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.’
‘I’d like to read it.’
‘I burned every copy, thousands of ‘em. But I’m thinking of writing another. Now, Father, your glass please, it’s empty.’
Anselm was rapidly slipping out of his depth. These were Roddy’s waters, not his. But by tomorrow night he’d be back in Larkwood obeying the bells, so he dived in with Conroy and swam for his very life.
Anselm woke between two and three in the morning, lying on the kitchen floor with a block of English cheddar in one hand and a potato peeler in the other. Conroy was nowhere to be seen. He could remember little of their conversation except for one exchange which seemed to bring them both to sobriety. Conroy had asked what Schwermann was supposed to have done, and Anselm had told him. Conroy’s face had darkened and his features had contracted in pain. He’d played with his glass, rolling its slender stem between his thick, gentle fingers.
Very slowly he’d muttered, ‘Once you’ve heard a child cry out to heaven for help, and go unanswered, nothing’s ever the same again. Nothing. Even God changes.’
Chapter Thirteen
The first notebook of Agnes Embleton. 2nd May
Father Rochet was right about the Germans. Within months of taking control a census of Jews was ordered. At the time I was pregnant, so this would be late 1940. Madame Klein and I had moved out of her apartment to a rental property she owned in the eleventh arrondissement. ‘I do not want to be too conspicuous,’ she said. But it was a strange thing to have done. For while she became just another face among the crowd — the crowd in question was unmistakably Jewish where, with all the others, she would easily be found. It was a poorish neighbourhood but many of her friends from our musical evenings lived there. I think she wanted to be with her people when the end came, for she knew I would be safe, come what may as a ‘Christian’.
Madame Klein obeyed the census. I did not. The first round-up followed a few months later, of foreign Jews. Shortly afterwards, every Jew had to hand in their wireless to the police. She did, and I didn’t. Then there was a huge round-up in our area, lasting about a week. By the time they’d finished, all our friends from the music group had gone. Do you remember Mr Rozenwerg? I saw him with two gendarmes. He walked calmly on to the bus wearing his prayer shawl and a wonderful big fur hat. Twice they came to our door. Twice they looked at my papers, nodded and told Madame Klein, my ‘grandmother’, not to bother looking for hers. Isn’t that strange? She would not give herself up to them, but neither would she take any forged papers from Father Rochet. But that was Madame Klein. The net began to close, for the next orders were that Jews could not change their address and had to obey a curfew
They knew where you lived and you couldn’t get out. The whole rotten, stinking business was under way
Then Father Rochet called together his knights.
3rd May
My little boy was about ten months old. So that would be early 1942. It was the same group as last time. Except for Victor. Father Rochet had not spoken to him for months and someone said they’d seen him dressed as a policeman. Father Rochet nodded. Victor’s family apparently were very pleased with him.
The Round Table was ready to operate. Acting alone or in pairs, our task was to collect children from a pickup point and take them outside Paris where they would be hidden. Someone else would take over after that.
Jacques was the coordinator among ourselves. He would be the sole link with Father Rochet and would tell each person where and when to do ‘a run’, distributing any travel papers that might be needed. He was the natural choice because members of his family, based in Geneva, handled the other end of the escape route.
Father Rochet stressed that if caught, stay calm and blame him. ‘All you have to do is say I told you the parents were ill, and I’d asked you to take the children to stay with a relative. Leave the rest to me.’ I asked him wasn’t he frightened of what they might do to him? ‘No, no,’ he laughed. ‘I’ve lived among tombs all my life. I’m not scared of dying.’ Afterwards, Jacques said that worried him because there was a weak streak in Father Rochet. He
