The Sixth Lamentation Page 6

  Anyway back to my father. I never thought to ask where he worked, or how he could afford lessons from such a lady But I came to recognise he was troubled, despite all his efforts to conceal it from me. Children may not know which questions to ask but they already sense the answers. He started scratching his arms, practically scraping the skin off. Before long it was all over his body He joked it was the lice. So I started itching, and together we’d scratch and scratch, laughing. One morning he said casually he had to go and see the doctor. I was fifteen so that would be roughly 1934. I came back from a school camp three days later and, to my surprise, was met by a young nun who brought me to a hospital. She kept glancing at me when she thought I was looking the other way My last memory of my father is that day, sleeping in a white room with a high ceiling, dressed in a white gown beneath white sheets, and a smell of strong disinfectant. The nun stayed with me, trying to hold my hand. A doctor came in and said my father had widespread cancer, and there was nothing they could do. I was left alone, me on a chair, my father asleep in a bed.

  When I turned to go there was a priest standing behind me. He was short and badly shaven, with bags under his eyes. His name was Father Rochet.

  12th April.

  Father Rochet. He had known my father from school-days and would frequently drop by usually when I was going out. He always looked as if he’d slept badly I had never spoken to him for long as he was a man of few words. But I saw him a great deal, going into the flats in and around where we lived, which I suppose was strange because it was not his parish. He was a great one for carrying something under his coat. I used to think it was a bottle, though I know better now My father said he was always getting into trouble with his bishop, which Father Rochet thought very funny Anyway there he was, behind me in the hospital, looking as if he’d just got out of bed. I followed him into the corridor. Everything had been arranged, he said. I was to go with him and he would take me to the house of a friend. We would talk about my future another time.

  Father Rochet took me in his car. Neither of us spoke. It was a black night and the rain was so heavy I could not recognise any streets or buildings. I remember watching the windscreen wipers and wondering how they worked. The water falling in sheets across the glass. Eventually we arrived. I opened the door and saw what I least expected or wanted: Parc Monceau.

  Up those stairs I went, dripping everywhere. By now I was crying. When the door opened, Madame Klein scowled and shook her head. ‘For heaven’s sake, stop soaking the floor.’ Those were her first words.

  My father died that night.

  Father Rochet came to see me after the funeral. Again he hadn’t shaved properly, and this time I could have sworn he smelled ever so slightly of stale wine, which distracted me from taking on board what he said. It was my father’s wish that I now live with Madame Klein. He had seen to all the finances.

  And so I believed family resources had sustained me in the past and would do so in the future. I didn’t realise they were both feeding me a story to save my dignity.

  I wasn’t to know Father Rochet had introduced my father to Madame Klein when we first arrived in Paris; I wasn’t to know my father went out each day in a suit, then changed and earned his living cleaning floors. I wasn’t to know that Madame Klein was our landlady; that she had waived the rent from the outset; that she had given the piano to my father; that my lessons were free; that both of them were what some call saints.

  13th April.

  Madame Klein was the most extraordinary woman I have ever known. She must have been in her early seventies when I came to live with her. At first I thought maybe I was there to act as a nurse. Far from it. She was too busy to want any help.

  Her husband had died about ten years earlier. He’d been a gifted violinist, and his death had come without any warning while performing on stage. From what she said it was rather like Tommy Cooper. He made an amusing aside, and then dropped down. Everyone laughed, including Madame Klein. They’d never had children, and extended family were out of reach and touch. So she found herself alone. She told me the first few years were the worst, and getting worse. And then she had an accident.

  Madame Klein was an atrocious driver, always banging into things. On this day, for once, it was not her fault. A van collided into the side of her car, breaking her right wrist. She never played the piano professionally again. However, the van had been driven by a young woman who worked for a Jewish children’s welfare organisation, ‘Oeuvre de Secours Aux Enfants’ (OSE) . Its headquarters had moved from Berlin to Paris in the early thirties, after the Nazis came to power. It became Madame Klein’s life, just when she thought she had nothing to live for.

  You have to understand what it was like then. Thousands of refugees had flooded into France, with children separated from their parents. You’ve seen something similar on the news. It still goes on. Then, as now, people did what they could. So Madame Klein was out each day, doing I don’t know what. It was not something she talked about. But she often took her husband’s violin.

  On some evenings there were meetings with friends she’d made through OSE. I was never present. But the same men and women came. To my child’s eye they were always dressed in black and arrived in a long shuffling line after dark. They gathered in the salon, with its low lights and drawn curtains. I thought it was terribly exciting. And I was desperate to know what they talked about. So I started listening at the door.

  You’ll find, Lucy, as you get older you start seeing yourself from the outside. Particularly your childhood. You’ll see a child enacting her part innocently while you watch, knowing what is going to happen, unable to intervene. As for me, the need to intervene, if I could have done, comes later. For now I can see myself in my nightie, with bare feet, bent over by a great white door with beautiful shining brass handles. I’m trying to breathe as quietly as I can, looking through the keyhole at those gesticulating arms and solemn faces.

  They never seemed to converse. It was always an argument, even when they agreed. What was going to happen next? That is what they fought over. Were they on the verge of the greatest pogrom they had ever known? And what was to be done? The killings had been under way since 1930. Within months of Hitler becoming Chancellor, there were camps. I remember one voice from the far side of the room say fearfully ‘If they’ve killed us in the street, they’ll kill us in the camps.’ And then a deep voice by the door spoke, so close to me I almost jumped back. It was Father Rochet. ‘You are not safe in France. You’re not safe anywhere.’ There was the most dreadful silence after that. Through the keyhole I could just make out an old man with a stick propped between his legs. He still had his dark hat and coat on. I can’t recall his name, but I’ve thought for years about his face, caught in the yellow lamplight. He had a look of recognition: this was an old, familiar warning.

  When I heard a chair scrape, I ran upstairs. Sitting on the landing with my arms around my knees I would hear them all troop out, as if in rancour, and from the window see them disperse into the night, in twos and threes, often arm in arm.

  In time, these meetings occurred more frequently Events in Germany and France were followed closely Some talked about emigration. There was no need, said others. The Germans have got us out of their hair, we’re safe. Not yet, said Father Rochet.

  He always stayed behind, Father Rochet, to confer in private with Madame Klein. I never found out what they talked about. Back by the keyhole, I only saw them huddled round a table, like mother and son, whispering. God knows why No one was listening.

  Chapter Eight

  Vespers was not for another half hour so Anselm had gone for a secret roll-up. He strolled along the bluebell path and took a narrow track through the woods leading to a stretch of sand by the water’s edge. Then he saw him through the laden branches and paused. Anselm guessed he was in his late fifties. He was a very small man with the smallest feet Anselm had ever seen. Whoever the stranger was, he kept perfectly still, like a sculptured memorial, silently looki
ng over the lake.

  ‘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 glasses, 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 dispassionately, ‘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 circumstances that should have produced embarrassment — he was, after all, a trespasser 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 God. 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 shivered 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 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.