Then he went right back to the dossier, muttering only, ‘Hermann, see what you can do, eh? I am desperate for tobacco.’
What Hermann didn’t realize was that the dossier was not just that of Madame Buemondi, but contained also that of the weaver. There were glimpses of a common past: Chamonix and the convent school; Viviane Darnot at the age of seven cut off from her father in England, the mother dead of influenza; Anne-Marie Cordeau fourteen years old; snatches of Viviane’s diary rescued from the grate of some recent fire and spanning several years.
‘We see each other every day and I know she is my friend but I have yet to say hello and introduce myself. Dear Jesus, why can You not let me learn to speak French as the others do?’
And then: ‘She brushed against my hand in the corridor. The light at dawn was suffused with grey. There were bursts of sunlight struggling through as we went outside. Matins again. More prayers, and still more of them always. Oh God how I hate it here. She is my one ray of hope.’
‘I have been weaving and the punishment is this: For one mistake all is torn out. For two mistakes the tips of the fingers, which are already so painful, are struck five times with the Mother Superior’s stick. For three mistakes one lives in silence on the knees before God without warmth or food.’
‘Anne-Marie is so kind to me. Where everyone criticizes, she praises. I know she hates the tapestries as much as I do, but each little step forward wins a word, a kind look, a tender smile.’
‘My father came to visit. He has said I cannot go home. When I wept, he got angry. Anne-Marie says that it is not because of anyone else, only that he is afraid to have me home. When I asked her why this should be, the look she gave I could not understand. It upsets me still.’
There were not many more excerpts. Delphane had obviously compiled both dossiers and had probably selected only those fragments that would give the effect he desired, and had destroyed the rest. Ah yes.
‘Last night I fell asleep in Anne-Marie’s cot with her arms around me. The cold, dry air of these mountains in winter makes the skin of my fingers crack. There was blood on the tapestry, my blood, and now my fingertips, they will never heal.’
‘I worked all day at the weaving. It’s like a ray of sunshine, a breath of the sweetest air. No more beatings, no more harsh criticisms from the sisters or the Mother Superior. Now I am free to weave as I want.’
‘I am studying hard, and have visited the Abbe Martin in his workrooms at the monastery. He has much to offer and has agreed to show me all he can. Dear Jesus, why have I been so lucky? There is nothing but encouragement now. Anne-Marie, she has said, “You are uniquely gifted. In you has God placed his trust for the future.”’
‘My tapestry hangs in the Mother Superior’s office and is seen by all who come to visit her.’
Kohler placed a full pouch of pipe tobacco beside the forgotten glass of wine, and patted Louis gently on the shoulder. ‘The Generalmajor and two of his fly-boys were at Stalingrad until only a few weeks ago, Louis. My sons are our ticket. The flight’s on for 0600 hours, weather permitting.’
There was barely a nod, no consciousness of stuffing the furnace and lighting up, only that same far-off look. Moisture collecting in the ox-eyes.
‘My father came to visit but there was no thought or mention of my going home. He avoids looking directly at me and this I still cannot understand. Anne-Marie has said it was very wise of me to stay, that the years, they will harden me to life’s little realities and that I must always live for my weaving. She is so good to me. Every day I see her, I thank God we have slept together and shared our love for each other.’
‘Anne-Marie Buemondi (nee Cordeau), self-proclaimed lesbian. Sexually promiscuous. Has had many lesbian affairs, most notably that with the weaver Viviane Damot and, most recently, the student Angelique Girard, bisexual with whom she has been secretly meeting for some time.
‘Known to be dealing on the black market in Cannes and Marseille. Makes frequent trips to Bayonne where she also has property.
‘Suspected of supplying arms, ammunition and false papers to the maquis of the Alpes-Maritimes.
‘Suspected of operating an escape line for enemy prisoners of war and of using this conduit to funnel infiltrators into France and Italy.
‘Estranged wife of the Fascist, Carlo Buemondi, professor of art and founding member of the National Socialist Party of Cannes and the Society for the Greater Glory of Italy. Mother of twin girls: Josette-Louise, last address: 22 rue Terrage, Paris; and Josianne Michele, diagnosed as suffering from epilepsy, the result of the mother’s sexual deviations.’
St-Cyr shuddered at Delphane’s brutal lack of understanding but saw the notations as the Gestapo Munk would have seen them.
On the surface, then, nothing but death for virtually all those associated with Anne-Marie. Deportation to a concentration camp for Viviane Darnot. Gas or the lethal injection for Josianne-Michele – the State, the Glorious Third Reich could not tolerate any signs of weakness, especially ‘madness’ brought on by a mother’s ‘sexual deviations’.
Yet what was the truth? A pawn ticket. A woman so desperate for cash on the day she was killed, she had said to the antique dealer, ‘Cash. I must have the cash or all is lost.’
A woman who possessed a villa full of valuable pieces. Surely she could have sold something? She had had the contacts. She had bartered with a sharp determination and efficiency.
A woman, then, with two faces, two masks.
An espadrille, a small, cheap porcelain figure of the Christ at Galilee, a cross that had been fashioned by the village blacksmith.
The espadrille had been that of a child of ten or twelve, and all three items had been together on the shelf beside the bed in that cottage. More shards of Roman glass and bits of pottery. Why must shards of glass keep coming up?
Two daughters, the one estranged from her mother though she was Anne-Marie’s favourite; the other, the one who was ill, the favourite of the father. ‘My little one, my Josianne …’ Carlo Buemondi had said to Hermann only to have one of his current girlfriends call him away to comfort in the mud.
Himmler’s buyer was furious. Anne-Marie Buemondi would not let her husband sell the villa.
Viviane Darnot was terrified the Germans would discover she was British and carrying false papers.
St-Cyr drew out the santon, placing the little carving next to the candle. Though the talk was everywhere now, the men relaxing, the sound of them was as if hushed.
The beechwood bobbin had been in the mother’s coat pocket, wound with the russet wool of the cape she had given to Angelique Girard.
The clot of wool had been on that hillside near the santon, near where, in all probability, the shot had been fired.
According to Carlo Buemondi, the weaver and his wife had practised their archery using images of himself as targets.
St-Cyr set the pawn ticket between the bobbin and the clot of wool, and in that moment saw again on the cinematographer’s screen, the weaver’s eyes as she had looked at him in Chamonix nine years ago. Shards of mirrored glass then; shards of Roman glass now.
The force of the bolt would have fractured Madame Buemondi’s spine.
The boy, Bebert Peretti, had seen something on that hillside but had been forbidden by Delphane from telling them anything, as had everyone else in that village.
Delphane must have made more than one visit to the area.