The Sixth Lamentation (13 page)

Monsignor
Renaldi handed the papers to Anselm.

The
report was addressed to the Prior General of the

Gilbertine
Order. A covering note showed it had been passed on to the Vatican, into the
hands of Archbishop Alfredo Poli, Secretary of the Cipher, who had simply
marked it: ‘Noted’.

Anselm
turned to the front page. After the usual obeisance, Father Pleyon had
described the events already reported to Anselm The text went on:

The smuggling ring was
called The Round Table and involved a former member of the community, Father
Rochet, who had been based in Paris. This monk had left Les Moineaux in
disgrace, although I do not think it necessary or relevant to disclose the
circumstances of his departure. I beg your indulgence on this matter, for I
would prefer to protect my brother monk’s dignity by not formally recording the
reason for his ignominious downfall. Prior to his departure I managed to secure
a placement for him in a parish where 1 had connections, informing in advance
a family known to me for many years named Fougères who, I was sure, would give
him a warm welcome. I cannot be certain of this, but it seems that from their
meeting was eventually to spring the smuggling operation to which I have
referred. As you are aware, France fell in June 1940. Father Rochet visited Les
Moineaux in the October after a census of Jews had been ordered in Paris by the
Nazis. He came with his proposal for The Round Table which was accepted by the
then Prior, Father Morel. The function of the Priory was to hide the children
in the orphanage run by our sister community and to provide false identity and
travel documents — the skills required to produce such things being possessed
by two of our monks when they were in the world, one an artist, the other a
printer.

In
unknown circumstances The Round Table was tragically broken in July 1942 and
Father Morel was shot. Fortunately the detachment of soldiers that came to
carry out the execution did not search the convent. Had they done so they would
have found several children whose passage to Switzerland was still under preparation.
I became Prior and was holding that office when Schwermann and Brionne arrived
in August 1944.

Anselm turned the page and
read the last few sentences:

I used my connections
to facilitate their escape to England with false identities. Schwermann was
given the name Nightingale; Brionne was called Berkeley The reason I took this
grave step is complex, and I now set out a full explanation which, you will
readily understand, treads upon matters of profound secrecy. Appearances were
never perhaps as deceptive as that which I now disclose.

Anselm glanced down the
page, scanning the empty lines.

Monsignor
Renaldi said, ‘While we are fortunate in having the report at all, we are not
so fortunate in that Father Pleyon died before he could complete his
revelation.’

‘Not a
good time to die,’ Anselm said, handing the letter back to Monsignor Renaldi.

‘That
was our conclusion,’ said Cardinal Vincenzi, settling his paternal gaze upon
Anselm. ‘No doubt you see our difficulty. We do not have an explanation that
meets the facts.’ Speaking fluidly as though there was no time to pause, he
went on, ‘You may have heard about priests and prelates helping fleeing Nazis’
— Anselm had, but it was so vague and so beyond his own experience of the
Church that it lay on the fringes of relevance, almost as a fiction — ‘and that
is another problem on my desk, but you can forget all about that.’ As if to
wave away any possible connection, he added, ‘At the time, the Church was very
concerned about the advance of communism, and out of that fear some of our
wayward sons assisted fascists on the run.’ It was a local problem, his tone
suggested. ‘The institution forever has its prodigals. In due course I will
have to answer for them.’ He gave a worn, sour smile. ‘But, as I say, you can
forget that.’

Smoothly
removing any hiatus for reflection, Monsignor Renaldi said, ‘The unanswered
question remains: why did this community hide these two young men? It is
perhaps stating the obvious, but the only ones who need to escape are those with
something to fear. That is our worry. And, in the absence of an explanation, we
are forced to consider logic.’

The
application of reason alone to such a problem struck Anselm as a particularly
desperate measure. And somewhat unconvincing. But nothing had been hidden. They
had told him all there was to know Monsignor Renaldi said, ‘I understand you
were once a lawyer.’

