Father Andrew touched Anselm’s shoulder and together they headed down the last quarter mile to the Priory. It had suddenly turned cold, and the glittering lights in the distant windows carried a summons to warmth. Their feet fell softly on the path. The evening light slipped further behind the trees and the moon grew strong. Slightly to the east was the lake, like a black pool, and out of sight the Old Foundry.
Anselm said, ‘Schwermann just stood there, before the world, saying he’d done something good among all the evil. He waved it in the air as if it were the winning number in the lottery, a ticket to absolution.’
Father Andrew replied, quietly ‘There might just have been a trace of love in it.’
‘Is that enough to redeem a man?’
‘God knows.’
‘It’s terrifying, but do you think a man could so blot out his own life that he can’t be saved?’
‘No, I don’t —’ he flung the branch into a pool of shadow — ‘but something frightens me far more. There might come a point where someone could choose hell rather than acknowledge fault and accept the forgiveness of God.’
They reached Larkwood Priory and the two monks pushed open the great gate, leaving the breathing woods to the coming night.
2
Lying in bed that night, waiting for Sailing By, Anselm involuntarily returned to his earlier reflections. He thought of Pascal and a brutal irony: an accidental consequence of his death was that Agnes was eventually reunited with her son. If Pascal hadn’t died, Victor might never have come forward to give evidence … if he hadn’t given any evidence, Anselm would never have discovered that Victor believed Agnes was dead … it was only when Victor realised she was alive that the whole truth came out …
And, going back further, if Pascal hadn’t died then Anselm would never have gone to France and mentioned the name of Agnes to Etienne Fougères as the butler poured the tea, and discovered that Etienne knew about her, and Robert, and that his family had kept a secret for fifty years … That jarred on him now, as it had jarred on him then, but suddenly Sailing By began.
Instantly Anselm was in the crow’s-nest of a great dipping schooner, high above the decks, with the scurrying crew in black and white below The spars creaked and groaned and the sails strained against their ropes. Sunlight flashed upon cerulean waves and in the distance thick green foliage burst from the pale sands of a small island. It was a vision that suggested itself every time the music came on and Anselm blissfully surrendered himself to its charms, shutting down the engine of his thinking. However, with his thoughts attuned to the past, a window to his mind was left ajar. Just before he sank beneath the waves he heard a small voice, a little idea. He woke, knocking his radio on to the floor in excitement. This was one thing he had got right.
Chapter Fifty
The old butler led Anselm across the Boulevard de Courcelles towards a side entrance to Parc Monceau. They walked along a path until they reached one corner, near a monument to Chopin. Beside it was a play area with climbing frames and a sandpit, reserved for the under-threes. Stray fallen leaves skipped with each flick of the wind.
‘That is where Madame Klein used to live,’ said Mr Snyman, pointing to an elegant apartment building directly overlooking the grounds. Defined in those terms, the place appeared instantly hollow, its walls damp. ‘That is where Agnes learned the piano … it is where I first met her.’
They sat down on a bench near a flourishing lime tree. The grounds were deserted, as if the usual strollers had been carted off. Within the hour, at lunchtime, it would fill up again and then the noisy play would rattle over the ornate fencing and fight with the rumble of the traffic.
‘She’s dead?’ asked Mr Snyman.
‘Yes.’
‘Peacefully?’ There was almost a prayer in his voice.
‘Very much so.
Eventually Agnes had been taken to hospital. The final stages of life could not be handled very well so an ambulance was called. Death popped by while Agnes was lying on a trolley in a corridor, her hand held reassuringly by a nurse. Lucy had run to a pay phone to tell her father. When she’d got back Agnes had gone. The nurse had said she’d smiled. A few days later, Anselm had buried Agnes beneath sleet and rain in the presence of her family.
‘I would dearly have liked to have been there,’ said the old butler.
‘I remembered you.’
‘That is something.’ After a subdued pause he asked, ‘How did you find out about me?’
‘It came as I was falling asleep,’ Anselm replied. ‘But there are reasons. I just didn’t join them together properly. It was you who needed to escape, not your family. And yet they fled without you. There were other marks in the sand, like not coming back to Paris until no one could recognise you, and prodding Pascal to find Victor. And more. I didn’t understand them until I’d already guessed what they meant:
Anselm regarded the broken man with compassion. He would be a servant to the past until the day he died. It was his only home, and he was not welcome there.
The old butler stared deep into memory. ‘I got back to the house after Victor had gone,’ he said. ‘My father showed me the record of betrayal. I sometimes think he must have slapped me across the face. But he didn’t. I had condemned them all to death. But he understood. He knew I didn’t mean to be so weak.’ He paused. ‘Please, can we walk? My limbs stiffen up unless I move. I may as well tell you what I’ve kept to myself since Agnes was taken away from me, with my only son.
They walked side by side as Jacques Fougères spoke. Anselm listened, appalled.
‘There were only three passes. We had minutes to decide what to do. “Go!” shouted Snyman, “use my papers.” They’d been forged by some friends of Father Rochet, making him a Fougères, my brother. “When they come, I’ll say I’m you. At least it will buy time. For God’s sake, go now! I’ve nothing to live for but you have a son, you have Agnes.”‘
Jacques’ voice grew strong. ‘I said it wouldn’t work, because our identity cards had a photograph. He shouted again, “Go! Forget the detail … take all my other papers … if you have to, produce my birth certificate … but take the chance, go, now!” I have thought of Franz … that was his first name … every night since … sitting in our house, alone, waiting for them to come, knowing that he would die and I would live.’
And Anselm thought of Mr Snyman at Mauthausen, defending Father Rochet from the brutality of the guards, another honour that had devolved on to Jacques Fougères, the Resistance hero.
‘We rushed out of Paris. At one point a Gestapo official checked my father’s papers, then my mother’s, and when it came to me a distraction occurred and he waved us on. I didn’t care about my luck, I just hoped that Agnes would be safe, that Schwermann would keep to his side of the bargain.’
Dense clouds over Anselm’s mind began to lift, pushed by a quiet breeze. ‘Bargain?’
‘Yes. I trusted him. I had to, once he put forward his proposal.’
‘What proposal?’
‘It all happened on the day I was arrested for wearing the Star. I walked up and down Avenue Foch, wanting to goad Victor. If they picked me up I expected a few days’ detention, nothing more. They dragged me in after fifteen minutes and threw me into a room with no windows. The walls were stained with blood that had hit the plaster and dried in thick clumps, with long streams running to the ground. There were bits of skin and hair trapped in the mess. It stank. I couldn’t stop myself shaking, my arms, my legs, the lot. I started to cry. Then Schwermann came in with two others. They took down my trousers and tied me to a chair. The other two left and it was just him and me. There were screams echoing down the corridor.’