The Traitor's Emblem

by Juan Gomez-jurado

  16

  The following weeks were a struggle for Paul. When he showed his face back at the stables he had to endure the forced apologies of Klaus, who had escaped a fine but still bore the remorse of having left the young man in a lurch. At least this mitigated his anger at Paul’s broken arm.

  “The middle of winter, and only me and poor Hulbert to do the unloading, with all the orders we have. It’s a tragedy.”

  Paul refrained from mentioning that they had so many orders only thanks to his scheme and the second cart. He didn’t feel like talking much, and he sank into a silence every bit as deep as Hulbert’s, freezing his backside off for long hours on the driver’s seat, his thoughts elsewhere.

  Once he tried to return to Prinzregentenplatz when he thought Herr Tannenbaum wouldn’t be there, but a servant slammed the door in his face. He slipped various notes to Alys through the letterbox, asking her to meet him in a nearby café, but she never turned up. Other times he would walk by the gate of her house, but she never appeared. A policeman did, doubtless instructed by Josef Tannenbaum; he advised Paul not to return to the neighborhood if he didn’t want to end up picking his teeth off the pavement.

  Increasingly, Paul closed in on himself, and the few times he and his mother crossed paths at the boardinghouse, they barely said a word. He ate little, hardly slept, and paid no attention to his surroundings. On one occasion the back wheel of the cart narrowly missed a trolley. As he endured the curses of the passengers—who shouted that he could have killed them all—Paul told himself he had to do something to escape the thick storm clouds of melancholy that floated around inside his head.

  It was not surprising that he didn’t notice the figure watching him one afternoon on Frauenstrasse. The stranger approached the cart slowly at first to get a closer look, trying to keep out of Paul’s line of sight. The man jotted down notes in a booklet he carried in his pocket, carefully writing the name Klaus Graf. Now that Paul had more time and a healthy arm, the sideboards of the cart were always clean and the letters visible, which went some way to dampening the coal man’s anger. Finally the observer sat down in a nearby beer hall until the carts had left. It was only then that he approached the estate they had been supplying to make some discreet inquiries.

  Jürgen was in an extremely bad mood. He had just received his marks for the first four months of the year, and they were not in the least bit encouraging.

  I’ll have to get that cretin Kurt to give me private lessons, he thought. Maybe he’ll do a couple of bits of work for me. I’ll ask him to come round to my house and use my typewriter so they won’t find out.

  It was his final year of secondary school, and a place at university was at stake, with all that it entailed. He had no particular interest in getting a degree, but he liked the idea of strutting around campus, parading his baronial title. Even if he didn’t actually have it yet.

  It’ll be full of pretty girls. I’ll be fighting them off.

  He was in his bedroom, fantasizing about university girls, when the maid—a new one hired by his mother after she’d thrown out the Reiners—called to him from outside the door.

  “Young Master Krohn is here to see you, Master Jürgen.”

  “Let him in.”

  Jürgen greeted his friend with a grunt.

  “Just the person I wanted to see. I need you to autograph my report card; if my father sees it, he’ll fly off the handle. I’ve spent the whole morning trying to fake his signature, but it doesn’t look anything like it,” he said, pointing to the floor, which was covered in scrunched-up bits of paper.

  Krohn glanced at the report lying open on the table and gave a whistle of surprise.

  “Well, we have been enjoying ourselves, haven’t we?”

  “You know Waburg hates me.”

  “From what I can tell, half of the teachers share his dislike. But let’s not worry about your performance at school right now, Jürgen, because I bring you news. You should prepare yourself for the hunt.”

  “What are you talking about? What are we hunting?”

  Krohn smiled, already enjoying the recognition he would earn from his discovery.

  “A bird that’s flown the nest, my friend. A bird with a broken wing.”

  17

  Paul had absolutely no idea something was wrong until it was too late.

  His day began as usual, with a trolley journey from the boardinghouse to Klaus Graf’s stables on the banks of the Isar. Every day when he arrived it was still dark, and he sometimes had to wake Hulbert. He and the mute had hit it off after their initial distrust, and Paul really valued those moments before dawn when they harnessed the horses to the carts and headed for the coal stores. There they’d put the cart in the loading bay, where a wide metal pipe would fill the cart in under ten minutes. An employee would take note of how many times the Graf men came in to load up each day, so the total could be settled on a weekly basis. Then Paul and Hulbert would head off toward their first appointment. Klaus would be there, waiting for them, puffing impatiently on his pipe. A simple, exhausting routine.

  That day Paul reached the stables and pushed open the door as he did every morning. It was never locked, because there was nothing inside worth stealing, apart from the harnesses. Hulbert slept only half a meter from the horses, in a room with a rickety old bed to the right of the animals’ stalls.

  “Wake up, Hulbert! There’s more snow than usual today. We’ll have to head out a little early if we want to get to Moosach in time.”

  There was no sign of his mute companion, but that was normal. It always took him a while to appear.

