knows who I am.
The Abbot opened the heavy front door and, as so often in the past, clasped him briefly in a farewell embrace. ‘Safe journey, Pierre.’
The Judas kiss.
Dom André watched Pierre Brossard walk off down the Avenue Henri Martin, his step brisk, his head upright. He watched him turn the corner of the street and disappear. Will I ever see him again? Will he be captured at last, brought into the light of day, cameras, reporters, lawyers, judges, editorials in Le Monde ? Or will he stay in darkness until the hour of his death?
These thoughts ran through his brain like sentences in a conversation with someone else and then, as he feared, deserted him, leaving in their place the shame of knowing he had sent Brossard away, not from principle, but in cowardice. In these last years it had not been difficult to give shelter to a man who, in his youth, had committed acts of violence, who had, in all probability, killed his enemies. Because that was wartime, the Occupation, a time forgotten by many and unknown to the young. Even he who had lived through those years now saw them as faded and dim, a half-remembered book read long ago.
But hearing Vladimir on the telephone from Salon the night before last, everything we did, our prayers for God’s mercy in this case, the letters we wrote in support of Maurice Le Moyne’s appeals, the money I took from our community fund to help support Brossard in those early years of clandestineness, what if, in helping him, we were not doing the work of Christian charity, but simply protecting someone whose ideas in the years of Occupation were close to our own? I, in particular, believed him, I knelt beside him in our chapel and prayed for his salvation. I felt the glow of righteousness, of helping a sinner find God’s grace, of acting as mentor to a man who had become a devout Catholic, a victim of that madness we lived through when the war ended and the French people, filled with hatred, sought to purge themselves of guilt by making scapegoats of a few. I had believed in the Maréchal, that fine old soldier brought down by de Gaulle, a preening egoist the Maréchal once treated as a son. I was bitter and that bitterness I now see was the truth behind my actions, perhaps behind all of our actions in the years we sheltered Brossard.
Half an hour ago, I looked out of the window, his voice at my back, familiar, devotional, sincere. And, suddenly, for the first time, I knew he was lying. God knows what dupes he’s made of us. He’s a scoundrel. I know it. He’s the father of lies. If he killed that Jew in self-defence and told me honestly that he had done it, I’d have been sick, I’d have been afraid to have him under my roof, but I would have sheltered him.
Or would I?
I don’t know. I’ve lost faith in myself. I call Brossard a scoundrel and a liar, but am I not a liar myself? Do any of us know the hidden motives behind our actions, especially those of us who pray nightly to God to forgive us our sins, yet all the time pride ourselves on being better than others, not evil, not fornicators, criminals, or men of deception in our daily lives. Easy to believe these things when God has not tested us. As today, I was tested by Brossard. Be honest. If he had told me the truth, wouldn’t I have got rid of him?
Of course I would. How can I pretend otherwise? I want nothing more to do with him. He deserves to be caught.
Dom André closed the front door of the residence and walked back down the corridor. Father Blaise came out of his office, his face greedy for news. ‘So, Father Abbot. Will our friend be back?’
‘No. I sent him away.’
Dom André walked on, going up the staircase to the privacy of his office. He rang the St Cros number.
‘Vladimir. He came here this morning. I told him what you told me. He says he’s never heard of the man. He wanted me to reassure you. But, Vladimir, I have to tell you. I did not believe him.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘I
The Abbot opened the heavy front door and, as so often in the past, clasped him briefly in a farewell embrace. ‘Safe journey, Pierre.’
The Judas kiss.
Dom André watched Pierre Brossard walk off down the Avenue Henri Martin, his step brisk, his head upright. He watched him turn the corner of the street and disappear. Will I ever see him again? Will he be captured at last, brought into the light of day, cameras, reporters, lawyers, judges, editorials in Le Monde ? Or will he stay in darkness until the hour of his death?
These thoughts ran through his brain like sentences in a conversation with someone else and then, as he feared, deserted him, leaving in their place the shame of knowing he had sent Brossard away, not from principle, but in cowardice. In these last years it had not been difficult to give shelter to a man who, in his youth, had committed acts of violence, who had, in all probability, killed his enemies. Because that was wartime, the Occupation, a time forgotten by many and unknown to the young. Even he who had lived through those years now saw them as faded and dim, a half-remembered book read long ago.
But hearing Vladimir on the telephone from Salon the night before last, everything we did, our prayers for God’s mercy in this case, the letters we wrote in support of Maurice Le Moyne’s appeals, the money I took from our community fund to help support Brossard in those early years of clandestineness, what if, in helping him, we were not doing the work of Christian charity, but simply protecting someone whose ideas in the years of Occupation were close to our own? I, in particular, believed him, I knelt beside him in our chapel and prayed for his salvation. I felt the glow of righteousness, of helping a sinner find God’s grace, of acting as mentor to a man who had become a devout Catholic, a victim of that madness we lived through when the war ended and the French people, filled with hatred, sought to purge themselves of guilt by making scapegoats of a few. I had believed in the Maréchal, that fine old soldier brought down by de Gaulle, a preening egoist the Maréchal once treated as a son. I was bitter and that bitterness I now see was the truth behind my actions, perhaps behind all of our actions in the years we sheltered Brossard.
Half an hour ago, I looked out of the window, his voice at my back, familiar, devotional, sincere. And, suddenly, for the first time, I knew he was lying. God knows what dupes he’s made of us. He’s a scoundrel. I know it. He’s the father of lies. If he killed that Jew in self-defence and told me honestly that he had done it, I’d have been sick, I’d have been afraid to have him under my roof, but I would have sheltered him.
Or would I?
I don’t know. I’ve lost faith in myself. I call Brossard a scoundrel and a liar, but am I not a liar myself? Do any of us know the hidden motives behind our actions, especially those of us who pray nightly to God to forgive us our sins, yet all the time pride ourselves on being better than others, not evil, not fornicators, criminals, or men of deception in our daily lives. Easy to believe these things when God has not tested us. As today, I was tested by Brossard. Be honest. If he had told me the truth, wouldn’t I have got rid of him?
Of course I would. How can I pretend otherwise? I want nothing more to do with him. He deserves to be caught.
Dom André closed the front door of the residence and walked back down the corridor. Father Blaise came out of his office, his face greedy for news. ‘So, Father Abbot. Will our friend be back?’
‘No. I sent him away.’
Dom André walked on, going up the staircase to the privacy of his office. He rang the St Cros number.
‘Vladimir. He came here this morning. I told him what you told me. He says he’s never heard of the man. He wanted me to reassure you. But, Vladimir, I have to tell you. I did not believe him.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘I
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