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.