The Statement (6 page)

‘Perfect summation, Colonel. You should have been a lawyer.’ Judge Livi leaned back, shook her head and laughed.

Definitely an attractive woman, he decided.

She then lifted in both hands a heavy sheaf of documents as though weighing them. ‘This is only a part of it,’ she said. ‘It would take a month to read it all. I’ve tried. What I find is forty years of legal obfuscation, court reports, trial delays, unsuccessful police investigations and repeated attempts by the Catholic clergy to obtain a pardon for this man. Why? Brossard is a former member of the
milice
, twice sentenced to death
in absentia
as a wartime collaborator, thief and murderer. Why?’

‘A pardon was obtained, wasn’t it?’ he said. ‘In 1971. Partly through the efforts of a certain monsignor.’

‘You said “partly”, Colonel. And that’s the right word. No monsignor, or even bishop, could engineer such a pardon without some help from the Elysée Palace. That’s the angle that interests me. How could they persuade the President of the Republic to sign a pardon for a thug like Brossard? And they almost got away with it. In fact, if this new charge hadn’t been laid against him we wouldn’t be able to touch him now.’

‘You’re right, Madame. That changed things. Of course, he’d have been freed in any case, when the statute of limitations for wartime crimes ran out five years ago. The question is, why didn’t he come out of hiding then?’

‘I suspect he was afraid of reprisals, perhaps from the sons and daughters of his victims. The same people who’ve launched this new charge against him, the charge of a crime against humanity for the murder of the fourteen Dombey Jews in 1944. Thank God, there’s no statute of limitations on that.’

‘Except for his age,’ Roux said. ‘He’s seventy years old.’

‘I know. If he drops dead before we find him, the big fish will never be brought to trial.’

‘Big fish? Do you mean people in the Church?’

‘No, I don’t mean the Church, although the Church is involved, of course. Tell me, Colonel, are you a Catholic?’

Roux shrugged. ‘Statistically, yes. Practically, no.’

‘Like so many of us,’ Judge Livi said. ‘Neither believing nor practising. And yet we know that, within the Church – what’s the phrase? – within my Father’s house there are many mansions. I think that’s particularly true today. Everyone knows that the main body of the French hierarchy was pro-Vichy during the Second World War. There may be things that the Church still wishes to conceal. But we also know that this wasn’t the whole truth. There were prelates and priests who actively supported the Resistance, hid Jews and protested against the deportations.’

‘True. But I believe, Madame, the media’s charge that, over the years, monsignors, bishops, even cardinals, have been involved in efforts to secure a pardon for Brossard is nothing less than the truth. The Church is heavily compromised. And they know it. That’s why Cardinal Delavigne has appointed laymen to head his investigation. By the way, I’ve been told we may have a lead there.’

‘You don’t waste any time, do you?’ Judge Livi said. ‘What sort of lead?’

‘A member of the Cardinal’s commission.’

‘That could be helpful.’

‘Yes, but it could make things difficult for us. If the Church carries out a real investigation, priests who helped Brossard in the past may turn against him. And that will drive him deeper into hiding.’

‘On the other hand, Colonel, some of them may be willing to co-operate with us?’

‘I hope so. But you mentioned, earlier . . . you said something about big fish?’

‘Don’t you know the people I’m referring to?’

Roux hesitated. Don’t make a gaffe. Let her tell me. He shook his head.

‘Three other Frenchmen were accused, like Brossard, of crimes against humanity. None have been brought to trial. One of these men, Vichy’s top representative in dealings with the Nazi occupiers and the man responsible for the first big round-up of French Jews in 1942, here in Paris at the Vélodrome d’Hiver, managed like the others to have his case delayed time after time, and is still living in Paris, in comfort, a free man. As is the second man, the former Vichy Chief of Police. It’s interesting to know that this same Vichy police chief stood for election to parliament after the war and was, moreover, a close friend of the President of the Republic.’

‘I remember thinking much the same thing,’ Roux said.