  Suddenly Paul heard the horses stamping nervously in their stalls and something turned over in his guts, a feeling he’d not experienced in a long time. His lungs felt leaden and there was an acidic taste in his mouth.

  Jürgen.

  He took a step toward the door but then stopped. There they were, appearing from every cranny, and he cursed himself for not having seen them earlier. From inside the cupboard where the shovels were kept, from the horses’ stalls, and from underneath the carts. There were seven of them—the same seven who’d pursued him at Jürgen’s birthday party. It seemed like an eternity ago. Their faces were broader, harder, and they no longer wore their school jackets but thick sweaters and boots. Clothes better suited to the task.

  “You won’t be sliding across the marble this time, Cousin,” said Jürgen, gesturing contemptuously at the earth floor.

  “Hulbert!” Paul cried desperately.

  “Your retarded friend is tied up in his bed. We didn’t have to gag him, of course . . .” said one of the thugs. The others seemed to find this very funny.

  Paul leapt up onto one of the carts as the boys closed in on him. One of them tried to grab his ankle, but Paul lifted his foot just in time and brought it down on the boy’s fingers. There was a crunching sound.

  “He’s broken them! The absolute son of a bitch!”

  “Shut up! Half an hour from now, this little piece of shit will wish he was in your place,” said Jürgen.

  Some of the boys went around to the back of the cart. Out of the corner of his eye Paul saw another grab hold of the driver’s seat, meaning to climb on. He sensed the glint of a penknife blade.

  He had a sudden flashback to one of the many scenarios he’d invented around the sinking of his father’s boat: his father surrounded by enemies on all sides who were attempting to board. He told himself that this cart was his boat.

  I’m not going to let them board.

  He looked around, desperately seeking something he could use as a weapon, but the only things on hand were the leftover bits of coal scattered around the cart. The pieces were so small, he’d have to throw forty or fifty before he’d cause any harm. With his broken arm, the only advantage Paul had was the height of the cart, which put him just at the right level to kick any attackers in the face.

  Another boy attempted to sneak around onto the back of the cart, but Paul sensed the trick.
The one by the driver’s seat took advantage of the momentary distraction and pulled himself up, no doubt preparing to jump onto Paul’s back. Moving quickly, Paul unscrewed the lid of his Thermos and threw the hot coffee into the face of the boy. It wasn’t boiling, as it had been an hour before when he’d prepared it on the stove in his bedroom, but it was hot enough to make the lad clasp his hands to his face, scalded. Paul charged at him and pushed him off the cart. The boy fell on his back, groaning.

  “Shit, what are we waiting for? Everyone, get him!” Jürgen called.

  Paul saw the gleam of a penknife once more. He spun around, fists in the air, wanting to show them he wasn’t afraid, but everyone in the filthy stables knew it was a lie.

  Ten hands seized the cart in ten places. Paul stamped his foot down left and right, but in seconds they were all around him. One of the thugs grabbed his left arm, and Paul, trying to get free, felt the fist of another in the face. There was a crunch and an explosion of pain as his nose was broken.

  For a moment all he saw was a pulsating red light. He kicked out, missing his cousin Jürgen by miles.

  “Hold on to him, Krohn!”

  Paul felt them grab him from behind. He tried wriggling out of their grasp but it was useless. In seconds they had pinned his arms back, leaving his face and chest at his cousin’s mercy. One of his captors held his neck in an iron grip, forcing Paul to look straight at Jürgen.

  “Not running anymore, eh?”

  Jürgen carefully put his weight on his right leg, then drew his arm back. The blow struck Paul right in the stomach. He felt the air leave his body as though it were a punctured tire.

  “Hit me all you want, Jürgen,” Paul wheezed when he managed to get his breath back. “It won’t stop you being a useless pig.”

  Another punch, this time in the face, split an eyebrow in two. His cousin shook his hand and massaged his injured knuckles.

  “You see? There are seven of you to one of me, someone’s holding me down, and you’re still coming off worse than I am,” said Paul.

  Jürgen threw himself forward and grabbed his cousin by the hair so hard that Paul thought he’d pull it out.

  “You killed Eduard, you son of a bitch.”

  “All I did was help him. Which is more than can be said for the rest of you.”

  “So, Cousin, you’re claiming some relationship to the Schroeders all of a sudden? I thought you’d renounced all that. Wasn’t that what you said to the little Jewish slut?”

  “Don’t call her that.”

  Jürgen came even closer, till Paul could feel his breath on his face. His eyes were locked on Paul’s, savoring the pain he was about to cause with his words.

  “Relax, she’s not going to be a slut for much longer. She’s going to become respectable now, a lady. The future Baroness von Schroeder.”

  Paul knew at once that it was true, not just his cousin’s usual bragging. Bitter pain rose in his stomach, producing a shapeless, desperate cry. Jürgen laughed out loud, his eyes bulging. At last he let go of Paul’s hair, and Paul’s head dropped down onto his chest.

  “Well, then, boys, let’s give him what he deserves.”

