Epilogue
‘I saw the Sibyl at Cumae’
(One said) ‘with mine own eye.
She hung in a cage, and read her rune
To all the passers-by
Said the boys, “What wouldst thou, Sibyl?”
She answered, “I would die.”’
The second notebook of Agnes Embleton.
Written out by Miss Wilma Harbottle.
Dear Jacques
‘Night and day I have lived among the tombs, cutting myself on stones.’
Do you remember that? Father Rochet said it, laughing, and he added, ‘No, I’m not afraid of dying.’
It was the day we were all called together to set The Round Table in motion. Father Rochet said if anyone was caught they were to blame him. I was worried on his account, about what they might do, and he just laughed. And afterwards you said he was the sort of chap who would cave in under pressure. Do you remember?
Now that I’m dying, I can see lots of things far more clearly than I ever did before. When all the faces of my youth started coming back, I looked far yours. You didn’t come. That’s what first set me thinking. And something tells me you’re still alive.
I have spent over half my life revisiting July 1942, always believing you and I, and our oldest friends, were betrayed by Victor. But, as I’ve said, I started seeing things differently. It wasn’t Father Rochet who caved in, was it? It was you.
Did it happen when you were picked up for wearing that Star of David? I never sensed the link before, between your arrest that June and the breaking of The Table in July. But as this note is being written, they’re preparing to put Schwermann on trial. Everything I hear moves from your arrest to the betrayal a month later as if they were unconnected, yet it’s obvious to me now that they were. I’ve looked back again. As usual, you organised the run. All the others were picked up in the afternoon, except for you. When I got out of Ravensbruck I was told you stayed at home after your family had gone. Why? Not for me. I was already in La Sante prison. Did you hang around so the Germans could find you easily? I don’t think so. No, something went badly wrong on that terrible day and it has something to do with that last run. So, Jacques, if anyone waited patiently for the knock upon the door that night it wasn’t you. Surely it wasn’t Franz… Mr Snyman?
You had a hand in my dying, and our little Robert’s. You didn’t mean to, or want to. And if you have lived, as I believe you have, it has been no life. If 1 could see you again I’d kiss you and tell you what you must desperately want to hear. Instead, I raise these old hands of mine: may God protect you, always; and forgive you, as I do now.
Agnes
