theatre involved. He wore his dress uniform, gloves and kepi. His posture would be military; never that of a policeman.

  ‘Monsignor will be with you in a moment.’

  The visitors’ parlour in the retreat house was small and dark, dominated by a lifesized plaster statue of the Virgin Mary placed strategically opposite the solitary window so that the evening light fell like a halo on the madonna’s head. He placed his gloves and kepi on the polished table and stood, facing the door. The man who entered was old enough to be Roux’s father, small and frail in a black soutane and elastic-sided boots, his features settled in that mask of age that neuters its owner’s sex.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ the Monsignor said. ‘I’m afraid I was away when you called this morning.’

  Roux introduced himself as the head of a new investigation into the Brossard case. He was asked to take a seat.

  ‘And so, naturally, you came to see me. They all do. And, always, I have to give the same answer. I’m no longer in touch with Pierre Brossard. I believe that in joining the milice, he, like many young men of his generation, made a serious mistake. But I also believe that he acted in good faith. Therefore, even if I could help you, I would refuse to do so.’

  ‘But surely, Monsignor, there’s more to it than that? I know you believe that he’s not guilty of the killing of the Dombey Jews. But to talk about his acting in good faith is surely naive. And, besides, there are other criminal charges against him. What about the property he stole from various Jewish families? That’s on record. It’s proven.’

  ‘Colonel, the requisitioning of Jewish property was a routine action under the Vichy regime. Pierre Brossard was merely carrying out orders.’

  ‘It’s also on record that he sold jewellery, furniture and other property belonging to those Jews and put the money in his own pocket. That’s the work of a thief.’

  ‘Colonel, let me say I am not convinced that your information is accurate. In any case, Brossard was granted a pardon in 1971 by the then President of the Republic. If it were not for this new charge, a charge which is definitely not proven, he would be a free man today. This new charge is, again, an example of the way in which he has been persecuted over the past forty years. You are too young, if you’ll pardon my saying so, to remember that in the period of the Occupation the Resistance was led by communists whose aim was to deliver our country into the hands of Stalin. It wasn’t surprising that most Frenchmen remained faithful to the regime of Maréchal Pétain. I won’t try to excuse the fact that the milice turned out to be an odious organization with close links to the German occupiers. But I do contest and have always contested the accusations made against Pierre Brossard that he ordered the death of the Jews at Dombey and was responsible for acts of torture and execution against other Jews and resistants. I also know, and this you must take on trust, that he is a devout and practising Christian who has led a blameless life ever since. In addition, I believe,
with President Mitterrand and most other men of our generation, that we must move forward, and put these old animosities and cries for vengeance behind us.’

  Monsignor Le Moyne paused and spread his hands in an apologetic gesture. ‘Sorry. I have a bad habit of sermonizing. Forgive me. But I do want you to understand my position.’

  ‘Of course. And, knowing that, I didn’t come here expecting you to tell me where I can find him. But there is a new development in his case, one that I would like you to consider. We’ve discovered, very recently, that a Jewish group has formed a commando with the object of assassinating him. Its existence has been uncovered by the Direction de la Surveillance de Territoire, a special branch of the National Police. From telephone calls that the DST intercepted, it appears that this group has inside knowledge of where Brossard may be found. His life is now in danger in a way it never was before. If he gives himself up to the gendarmerie, he will, at least, be protected from these assassins. And if, as you say, he is innocent of this new charge, he may be able to clear his name. That’s why I’ve come to see you. Perhaps you have some method of getting in touch with him?’

  There was a silence in the room. Monsignor Le Moyne sat, his head bowed as if in meditation. At last he looked up, not at Roux, but at the statue of the madonna that faced him. ‘And who is behind this group? Do you know?’

  ‘No. But we know they believe Brossard will never be brought to trial. That’s why they’ve decided to kill him.’

  ‘You say they know where he is. How can they know that? You say they have “inside knowledge”. What does that mean?’

  He has taken my point, Roux decided. He’s fishing. Tell him the truth. ‘I don’t know, Father. I’m telling you what was told to us by the DST.’

  ‘I see.’ Monsignor Le Moyne stood up and went to the window. He stood silent, then turned and said, ‘Colonel, as I told you, I don’t know where he is. But, I think you’re right. Now, if ever, is the time for him to give himself up. In the past I’ve argued with him. I’ve begged him to come forward and defend himself. But he has developed a feeling of persecution in these years of clandestineness. He is convinced that he will not receive a fair trial. It would be difficult to persuade him otherwise.’

  ‘Monsignor, if anyone could persuade him, you could.’

  ‘I doubt it. And, as I said, I don’t know where to find him.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I’d hoped you might have some means of reaching him. He is in great danger. I’m convinced that someone who is in his confidence is betraying him to this group.’

  ‘But why would anyone do that?’

  ‘For money, perhaps.’

  ‘From the Jews? That’s possible. Yes.’

  Roux also stood, picking up his gloves and kepi from the table. ‘In any event, thank you for seeing me, sir. I’m sorry to have interrupted your supper.’

  ‘Not at all. Tell me. Supposing that, by some chance, Pierre Brossard gets in touch with me, could I have your card? And perhaps a telephone number – somewhere where you can be reached at any time?’

  ‘Of course.’ Roux unbuttoned the breast pocket of his uniform. ‘Here you are. That telephone number is my direct line.’

  ‘Thank you. By the way, are you planning to go straight back to Paris?’

  ‘I’m driving to Montpellier tonight. I hope to fly back to Paris in the morning.’

  ‘Well, then, I mustn’t keep you.’

  They shook hands at the front door. As he put the car in gear, Roux looked back and saw the Monsignor raise his right arm to wave goodbye. I think it worked. He’s an old-line anti-Semite, willing to believe the worst. He jumped on that bit about the DST. That worried him.