‘Yes,
but not a particularly good one. My practice was restricted to hopeless cases,
and they tended to stay that way’

‘Well,’
said the Monsignor appealingly half-amused, ‘what do you make of this one?’

The
question jarred with Anselm. It was an approach he used to follow at the Bar
when trying to prompt an intelligent, obviously guilty crook into seeing sense;
it often pulled them on side. However, the vulnerable look of Beniamino
Cardinal Vincenzi, the man who presided over the Secretariat of State, a noble
dicastery of the Roman Curia, banished such tawdry associations. Anselm wanted
to help. He thought for a long while and then said, ‘On the face of it, Father
Pleyon must have thought that both men were blameless. But if that’s the case,
he must also have concluded that proof of innocence could never be made known
to the public. Otherwise he would not have found it necessary to devise an
escape strategy. ‘

Quietly
and slowly, Cardinal Vincenzi said, ‘But what if they were guilty? What then
would you make of the assistance provided?’

Anselm
scavenged for an innocent explanation. ‘He must have known something of
sufficient importance to outweigh whatever Schwermann and Brionne may have
done.’

‘Yes,’ said
the Cardinal, assuaged, ‘they are the only possible explanations.’

‘And,’
added Anselm, gathering confidence, ‘I would have thought Father Pleyon must
have already known and trusted one or the other, otherwise he would not have
taken the risk of facilitating their escape.’

Monsignor
Renaldi and the Cardinal glanced at each other like two judges sitting in the
Court of Appeal. They shared a look of agreement, acceptance of a submission
they hadn’t thought of. The case was won. Monsignor Renaldi said, ‘If
Schwermann is brought to trial the role of Les Moineaux is likely to become
public knowledge. We need to know why Father Pleyon acted as he did:

‘Of
course,’ said Anselm, as though he, too, were encumbered.

‘You
may well know,’ said the Monsignor, ‘that those who tracked Schwermann down
succeeded because someone disclosed the identity under which he had been
hiding.’

Anselm
nodded.

‘We
think that person might have been Victor Brionne. Apart from Father Chambray,
no one else alive would know the name. This has given us some encouragement
that he may be prepared to speak the truth, regardless of personal cost, if he
can be found.’

The
Cardinal spoke with an enticing note of solemn commissioning. ‘Father, I would
like you to track down Victor Brionne and discover what really happened in
1944.’

Monsignor
Renaldi rose, urging Anselm to remain seated. Beneath the dull gaze of painted
Cardinals he walked the length of the room to a large panelled door and slipped
out. The Secretary of State brought his eyes on to Anselm. They contained
concern and fear and, to Anselm’s elevating satisfaction, gratitude.

Cardinal Vincenzi summoned
Anselm with a wave of the hand to an open window overlooking the Vatican
Gardens.

‘I want
you to understand the delicacy of the situation,’ he said confidingly ‘These
are difficult times for the Church. Relations with our Jewish brothers and
sisters are especially fragile as we try to resolve nearly nineteen hundred
years of shared hostility. A great deal has been achieved in the forty years
since I was ordained. But the role of the Church before and during the war is a
particular stumbling block, especially what is alleged against Pius XII.’

‘Anguish,
silence and diplomacy?’ asked Anselm, suddenly thinking of Salomon Lachaise and
the empty, hungry fields.

‘The
caution of the Pope was shared by the world,’ the Cardinal replied simply He
looked over Rome, which was glistening under the sun, the heavy hum of
business afar. ‘You are fortunate, Father, in not having to negotiate the
boundaries of responsibility. I’m afraid dealing with history has always been a
trading activity of sorts. We are bidding for a manageable form of truth. It is
a most delicate exercise, for I am trying to protect the future from the past. ‘

The
Cardinal moved away from the window, taking Anselm paternally by the arm. ‘Which
brings me to the Schwermann case. In these difficult times the last thing the
Church needs is a war crimes trial tearing open the wounds we are trying to
close, and that is what I fear will happen if he reveals precisely who effected
his escape in 1944. With your help I need to prepare myself for that
eventuality.’

