Anselm groaned, those last words having struck him a blow he so fully understood, for there were many living on that line whom he would reach if he could.
Chambray struggled to his feet and pushed his way out of the box.
‘I’ll leave you a copy of what I sent to Rome. You can read it for yourself.’
Anselm called out, ‘Father, was it you who sent Schwermann’s false name to Pascal Fougères?’
The old man rasped, ‘No … I never learned what it was … but I remember the song — “A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.”‘
The breathing and shuffling moved slowly away, like that of a wounded animal, until the nave echoed to the sound of its parting. Then there came the opening of a great door, an implacable slamming from the in-rush of wind, and a silence reaching out to the one who had gone.
Chapter Thirty-Three
1
Having spent the afternoon listening to an historian recount the exploits of The Round Table, Lucy left the court and made her way to Chiswick Mall for a conference organised by her father. On the tube she rehearsed the various interventions of Mr Bartlett, most of which seemed to be largely insignificant. But they left the impression of a man who cared about the detail, regardless of whether or not it helped his client’s case. He was fair, judicious and yielding. He helped his opponent. He helped the court. And no doubt the jury thought he was helping them in all his little ways. Turning her mind from that, Lucy anxiously thought of the other meeting proposed with such enthusiasm by Mr Lachaise as they had left the court. Upon enquiry, Max Nightingale had said he was a painter. Mr Lachaise had instantly suggested the three of them go together to see ‘Max’s work’ on Saturday afternoon. Lucy had been so completely unsettled by the innocence of his manner that she could not bring herself to refuse. But that was another day Tonight had to be endured first.
They all sat in the front room. Doctor Scott, the Senior Social Worker, a Regional Care Adviser from the Motor Neurone Disease Association, Freddie, Susan, Lucy and Wilma.
‘The reason why we’re all here,’ said Pam from Social Services, ‘is to discuss Agnes’ future.’
‘She hasn’t got one, ‘ said Wilma.
Pam blinked uncomfortably ‘We need to coordinate a care plan, to make sure Agnes is empowered to face the future in her own way
Doctor Scott winced. Freddie didn’t like it either, although probably for different reasons. He had his own scheme and Lucy saw it at once, before he spilled out his demands. He wanted professionals in (and, by implication, Wilma out). He wanted volunteer visitors from the MND Association to come round every day He wanted equipment loaned or bought. Anything and everything that would clean up the messiness of dying, although that word was studiously avoided. Freddie preferred to use convoluted expressions which, by their abstraction, focused all the more sharply on the reality he could not bring himself to name.
A potential structure of care (Pam’s phrase) was constructed. Freddie enthusiastically endorsed all the proposals, perhaps not quite understanding Pam’s reverent doxology that ‘empowerment was to do with having choices’.
The package (Pam’s phrase) was taken through to Agnes. She listened as Pam explained the options, Freddie making confirmatory interjections as she went along. When she’d finished, Agnes nodded towards her bedside table. Wilma fetched the alphabet card.
T-H-A-N-K-.Y-O-U
Pause.
V-E-R-Y
Pause.
M-U-C-H
Longer pause.
I
Pause.
O-N-L-Y
Pause.
W-A-N-T
Pause.
W-I-L-M-A
Freddie embarked upon an appeal for sense to prevail until professionally disengaged by Pam using low-key techniques. Back in the sitting room, she translated what ‘empowerment for choice’ actually meant. Exasperated, but in control, Pam said, ‘It’s her death, not yours. Let her go in her own way’ She was unrelenting and mercilessly firm.
Freddie, confused, said, ‘You don’t understand. I just don’t want to see her suffer.’ He couldn’t stay to discuss it any further. Overwhelmed, lie left brusquely, blinking quickly to mask the well of tears.
Pam gave her number to Lucy, saying she could call her at any time, night or day, ‘given what was to come’.
2
Mr Lachaise was already at court when Lucy took her seat the next morning. So was Max, who now figured in her head by his first name, an alarming mental shift that had occurred without formal approval. Mr Lachaise offered them both a mint. Max took one; Lucy did not.
Miss Matthews, the Junior to Mr Penshaw, stood for the first time to ‘take’ a witness for the Crown. She called Doctor Pierre Vallon, an elderly French historian now resident in the United States who had previously been based at the Institut d’Histoire de Temps Présent in Paris. He was slightly stooped, with a kind, enquiring face. His hands held the witness box as if he were upon the bridge of a ship. He wore a dark, limp suit and a fat bowtie.
Doctor Vallon explained that historians were largely divided on almost every question pertaining to the Occupation. After the armistice with Germany, he said, France had been divided into two regions: the ‘Occupied Zone’ in the north, under direct German control, and the Unoccupied Zone in the south which was managed by the new French government, based at Vichy The latter operated all governmental institutions in both zones but were obviously subject to their German masters. And it was at this early point that scholarly opinion began to divide. The most sensitive issue was participation in the deportation of the Jews. Crucially (for the purposes of the trial), the key question was whether those involved knew that the Nazi project was murder on a massive scale. Doctor Vallon believed that by 1943 many Vichy officials must have known what was happening in the camps. As for someone in the Defendant’s position, an SS officer based in Paris, there could be no significant doubt: such a one would have known precisely what happened to the victims when the freight carriages reached Auschwitz. SS memoranda expressly referred to the fact that the Jews were to be exterminated.
At the conclusion of Doctor Vallon’s Evidence-in-Chief, the court rose for lunch. Cross-examination would begin at ten past two. Lucy quickly left the building and paced the streets for an hour. Then she came back to her seat beside Mr Lachaise, who again offered her a mint. Yes, please, she said.
‘Doctor Vallon,’ said Mr Bartlett as he stood up, ‘are you familiar with the expression “strong words”?’
‘Yes.’ He looked puzzled by the curious question, as did the judge, as did the jury.
‘I suggest it is false. Words are weak. Do you agree?’
‘Possibly; I don’t follow you.’
Mr Justice Pollbrook put down his pen, his baleful eyes resting on Mr Bartlett who said:
‘In the mouth of one they disclose; in the mouth of another they disguise. Words cannot resist corruption. Those who hear them can be easily deceived. Do you agree?’
‘Mr Bartlett,’ interrupted Mr Justice Pollbrook indulgently, ‘are you leading us to the pleasures of Wittgenstein?’
‘Oh no, my Lord, I very much doubt if that would assist the jury.’
‘They already look rather bemused, and I am among their number.’
‘All will become clear, my Lord, if I may continue.’
‘Please do.’
‘I’m most grateful.’
Mr Bartlett then abruptly changed subject, the previous exchanges left suspended in the memory as a tidy, distinct cameo. ‘Doctor Vallon, you told my learned friend that in June 1942 Eichmann summoned his representatives from France, Belgium and Holland to Berlin in order to plan the deportations. He wanted to begin with France, is that right?’
‘Yes. It was to be a grand sweep across Europe, from West to East.’ The academic leaned forward, a fearless, authoritative stare fixed upon his interrogator.