The Sixth Lamentation Part 5

'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 gla.s.ses, 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 dispa.s.sionately, '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 circ.u.mstances that should have produced embarra.s.sment - he was, after all, a trespa.s.ser 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 G.o.d. 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 & 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 s.h.i.+vered 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 paris.h.i.+oner 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 s.h.i.+rt 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 Ma.s.s. 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 s.h.i.+rt 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 trespa.s.ser 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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sed, 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 Kis.h.i.+nev. 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 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 ga.s.sed. And I didn't even get the chance to say goodbye.

17th April.

I did very well at the piano and entered lots of compet.i.tions. Madame Klein, who never cried, wept every time I won. She said it was a complete catastrophe. When I gained a scholars.h.i.+p 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 cla.s.ses 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.

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 It wasn't me who made the choice that set us apart. It was Jacques. By then he was studying Cla.s.sics at the Sorbonne. He turned up once 'by chance' at the Conservatoire and I showed him Chopin's death mask and a cast of Paganini's long pointed fingers. He said something about relics in Saint Eugene across the road. When I told Madame Klein that night about our meeting, her eyes narrowed and after a long pause she said, 'I think you should go for him,' and I said, 'Don't be ridiculous!' A week later I saw him at a recital when I hadn't said I was playing. Shortly afterwards, by an old bookstall where the shelves were fastened to the outside wall, he muttered, 'There's something I have to tell you.' But he couldn't get the words out. I had to put various suggestions to him. He shook his head mournfully after each one. Eventually he looked away from me and grimaced, 'I think I might be attached to you.' I felt nothing. But I woke the next morning with a fountain spurting from the pit of my stomach.

19th April.

Victor must have known, but he said nothing. Maybe because we never spelled it out he never took it seriously Remember, words were very important to him. If something hadn't been reduced to language he didn't understand it. And, appropriately writing that sentence reveals how careless I was. For Victor wrote poems for me and I should have taken him, of all people, at his word. They were lofty with plenty of cla.s.sical allusions, making them sufficiently impersonal to be safe. I kept them in a book. I should have told him to stop, but I didn't. You see, on the face of it we were a trio, and I didn't want to cut Victor off. But lurking within that laudable sentiment was the truth - a reluctance to give up the attention he gave me. Against myself I encouraged him, ever so slightly, but I did it without really meaning it. It's called vanity.

I told Jacques that Victor was just showing off. Our failure to speak up became a sort of conspiracy of pleasure between us, in the secret kept from Victor who blindly carried on. I remember the three of us looking over the waters of Launette to the Isle of Poplars at Ermonville. Victor recited something about Euterpe's aching soul before Rousseau's empty tomb. Jacques and I listened, watching creamy clouds drift across the sky, making his words our own. But I knew Victor wrote them for me. Maybe Jacques did as well.

And there you have it. Jacques and I, and Victor soon to be disappointed. That was the beginning of the end.

Same day And all the while something else was under way The weekly musical gatherings, the summer outings, had brought us all together and we grew up side by side. Through the keyhole, after everyone had gone one Sunday might, I could see them. Father Rochet finis.h.i.+ng off the bottles. Madame Klein at the table, telling him not to drink too much. But each of them looking very pleased with themselves. Looking back, I can see it was the beginning of The Round Table. Father Rochet was calling together his knights for when the time was right.

Chapter Ten.

1.

Anselm's presence during that harrowing confrontation in the woods had established an understanding between him and Salomon Lachaise such that future relations could never be characterised by mere acquaintance. They had stood on the same burning ground. A few days later, just before his flight to Rome, Anselm knocked unannounced at the door of 'The Grange', a small B&B with a name plaque of heavy iron. He'd planned a walk deep within the monastic enclosure to The Hermitage, a shack by a stream where no one ever went except with the Prior's permission - which he had obtained. Salomon Lachaise emerged, smiling and expectant, and Anselm led him back to the Priory to a locked oak door in a high wall of Saxon flint.

The bent key was ancient and large and required both of Anselm's hands in the turning. The door swung open and they stepped through into the hungry silence of the fields. As with many hidden places in the grounds of a monastery, the fact that it was cut off produced in those who entered a surprising sensation of having been freed, set loose from a captivity they had barely recognised. With a light step they set off for The Hermitage in the distance.

'How long will you stay?'

'Until he goes.

Anselm said, with feeling, 'It was most unfortunate that you should meet him in the way you did ... without warning ... or preparation.'

'I could never have prepared myself.' His relaxed face scanned the rolling fields, sunlight flas.h.i.+ng upon his heavy gla.s.ses. 'Anyway, I always look for something to be grateful for.'