  Monsignor Le Moyne watched until the car was out of sight. Then to the telephone.

  ‘Monsignor Le Moyne, Madame. Is Monsieur Pouliot there?’

  ‘No, Father. Monsieur Pouliot has left.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Oh, about half an hour ago.’

  ‘Thank you, Madame.’

  In the dining room across the hall he could see the others finishing dessert. His plate sat, untasted. He felt shaky, tense, his mouth dry. He walked across the hall and sat on a bench in the corridor near the toilets.

  That colonel said, I’m convinced that someone who is in his confidence is betraying him. Who can be betraying him to these Jewish murderers? Where has he gone? Where will he sleep tonight?

  After a few minutes Monsignor Le Moyne got up and went into the little front office. Sister Gonzaga was closing up a filing cabinet. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Sister, but I must make a telephone call.’

  ‘That’s fine, Monsignor. I’m just leaving.’

  When she had gone he shut the office door and locked it. He could not have someone walk in on this conversation. He dialled the number. It was a direct line. Please God, he’s there.

  ‘Yes?’

  That angry, authoritative voice.

  ‘It’s Maurice.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I have to get in touch with our friend. A Jewish group is trying to kill him.’

  ‘Yes?’

  There was a silence at the end of the line.

  Then, ‘How do you know about this?’

  ‘I’ve just had a meeting with a colonel of the gendarmerie who’s now in charge of the case. He told me the Jews seem to know where they can find him. This colonel thinks someone in our friend’s confidence may be betraying him.’

  ‘Why would they do that?’

  ‘The Jews have money.’

  ‘So, what do you want?’

  ‘You have connections, sir. The report about this came in from the DST. I thought you might be able to find out who the informant is?’

  ‘Let me give you some advice, Monsignor. Your efforts on your friend’s behalf have been admirable. But, in my view, he has stepped over the line. He will now be wanted for murder, not a murder of forty years ago, but one committed last week. If he’s arrested, he could be tried for the murder. And I doubt, given the present state of public opinion, that his plea of self-defence would be accepted. He’s on the run now, he’s probably frightened as never before. I think this is the moment for you to stay out of it. Pray for him. That’s all you can do. And one last thing, my friend. Remember, you made me a promise never to mention my name in connection with these events?’

  ‘Of course. That’s understood. And I’m very grateful for the help you gave us in the past.’

  ‘I told you never to mention that help. Not even to me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  ‘Remember, Monsignor. You’re a man of your word. I expect you to keep it.’

  ‘I will, sir.’

  ‘Good-night, then.’

  ‘Good-night.’

  7

  Shit! A big truck pulled alongside the little Peugeot, almost banging into it as the truck rushed ahead, moving into the lane in front. Night driving, he couldn’t do it any more, he had hoped to get as far as Montpellier, but now he saw a sign: Béziers. It would have to be Béziers. The truck’s red tail lights disappeared round a bend in the road. He slowed his speed to 90 kilometres. Don’t panic. Don’t panic!

  Is it possible to tell everything you did to a priest in the confessional and yet be telling lies? If God Himself were to ask me now what I felt back then, what I felt at the cemetery wall in Dombey, what I felt when we threw the bomb into the synagogue on Rue Daumier, would I lie to God Himself? Would I say I felt I was doing my duty? And what did I feel? What did I feel when I went down to Room 410 and saw Le Grange pushing their heads under the water in the bath? We needed information. He said this was the way to get it. What did I feel when I received the train orders and stood in the station supervising the loading? Those faces staring out at me from the open freight-car doors. I looked away. They were going to die. I was afraid of them. They saw me, they knew. Some day, in some afterlife, they would point me out. That’s him. Brossard. He did it. He killed us.

  The sign
ahead said: BÉZIERS. 10 Kilometres.

  Ego te absolvo. Am I really absolved, am I really cleansed, am I free to enter heaven? I don’t know. My whole life has been an imposture. I’m lying, even when I think I’m telling the truth. Yet, in these last years, I want to tell the truth to someone. If I can tell it to a priest in confession, I feel better, I feel hope, if not in this world, then in the next. Confession is my insurance. My heart is bad. I could drop dead tomorrow. I need absolution. If God forgives me then I don’t give a damn about this world. I’m finished with this world. The proof is, I put my neck in danger by driving all the way to Caunes to hear those words from a priest. I could have gone directly to Aix and been safe in my bed tonight instead of out on this road, my bones aching, driving half blind, afraid as I never was in the days when I was just small fry, one of hundreds of collabos sentenced to death in absentia. Now, I’m a cause célèbre, my name in the papers, people have seen that photo of me when I was twenty-six, someone might have an epiphany in the street and shout out, ‘Eureka, it’s Brossard!’ And now they’ve got this new judge, Livi, Italian name, they say, but that’s not true. It’s Levy. Anyway, she’s given me over to the gendarmerie. They’re not like the police. Darnand always said don’t trust the gendarmes, they hate us, they turned their backs on the Maréchal from Day One.

  Think of it. Back in those days, I could have had false emigration papers, straight from the Vatican, that Yugoslav bishop at the Holy See told Monsignor Le Moyne it would be no trouble at all. But I said no. I didn’t want to be like Barbie in some South American backwater, peddling his arse as a secret policeman for a cheap little South American dictator, speaking Spanish, eating that greasy métèque food. I love France, it’s my country, they’re not going to drive me out of my own country. I’m French, I’ll die in France!

  Béziers. No one in the world knows I’m here tonight. Tomorrow I’ll be in Aix. Maybe they’ll know that. Maybe they’ll send another Jew to kill me. How did they know I was in Salon? Who told them? Help me, God? Help me!