‘As for the last of the three, he is possibly the greatest criminal of all. He’s living, at liberty, in Paris, in his comfortable home, surrounded by friends and relations. He’s not, like Brossard, a convicted criminal, with a long record in police dossiers. He is a Commander of the Legion of Honour, a greatly skilled technocrat, accustomed to operate at the highest level of government. He’s a former Secretary General of the Department of the Gironde, a friend to several French presidents in the post-war years and was a minister in Giscard d’Estaing’s government in the sixties. In the Vichy years he was also responsible, time and time again, for the dispatch to Germany of Jewish death trains.’

‘Hard to believe, isn’t it?’ Roux said.

‘Not really. All three of these men had excellent lawyers. They didn’t hide themselves like Brossard. They didn’t need to. They came forward, maintaining a discreet silence as the charges of a crime against humanity were read out to them. They were then allowed to go free, pending a time when their cases would be tried. I believe that, unless we find Brossard and bring him to trial, none of these big fish will ever have to appear before the courts. But if Brossard
is
sentenced, public opinion can be mobilized to demand that they also be tried. And he must be tried! If he is, I suspect we’ll find out that over the years presidents, prime ministers, cardinals, judges and prefects of police have all been part of this conspiracy. And unless the whole truth is brought out into the open it will for ever be a stain on the conscience of our country.’

Judge Livi leaned back and sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Colonel. I know that sounds like a courtroom speech, but it’s what I believe.’

Roux looked at her and smiled. ‘I’m glad you do, Madame. I believe it too.’

‘So, we’re together on this?’

‘Of course. I’ve already started my investigation. This afternoon I leave for Caunes, in the Languedoc.’

‘Caunes?’

‘Monsignor Maurice Le Moyne is living there, in retirement. He was Brossard’s great champion. It was partly, if not largely, through his efforts that the famous pardon was procured.’

‘Le Moyne,’ Judge Livi said. ‘But why should he help you? Or do you have something else in mind?’

‘The charge of the crime against humanity has been laid by a Jewish group, under the direction of Serge Klarsfeld, the lawyer who found Klaus Barbie and brought him to trial. They are actively searching for Brossard. The Simon Wiesenthal Centre, which is, as you know, the most successful and wide-ranging Nazi-hunting group, is also intensifying its efforts to find him. These are law-abiding groups who will act in a law-abiding manner. But there seems to be another group involved. The DST, which monitors terrorist activities, has intercepted two telephone conversations which reveal that what seems to be a Jewish commando is plotting to assassinate Brossard, because they believe he will never be brought to trial. If that’s true, we’ve got to act quickly.’

‘Interesting,’ Judge Livi said. ‘Why wasn’t I told about this?’

‘The DST is a branch of the National Police. They don’t want to see the gendarmerie succeed where they’ve failed.’

‘So they didn’t inform you, either?’

‘No. But we have our sources. And if there
is
a Jewish commando trying to kill Brossard, I can use that information to convince his clerical friends that we are the least dangerous of his pursuers. Brossard himself may not be swayed by such an argument. But Monsignor Le Moyne? I think it’s worth a try.’

‘And when do you leave for Caunes?’

‘I have a flight to Montpellier at three o’clock.’

‘Then, perhaps we can have lunch together before you go?’

‘That would be a pleasure, Madame.’

