The Sixth Lamentation (9 page)

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
open 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 Fougères, 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 Fougères.
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 Pétain. 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 Fougères’ second cousin. But
there’d been an almighty row between Anton and Georges, and the two families
hadn’t spoken for years. The Fougères 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 Fougères 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 Fougères. He once said it was perfect training ground for a spy

Same day

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, fêted 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 École 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.

18th April.

Father Rochet
once said, ‘Those boys are sword and scabbard.’ Jacques was short and slightly
stooped, pressed in on himself by ideas, his dark eyes strangely timid for
someone always ready for an argument. That was his problem really By nature
withdrawn, things he thought wrong dragged him outwards, uncomfortably, into
the light. I always thought he was rather like a rabbit in the middle of the
road: blinded by injustice and unable to back down. He said very little but his
face disclosed the constant workings of his mind. I think that is what drew me
to Jacques, the absence of words.

Now, imagine him with Victor standing like a general, his hands
behind his back, firing off frivolities to whoever would listen, hooting
playfully at Jacques’ indignations. He winked a lot at the spectators. He was
very careful with words and that rather sums him up. Beneath the badinage lay
caution and a calculating brain. He always saw both sides of a problem and you
never quite knew which side he was going to take. Sword and scabbard. Which was
which?

Same day

I’m not sure when
the parting of the ways began. Perhaps it was the day Jacques’ father called me
‘Guenevere’. With that one word he named where we stood on the stage. One of
the more unfortunate things about late adolescence is that you understand the
part you’re playing without being able to appreciate the likely consequences.
You see, in a way I led Victor on, and I knew it. For anyone else this was just
a part of growing up. But for me, the whole shebang got caught up with the war,
when heroes were needed before their time and when my stumblings became the
stuff of tragedy