‘Too many’ Conroy waved his first and little finger at a priest on a bike.
Anselm’s eyes widened involuntarily ‘I see,’ he observed, politely sympathetic but resolved now to make no further enquiry about Father Brandon Conroy’s domestic arrangements. Each took a side-glance at the other.
‘Loosen up, Father, I’m only having a laugh,’ chuckled Conroy his hands off the wheel while he scratched his shoulders. ‘Street kids. The homeless. Sao Paulo. I’ve been at it thirty-five years.
Anselm laughed. Small buttons flew off some carefully ironed garment of childhood restraint. He’d never met anyone like Conroy in his life, except perhaps Roddy: they both gave copiously from the wine of themselves. The Punto weaved its way into the narrow streets of Trastevere and Conroy, tired of rambling, turned to enquiry:
‘Anyway, what brings you to Bernini’s twisted columns?’
‘My Prior received a fax asking me to attend a meeting at four o’clock tomorrow ‘
‘Sounds serious.’
‘It is. We’ve just had a Nazi land on us claiming “sanctuary”.’
‘My arse.’
‘Funnily enough, that’s what my Prior said:
‘Really?’ asked Conroy, surprised, gesturing in response to an attack of horns.
‘Not in quite the same terms.’
‘Thought not.’
They drove on. Conroy was thoughtful. He’d slowed down his driving and the roads were somehow all the quieter for it. He said, ‘Who’s your meeting with?’
‘Cardinal Vincenzi.’
Conroy chewed his bottom lip. ‘There’s only one other higher than your man, and that’s Himself.’ The jester was no longer at the wheel. With the earnestness of experience he asked, ‘But why you?’
‘I used to be a lawyer and I speak French. Our visitor was based in Paris during the war. That’s all I can think of.’
‘Father, let me give you some advice, all right? I know this place.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Let’s just say I’ve had my little run-ins. If you’re going to get dragged into Church politics, you’re entering one of those tents at the circus packed with curved mirrors, twisting and pulling things out of shape. Be careful. Don’t go by appearances. Nothing’s what it seems here.’
The car came to an abrupt halt and they walked into San Giovanni’s, Conroy restored to his former self, shouting out for peaches, Anselm trailing behind, subdued.
2
Beniamino Cardinal Vincenzi, the Vatican’s Secretary of State, welcomed Anselm as if he were an old friend from whom he had been separated by cruel misfortune. He had a disarming warmth wholly Italian in its excess, which almost concealed his formal identity — that of a highly polished diplomat more familiar with crisis than tranquillity. He was short and round with dark olive skin, the burden of his office carried by gleaming eyes that lured condolence as he spoke. He drew Anselm to one of three elegant chairs forming an intimate triangle at the furthest end of the room. One chair was already occupied by a priest in a neat black soutane, a red sash draped across one knee. He was introduced as Monsignor Renaldi. Of paler skin than his master, he conveyed a similar warmth, its expression subdued by an air of professional competence. He had the happy sheen of a recently appointed Recorder. Anselm took his seat by a small, highly polished table with legs like a dancer on tiptoe. A green cardboard folder lay upon it. Bright sunshine flooded through graceful windows on to paintings of sober men dressed in scarlet. They watched with old, expressionless eyes, keeping their own secrets.
Cardinal Vincenzi said, ‘Father, I must give you some delicate information, the sort that is never printed. What you are about to be told you must not repeat, save to your Prior. You must appreciate that with an institution like the Church one cannot always allow the complete truth to meet the stream of public enquiry. There’s a place and a time. Occasionally that moment never arrives. It can be very difficult, keeping silent about what you know That burden of silence will now be placed upon you.
Monsignor Renaldi smiled at Anselm encouragingly, as though it were a burden that had its rewards.
The Cardinal said, ‘I have sought your help because of the arrival of Eduard Schwermann at your Priory.’
Flattered and slightly inflated, Anselm nodded with self-conscious gravity.
‘A great deal is already known about him, but we know a little bit more, something that would greatly compromise the Church if ever it were made public: He was a man of expansive gestures, but his arms lay still, as if wearied. ‘Monsignor Renaldi will explain.’
‘Let me give you the stark outline of the problem we face.’ The Monsignor spoke confidentially like a calm doctor before a specialist operation. Anselm noted the reddish tint to the cheeks, a morning inflammation caused by shaving close enough to draw blood. ‘Immediately after the fall of France, Eduard Schwermann was posted to Paris. He was only twenty-two. He served as an SS-Unterscharfuhrer in the Jewish Affairs Service of the Gestapo and his duties involved supervising the deportation of Jews to the death camps. A French policeman of roughly the same age, Victor Brionne, was assigned to the same department. They were, shall we say colleagues. So, we have two young men, a low-ranking German officer and a collaborator, both involved in grave crimes against humanity:
Monsignor Renaldi paused, widening his warm eyes slightly. ‘Let me now take you from Paris to Notre-Dame des Moineaux, a Gilbertine Priory in Burgundy It is at the centre of a smuggling operation to hide Jewish children, as a result of which its Prior, Father Morel, is shot against the monastery wall in July 1942.’
Anselm felt the burdened eyes of the Cardinal upon him. Monsignor Renaldi patiently smoothed an eyebrow with a delicate finger and continued, ‘Now we come to our problem. We don’t know what evidence has been presented to the police in England but we in Rome are certain of this: the Allied forces broke out of Normandy at the end of July 1944. The war was over. Schwermann and Brionne fled Paris together and arrived at Les Moineaux on the twentieth of August 1944. De Gaulle marched into Paris a week later. Both men lay concealed until December 1944. They left with forged identity papers. As far as we know, neither of them was seem again.
A charged, heavy silence fell. Sensing an invitation to speak, Anselm said, ‘That’s inexplicable.’
‘We have been thinking about these facts longer than you, but our conclusion is much the same,’ replied the Cardinal.
‘Are there any monks left from that time?’
Monsignor Renaldi said, ‘Only one is alive, a Father Chambray, but he returned to the world shortly after the war. We’ve already approached him, but unfortunately he was not entirely cooperative.’ Moving on rather too quickly he said, ‘We are lucky enough, however, to have a report that was written by the Prior in early 1945.’ He reached for the green folder on the table and withdrew several sheets of pale yellow paper.
‘Before you read this,’ he said, ‘I want to say something about the author. It was written by Father Pleyon, a man who quietly acquired a great reputation for wisdom and holiness. He came from a distinguished family with extensive political and diplomatic connections and would in all probability have followed the path of his forefathers into government service had the Lord not called him to the hidden life. But as you no doubt know, certain lights cannot be concealed. He became a confessor to those who carried the responsibilities he might have borne, individuals who often have no guide competent enough to understand the peculiar problems that come with worldly authority. It was this man who became Prior after the execution of Father Morel, and it was this man who presided over the escape of the two men with whom we are now concerned.’
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