4

Nowadays, Monsignor Le Moyne was obliged to wait for lifts. He had been offered one by Jean Marie Bouchard, a winegrower who had business in Carcassonne. It was a chance to see Roger Dufour, an old schoolfriend, a lawyer
en retraite
and living there. Four days in Carcassonne: it had been a pleasant change from the medieval silence of Caunes. Not that he had any desire to live again in cities. He had, he sometimes thought, two sides to his nature, each perched like an angel on his shoulders. On the left was the dark angel, ambitious, fond of the trappings of the Lyon archbishopric, the pleasant meals, the good wine, the Renault 25 at the door, the attention one received when announced as Private Secretary to the Cardinal. He had served under three cardinals, not, of course, in a truly important position. He was not a principal secretary, but a more humble functionary, one who arranged episcopal meetings and schedules, a screen for interviews, sometimes almost a valet who dealt with details of the Cardinal’s wardrobe and arranged for his medical check-ups. As Private Secretary, in Lyon and later in Rome, he had been able to use the prestige of the Cardinal’s name to further his long crusade to obtain a presidential pardon for Pierre Brossard. The crusade was, he suspected, congenial to his dark angel: not, of course, that it was ignoble work. But there was in it, perhaps, a hint of personal ambition, some hidden desire to be seen as the saviour of others and a healer in the cause of national reconciliation. He had always had a weakness for that role of saviour. Monsignor Maturin, Vicar General of the Diocese of Lyon, once said of him that he had set himself up as ‘a welcoming committee for every form of distress’. That was true in the days before he took up the cause of Pierre Brossard. It was also true that as Cardinal Villemorin said of him, he later seemed to have made Brossard’s cause ‘his principal aim in life’. Indeed, he had spent the past two decades in an endless round of correspondence with leading religious and political figures, visits to those who might help by testimonials, studies of legal documents, appeals for Christian charity and forgiveness for his protégé. He had occupied himself with these matters to a point where in forgetting the life of the spirit he had incurred the disapproval of the angel on his right shoulder, the white guardian angel of his soul.

The white angel, of course, approved of his living in Caunes. The retreat house here was like a small monastery. The Sisters of l’Enfant Jésus, who ran it as a home for retired clerics, belonged to an old-fashioned Order: the nuns wore long habits, confined themselves to work and prayers within the convent walls and obeyed the local bishop in every way. Caunes, a village which had changed little in appearance over the centuries, was a daily reminder of that true France,
La France profonde
, of values, beliefs and customs fast disappearing in this end-of-century turmoil. In Caunes, in the silence of the village church, he would kneel for hours, ignoring the pains of his joints, his eyes fixed on the altar, seeking, through prayer and meditation, to forget his efforts to save Pierre and instead to enter a state of devotion in which he, Maurice Le Moyne, had no wishes, no ambitions, save to worship Jesus Christ, Our Lord.

These last days of his life, in the broken corridors of memory, Rome and Lyon came rarely to mind. What had he accomplished in his life as a priest? In truth, nothing seemed to have succeeded. Nothing. Perhaps, over the years, he had managed to show a few sinners the light of God’s grace. There were those who had profited from his counsel, yes. But to take credit for bringing sinners back to God was in itself a sin: the sin of pride. And to be honest, that had not been the driving force of his ministry. His dream of national reconciliation, of obtaining a pardon for his protégé which would serve as an example of how we French must forgive and forget the errors of our country’s past, had, in the long run, failed, failed completely. And yet he had been skilful, resourceful and tenacious. Not for nothing was he the son of a former President of the Marseille bar. He had himself studied law before entering the priesthood and those legal skills had served him well in his crusade. How much of his life had he wasted, yes, wasted, on that crusade? Imagine: to have achieved success on the highest level, a pardon signed by the President of the Republic himself, and now to see it, years later, in essence revoked. The enemies of national forgiveness had once again triumphed. Poor Pierre was now hounded more than at any time in the past. The Jews want my hide, Pierre always said. And alas, he’s right. Not that I can say that today. We must forgive our enemies, especially the Jews. Now, I am ashamed of the things I said against them long ago. Impossible to criticize, after seeing what I know to be the truth: the films of the mass graves, the naked, emaciated bodies, the Nazi soldiers with their guns. The numbers of dead are exaggerated, no doubt, but what matter? Sin is sin in any number.

Bouchard, the winegrower, had picked him up on the outskirts of Carcassonne shortly after 2 p.m. Bouchard, a widower with two teenaged sons, one of whom had been in trouble with the police over possession of drugs, was grateful for help Monsignor Le Moyne had given as a character witness when the boy’s case came up before the magistrates. Now, as he had many times before, Bouchard returned obsessively to the subject of the immigrant population. He blamed the Muslim element in his son’s school for the boy’s involvement with drugs. ‘Le Pen is right,’ he said. ‘Send them back where they came from. What do you think, Father? Wouldn’t you vote for Le Pen, if you were me?’