‘Yes.’
‘You are French by birth?’
‘Yes.’
‘You joined the Paris Prefecture of Police in June 1941, at the age of twenty-three?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘You were, however, not an ordinary policeman, in the sense that you were based at the offices of the Gestapo.’
‘That’s right.’
‘I shall spare the jury an argument as to your status. Your place of work made you a collaborator?’
There was no reply Brionne’s lower jaw was gently shaking.
‘I asked if you were a collaborator. Please answer.
Very quietly, Brionne replied, ‘Yes.’
‘Louder, please.’
‘Yes. I was a collaborator.’ The words seemed to burn his mouth.
‘Please tell the ladies and gentlemen of the jury how you came to work with Mr Schwermann. ‘
‘I spoke good German. I was transferred to an SS department within weeks because they required a translator.’
‘And was that the extent of your “collaboration”?’ queried Mr Bartlett, slightly stressing the last word.
‘It was enough.’
‘Mr Brionne, I am now going to ask you some questions about an organisation known as The Round Table. We understand Mr Schwermann was credited with uncovering the smuggling operation. Did he ever tell you how he did it?’
‘Not exactly, no,’ Brionne wavered. ‘All he said was that a member of the group had told him everything.’
‘Did he say who this person was?’
‘No.’
‘Did you enquire?’
‘I didn’t, no.
Mr Bartlett’s voice was growing imperceptibly louder, imposing a sort of moral force on to his questions. ‘Having discovered, or perhaps I should say, having been presented with this information, what did Mr Schwermann do?’
‘He made a report to his superior officer.’
‘And the inevitable arrests followed?’
‘Yes, they did.’
‘Do you recollect the morning of the day the arrests took place?’
‘I do.’
‘Were you alone?’
‘No. I was with Mr Schwermann.’ ‘Please describe his demeanour.’
‘He was anxious, smoking cigarette after cigarette. ‘
Mr Bartlett contrived mild surprise. ‘Let us be absolutely clear. Is this the day The Round Table was shattered?’
‘It was.’
‘A day for which he would later receive the praise of Eichmann?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘It should have been a time of excited apprehension for him, should it not?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.
‘Have you any idea, then, as to why he was so anxious?’
‘No.’
‘Let’s see if we can find an answer. You knew Jacques Fougeres?’ The barrister was speaking quietly now.
‘We were the best of friends. The best…’ He’d become a mourner in a dream.
‘Mr Brionne, did Jacques Fougeres have a child?’ Lucy sat forward.
‘Yes.’
‘A boy or a girl?’ ‘A little boy.’
‘Did you know the mother?’
‘Yes. Agues Aubret.’
‘By reference to the racial regulations implemented by the Nazis, to which ethnic group did she belong?’
‘She was Jewish.’
‘And the boy?’
‘The same. He was Jewish.’
‘Even though the father was a French Catholic?’
‘Yes.’
‘As far as Mr Schwermann’s superior officers were concerned, the boy, if found, would unquestionably have been deported?’
‘Yes, unless she had forged papers to conceal her Jewishness.’ ‘Where is Agnes Aubret now?’ asked Mr Bartlett quietly ‘She perished. Auschwitz.’
Brionne was unable to continue. His face shuddered repeatedly with such violence that the judge suggested he might like to sit down, but Mr Bartlett pressed on urgently:
‘And the boy, the boy; what happened to the boy?’
‘He was saved,’ mumbled Brionne, turning quickly to the dock. ‘Mr Schwermann took the child, before the arrests were carried out, and hid him with a good family.’
Mr Bartlett followed through quickly and quietly, prompting fluid, hushed replies.
‘How do you know this?’
‘I saw it with my own eyes.
‘How often did the opportunity to act in this way arise?’
‘Just this once.
‘He seized it?’
‘He did.’
Lucy could not bear it any more. She sidled hurriedly out of her row towards the court doors as Mr Bartlett sat down and picked up his highlighter.