The Sixth Lamentation

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 Fougères.’

Mr Bartlett read out the text: ‘I confirm Agnes Aubret had a child by Jacques Fougères. 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.’

A great sigh swept through the court. After its subsidence, Mr Bartlett continued, ‘I am confident this jury already knows the direction in which their conscience must take them. The case for the Defence is closed.’

Lucy turned to Mr Lachaise who, throughout the trial, had become a quiet source of steadiness, especially when reason saw no room for hope. But for the first time he slumped forward, his gentle face pale and drained of emotion.

Mr Justice Pollbrook adjourned the case, allowing time for Counsel to prepare their speeches and him his Summing-Up. By the time the judge had finished his remarks to the jury Mr Lachaise had recovered his customary self—possession. He suggested they have a coffee and a biscuit. Sitting in a small café off Newgate Street Lucy said, ‘Why isn’t he going to defend himself?’

‘It’s far too dangerous,’ said Mr Lachaise. ‘If he was cross-examined, his present position, however precarious, could only be harmed. He is on a knife-edge, illustrated by the rather good point made by Miss Matthews — he either separated a boy from his mother for no reason or he knew what was going on at Auschwitz but managed to save a single life. I hadn’t thought of that before.’ He looked exhausted again, but continued, ‘Of course, the second alternative is not a defence. If true, it’s a plea for sympathy against the enormity of what he must have done. With a jury, pity is a sticky sweet. It’s often savoured over justice.’

Lucy asked, ‘Are you a lawyer?’

‘No, but I grew up alongside a wonderful man called Bremer — the family solicitor — and he passed on to me the maxims of his craft. I have made them my own.

‘Mr Lachaise,’ said Lucy tentatively probing the inscrutable expression on his face. ‘My grandmother was a member of The Round Table, and that explains me. But can I ask, why are you here?’

His large eyes glistened behind the heavy spectacles. Lucy could only fractionally recognise the meaning of his smile: it had something to do with misfortune. Mr Lachaise said: ‘You may ask me any question under the sun, but not that one.’ His voice dwindled to a whisper: ‘I do not know the answer.

3

Lucy left the court and went straight to Chiswick Mall. She found Agnes apparently sleeping. Her arms lay by her side upon white sheets; her face was still, the mouth slightly drawn at the sides; she seemed not to breathe. Lucy watched, her heart beginning to beat hard upon her chest. She touched her grandmother’s wrist: it was cool, the skin shockingly close to the bone. Lucy spoke, as hope fled, ‘Gran …’

Agnes opened her eyes. Her face seemed to change, a minute animation suggesting pleasure. Lucy drew up a chair and sat down. Relief loosened her limbs and she wanted to sob. Holding her grandmother’s hand she said, ‘It’s almost over.

Agnes blinked deliberately. Lucy knew — she sensed it from years of knowing her grandmother — that Agnes wanted to laugh. Yes, she would have said, it is almost over. Soon I’ll be dead.

Wilma came through the door. It was the usual time for reading out loud, something Lucy had done years ago when she was much younger and they would sit together in the fading light. It was a pastime that had been resumed by Wilma and she sat down and opened a pamphlet of poems.

“‘The Burning of the Leaves”, by Laurence Binyon,’ Wilma said.

Lucy turned away, unable to watch the intimacy that had once been hers being played out with someone else. She fixed a stare upon the wall, shutting off her ears to the sound. But Wilma’s hushed voice gathered strength and pushed aside her defences:

“‘Now is the time for stripping the spirit bare,

Time for the burning of days ended and done,

Idle solace of things that have gone before:

Rootless hope and fruitless desire are there;

Let them go to the fire, with never a look behind.

The world that was ours is a world that is ours no more.

Agnes raised her right hand off the counterpane. At the signal Wilma stopped. She closed the pamphlet and left the room. The clean net curtains fluttered. Agnes gestured with her fingers for Lucy to come nearer. She did. The fingers said closer. Lucy bent down, almost touching the skin of her grandmother’s face. Agnes barely moved but Lucy received the faintest touch of a kiss.