‘Charity work,’ she said, pointing towards a pile of leaflets, ‘until they said it was better if I didn’t help any more. I’ve become an embarrassment. ‘
The three of them sat as a triangle, reminding Anselm of a parish visit after a death but before the funeral. He explained, as sensitively as he could, the issues faced by the court, concluding with the revelation that Max had been entrusted with a folder of crucially important documents. Mrs Nightingale looked at her son, astounded, becoming angry.
‘Why didn’t you say anything, to me at least?’
Max said, ‘He made it sound as though the truth could only come out if no one knew anything about his secret.’
‘Listen to yourself, that’s utter nonsense.
‘I know’
‘Then why the hell did you… Oh Max.’ She looked aside, away from her son, with a look of total understanding.
‘Mrs Nightingale,’ said Anselm. ‘These papers demonstrate that your father prepared himself for this trial as soon as the war came to a close. He kept a record of one man’s betrayal, a disclosure that was made to him. That man gave evidence yesterday in your father’s defence. He must have done so under duress, to save himself. Nothing he said can be relied upon.
Mrs Nightingale stared at the carpet, her eyes brightening with resentment.
‘There are other records,’ said Anselm reluctantly She looked up. ‘They list the names of adults and children sent to Auschwitz.’
‘No,’ she said, shortly ‘No.’ She used the word as if it were a racket, knocking back what she had heard, a slam past her opponent.
‘It’s true, Mum, I’ve seen them,’ said Max.
‘Shut up, you,’ she snapped. ‘Let me see.’ She threw out her hand aggressively towards Anselm.
Anselm withdrew the three sheets of paper and handed them to Mrs Nightingale. She looked over each of them erratically scanning up and down, flipping from one to the other, incapable of measured scrutiny her face becoming moist. ‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked, for the first time transparently unprotected, her anger subsiding into dread.
‘Absolutely nothing,’ replied Anselm reassuringly ‘The police will handle everything.’
‘The police?’ she said with the specific, tragic astonishment that is the last defence of those who cannot face the obvious. She sat rigid on the edge of her seat. ‘Have you any idea what this has meant for my family, for Max, for me?’ Her voice rose eerily. ‘How do you know what these mean anyway?’ She flapped the papers in the air, like rags. ‘Who the hell are you to tell me what has to be done? We’re the ones who have to live afterwards, not you…’ Standing up, she raised the flimsy sheets before her eyes, crumpling their edges in her grip. She shook the papers back and forth, as if they were the smooth, indifferent lapels of circumstance; she let her despair loose into her hands, a groan breaking out of her mouth.
Anselm, scared by the unravelling emotion, sprang forward to retrieve the documents, now slightly torn. In an instant he saw the dainty bracelet and rings: old gifts, keepsakes of a lifetime, intimating the vast expanse of all she held dear, brought down in public ruin without warning, without having done anything to deserve the advent of shame. She stepped back, pulling her arms apart. In the tearing that followed they all stood still, each suddenly horrified. She walked hastily out of the room. Anselm looked at the few remaining shreds on the floor, hearing the swift striking of a match in another room.
Mrs Nightingale walked back into the room with the unsettling equanimity that might come after a righteous killing.
‘I’m terribly sorry.’ Her voice was light and fresh, as if from another woman. She sat down, smoothed her skirt and wept.
Anselm let himself out. As he walked away from the cottage he turned and saw the mother held in the arms of her son.
Anselm drove quickly back to Larkwood. He would have to see Father Andrew urgently, given what he had learned from the documents, and what had just happened to them in the hands of someone who could not face what they contained. Sylvester reminded him the Prior was away for two days at a conference, but he’d mislaid the contact number. Anselm left him thumbing scraps of notepaper and sought out Gerald, the sub-Prior. Father Andrew was tracked down and he arranged to return to Larkwood the next night.
Anselm went to his room and tried to be still, knowing the trial was moving towards an ending but that he alone possessed all the keys to its resolution.
2
The court reconvened on Friday afternoon. Lucy greeted Mr Lachaise, who again seemed deeply tired. Both of them commented on the absence of Max. The light conversation was a foil to manage the strain of waiting. For that afternoon, without doubt, Schwermann would give evidence. Lucy felt like one of those Spartan warriors on the eve of Thermopylae, ambling up and down, naked, waiting for the onslaught to begin. According to Thucydides they intimidated their enemy by leisurely combing their long hair. She had done the same thing that morning. She would watch Schwermann’s performance looking her best. He would not leave her beaten and dishevelled.
When all the main players were in position, the jury were summoned. Mr Bartlett bade them good afternoon and said, ‘My Lord, the following is a statement that has been agreed by the Crown. It has been furnished this morning by the legal representatives of Etienne Fougeres.’
Mr Bartlett read out the text: ‘I confirm Agnes Aubret had a child by Jacques Fougeres. As far as we know, both Aubret and the child met their deaths in Auschwitz. My family are ignorant of the conduct ascribed by Victor Brionne to Eduard Schwermann.’
‘A model of brevity, if I may say so,’ said Mr Justice Pollbrook with approval.
‘Indeed it is.’
‘Mr Bartlett, have you checked the deportation records?’
‘I have.’
‘Is there any reference to Agnes Aubret?’
‘Yes. For your Lordship’s note, she was deported on the twenty-fourth of August 1942. The text can be found in File Q, page one hundred and seventy-nine.’
‘I’d like to see the original, please.’
The master file was retrieved by Mr Penshaw, who opened it at the relevant place. It was handed to an usher who gave it to Mr Justice Pollbrook. He leafed through pages on either side and then said, ‘The actual text to which I have been referred is a carbon copy. What happened to the original?’
‘No one knows, my Lord,’ said Mr Bartlett with polished regret. ‘Perhaps it was damaged in an accident.’
Mr Justice Pollbrook studied the file again. He said, ‘All the names of the victims have been ticked off, to confirm they were accounted for, but there is a blank space at the bottom where the supervising officer’s signature should be found. Why is that?’
‘My Lord, I have no idea. What you have before you is the original file retrieved after the war. There is nothing else. The relevant text remains a contemporaneous document.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Mr Justice Pollbrook uneasily. Abruptly suspiciously, he said, ‘Did you look for the child as well?’
‘I did. There is no mention of him whatsoever.’ Quietly his eye on the jury, Mr Bartlett added, ‘It seems, my Lord, that the records confirm everything Victor Brionne recounted to the court. Aubret was deported. The child was not. ‘
The judge blinked slowly and, with an expression of profound disdain, said, ‘I thought you might say that.’
Mr Bartlett bowed slightly with his head. He then said, ‘My Lord, having had the benefit of a conference with my client this morning, and in the light of the document I have just read out, I do not propose to call Mr Schwermann to give any evidence in his own defence.’