Anselm flinched at the notion of thanks. But Salomon Lachaise said, 'I am glad my mother was not there, to see him and to see me before him. It would have been...'The sentence vanished, not through emotion but because the right word did not exist.

Anselm asked, 'Does she know that you are here?'

'She died before he was exposed,' he replied evenly 'I am also grateful for that.'

'Tell me about her,' said Anselm, tugging, he suspected, at the one significant thread of a seamless garment.

'In many ways I am here on her behalf. Her story will never be told. And neither will mine.'

Anselm understood that to be an imposing refusal, but Salomon Lachaise continued as though it had been a preface: 'Like so many others, the war told her who she was and who she wasn't. She thought she was a young Frenchwoman, a Parisian, with a sister, two brothers and the usual clutch of uncles and aunts ... and, out of mind, a couple of estranged German grandparents she'd never known. There's always someone that everybody else isn't speaking to. Then France fell and the occupier told her she was Jewish - on account of the grandparents. She'd never seen a synagogue in her life.'

Anselm slowed, for Salomon Lachaise was keeping slightly back; but the small man maintained his position, almost out of sight, close to the shoulder of his guide. His deep voice came on the air, while Anselm could only see the empty fields, the wild abundance of the gra.s.s.

'My mother and I escaped to Switzerland with the help of a smuggling ring known as The Round Table. Then the border closed. The rest of the family were taken...'

Anselm said, to the breeze, 'Did she know anyone, where she settled?'

'No. Like all the others she lived waiting, waiting, waiting ... during the war... after the war ... until she died ... in some sense always waiting. But no one else survived.'

The bare gra.s.s ran to a long line of trees, their tops hazy where the phosph.o.r.escence of the sky fell upon them. Diffuse sunlight picked out against the vague green a sloping wall of The Hermitage.

'Hitler, she liked to say, had been responsible for her conversion. Confronted with such evil, she said, there had to be a G.o.d. She crossed the border a believing Jew There were many like her ... alone, cut off, yet free ... and there was help. She opened a kosher shop beneath a bridge ... in a sort of cavern ... the shelves were packed with mysteries last seem by Solomon. And yet ... paradise? Not quite. The shop became a meeting place for those who'd got out, and all of them were looking for someone, hoping by a wild chance that they might turn up. My mother did what she could to help, refusing payment, wiping the slate clean, but most of all she simply listened. She never mentioned her own loss. Ever since, hope, for me, has not been about antic.i.p.ation ... but endurance. Like the food taken at Pa.s.sover, from a very early age I was introduced to the bitter and the sweet.'

They reached The Hermitage. Salomon Lachaise stared at the parched silver timbers with wonder, as though they were part of the Holy City. Through age and want of repair the whole shack sloped to one side. A covered veranda fronted a stream that chattered between low banks towards a copse. Anselm said: 'We're allowed to come here for a few days at a time. There's tap water, a stove, a couple of chairs and a bed ... little else.'

They sat in the shade of the veranda, and Anselm asked, 'Did you ever find out anything about your family ... those you lost?'

'We only ever talked of them once,' said Salomon Lachaise. 'I asked, late one night when I was in bed. She said, "Get up and put your coat on." I did. Back we went to the shop. She pulled out a cardboard box of photographs and a menorah ... and there, by the dim light of eight candles, she gave me through tears the names for the faces ... then she put them back under the counter. That was as far as she could go.'

'She kept them in the shop?'

As if explaining what should not be uttered, he replied, 'She spent her waking life there, in that cavern.

Anselm held in his mind the image of a woman, alone, the till counted, ready for home. She locks herself in, comes back, lights the candles and reaches for the box, that lid. Ah, thought Anselm ... that's why she turned the key ... to let her tears free. He said, 'So you never learned anything about them?'

'No. At first, I constructed lives for them. Later, I took refuge in learning. It was a most remarkable sensation that only left me as I got older, but I would read through the night as if those strangers of my blood were there in the room, inhabiting the shadows. That is how I reclaimed them for myself. And, with their help, I did well at school. It was said I had considerable promise.

'That must have been a joy for your mother.'

'It was. But there was very little money around. I was expected to work in the shop, but then ... my life changed.'

'What happened?' asked Anselm.

'Something extraordinary. At the beginning of the term I was due to leave school I was summoned to the headmaster's office. Sitting in his chair was a wiry fellow with a stiff, self-important manner - a lawyer, it turned out - who had come on his client's behalf to see me. His message was simple enough. He had received funds from "a survivor" to secure me a university education.'

Anselm, marvelling, said, 'Some would call that a blessing.'