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 Fougeres 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