The
Cardinal walked Anselm to the panelled door, his heavy hand upon his shoulder.
He blessed him and said goodbye. As the door opened, Monsignor Renaldi appeared
on the other side. Their steps echoed down high corridors and wide stairs until
they reached a side door on to the world. Upon opening it, they were struck by
a rush of heat. The Monsignor, squinting in the light, said offhandedly, ‘I
suppose if Berkeley can demonstrate Schwermann’s innocence then all well and
good. But if he can’t — well, it would have been better, for everyone, if we’d
left him alone. Don’t you think?’ He smiled confidentially and withdrew.

Anselm
headed towards an iron gate protected by a guard in a preposterous uniform. He
entered the street aware that an obligation had been placed upon him; not at
all sure he knew whose had been the laying hand.

3

Conroy was seated at an
old olive press, installed as a table beneath orange trees in the middle of San
Giovanni’s ornate fifteenth-century cloister. A large jug of wine and a bowl of
peaches in water lay on the press. At Larkwood it would now be the Great
Silence after Compline, but for Conroy it was time for ‘a bit of a wag’.

‘And
there’s plenty more where this little divil came from,’ he said, nodding at the
jug. ‘A bit rough, mind.’

Anselm
pulled up a chair and they sat opposite each other like card players in a cheap
Western surrounded by shooting cicadas.

‘Now,
can you tell me what the holy men had to say?’ asked Conroy

‘No.’

‘Thought
not,’ he replied, gratified.

Anselm
remembered Conroy’s warning about mirrors twisting things out of shape. He had
been wrong, which was not altogether surprising. The likes of Conroy, while
highly entertaining, were not disposed to understand the subtleties of high
office and the demands it placed upon its servants.

Conroy
held the jug in his hand, saying, ‘There isn’t much time, you know, so give me
that glass. We were born to celebrate.’ He poured, squinting at some private
thought, and then, measuring his words carefully, said, ‘If ever you want
information above and beyond what the holy men have told you, let me know I’ve
got a pal or two in the library with very sticky fingers.’

Conroy
dropped a peach in his glass.

Anselm
shook his head. There was no need for any such thing. And then, with dismay, he
heard himself say, ‘As a matter of fact, I do.’

‘Tell
me, so.

It was
as though another person was talking and Anselm was being helplessly pulled
along. He said, ‘What is known about a French Priory, Notre-Dame des Moineaux?’

Anselm
winced as he sipped savagely dry white wine. Conroy quaffed and said, ‘I won’t
write that down, so.’

‘No,
please don’t.’

‘And I
won’t write down the answer either.’

‘No,
please don’t.’

They
looked at each other, conjoined by deceit.

‘Have a
peach,’ said Conroy

‘I
will,’ said Anselm, laughing for no reason, ready to celebrate he didn’t know
what.

Then
Conroy took off at a pace. ‘Did I tell you the story about me and the Cardinal?
No? My God, well, listen.’

Conroy
filled his glass.

‘After
I got a clattering for my book, I was invited,
invited
I tell you, to
share evening prayer with the Prince of the Sacred Congregation for the Defence
of the Faith. Well, I made an awful hash of it. You know that antiphon for
Lent, “Heal my soul for I have sinned against you”? Well, God forgive me, it
came out wrong. As solemn as you like I spoonered the opening words, with
emphasis,
and Jasus, you should have seen his face:

Conroy
was fishing in his glass, trying to grip his peach. ‘It was gas, I can tell
you.

‘What
book did you get into trouble for?’ asked Anselm, intrigued.

‘You
won’t know it. I agreed to have it withdrawn. The clever boys behind the door
weren’t happy with my Christology. Too low.’