  At that moment Paul threw his head back with all his might. The boy behind him had slackened his grip after Jürgen’s blows, doubtless believing victory was theirs. The top of Paul’s skull struck the thug’s face and he let Paul go, dropping to his knees. The others hurled themselves at Paul, but they all landed in a tangle on the floor.

  Paul flailed, blindly throwing punches. In the middle of the confusion he felt something hard under his fingers and seized it. He tried to get to his feet, and had almost succeeded, when Jürgen noticed and launched himself at his cousin. Reflexively Paul shielded his face, unaware he was still holding the object he’d just picked up.

  There was a dreadful scream, then silence.

  Paul pulled himself over to the side of the cart. His cousin was on his knees, writhing on the floor. From the socket of his right eye protruded the wooden handle of the penknife. The boy had been lucky: if his friends had had the bright idea of bringing something bigger, Jürgen would be dead.

  “Get it out! Get it out!” he screamed.

  The others watched him, paralyzed. They didn’t want to be there anymore. For them, it was no longer a game.

  “It hurts! Help me, for fuck’s sake!”

  Finally one of the thugs managed to get to his feet and approached Jürgen.

  “Don’t do it,” said Paul, horrified. “Get him to a hospital and have them remove it.”

  The other boy glanced at Paul, his face expressionless. It was almost as though he weren’t there or weren’t in control of his actions. He approached Jürgen and placed his hand on the handle of the penknife. However, as he gripped it, Jürgen gave a sudden jerk in the opposite direction and the blade of the penknife gouged out much of his eyeball.

  Jürgen was suddenly silent and brought his hand to the place where the penknife had been a moment earlier.

  “I can’t see. Why can’t I see?”

  Then he fainted.

  The boy who had pulled out the penknife stood looking at him dumbly as the pinkish mass that had been the future baron’s right eye slid down the blade to the ground.

  “You’ve got to take him to a hospital!” shouted Paul.

  The rest of the gang were getting slowly to their feet, still not quite understanding what had happened to their leader. They had gone to the stable to obtain a simple, crushing victory; instead the unthinkable had happened.

  Two of them took Jürgen by the hands and feet and carried him toward the door. The others joined them. Not one of them said a word.

  Only the boy with the penknife stayed where he was, looking questioningly at Paul.

  “Go on, then, if you dare,” Paul said, praying to heaven that he wouldn’t.

  The boy opened his hand, dropped the penknife to the ground, and ran outside. Paul watched him leave; then, finally alone, he started to cry.

  18

  “I have no intention of doing that.”

  “You’re my daughter, you’ll do as I say.”

  “I’m not an object you can buy and sell.”

  “This is the greatest opportunity of your life.”

  “Of your life, you mean.”

  “You’re the one who’ll be a baroness.”

  “You don’t know him, Father. He’s a pig, a rude, arrogant . . .”

  “Your mother described me in very similar terms when we first met.”

  “Keep her out of this. She would never have . . .”

  “Wanted the best for you? Tried to secure your happiness?”

  “. . . forced her daughter to marry someone she detests. And a gentile, what’s more.”

  “Would you have preferred someone nicer? A starving pauper like your friend the coal man? He’s not Jewish, either, Alys.”

  “At least he’s not a bad person.”

  “That’s what you think.”

  “I matter to him.”

  “You matter to him to the tune of exactly three thousand marks.”

  “What?”

  “The day your friend came to visit, I left a wad of banknotes on the washbasin. Three thousand marks for his troubles, on the condition he never show up here again.”

  Alys was speechless.

  “I know, my child. I know it’s hard . . .”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I swear to you, Alys, on your mother’s grave, that your friend the coal man took the money from the sink. You know I wouldn’t joke about something like that.”

  “I . . .”

  “People will always disappoint you, Alys. Come here, give me a hug . . .”

  “Don’t touch me!”

  “You’ll get over it. And you’ll learn to love the son of Baron von Schroeder as your mother ended up loving me.”

  “I hate you!”

  “Alys! Alys, come back!”

  She left home two days later, in the dim morning
light, amid a blizzard that had already blanketed the streets in snow.

  She took with her a large suitcase filled with clothes and all the money she was able to get together. It wasn’t much, but it would be enough to keep her going for a few months until she could find a decent job. Her absurd, childish plan to return to Prescott, dreamt up at a time when it had seemed normal to travel in first-class compartments and eat her fill of lobster, was a thing of the past. Now she sensed that she was a different Alys, one who had to make her own way.

  She also took a locket that had belonged to her mother. It contained a photo of Alys and another of Manfred. Her mother had worn it around her neck until the day she died.

  Before leaving, Alys paused a moment at her brother’s door. She rested her hand on the doorknob but did not open it. She was afraid that seeing Manfred’s round, innocent face would diminish her resolve. Her willpower had already proved to be considerably weaker than she had anticipated.

  Now it’s time to change all that, she thought, going out onto the street.

  Her leather boots left dirty tracks in the snow, but the blizzard took care of that, wiping them out as it raged by.

  19

  On the day he was attacked, Paul and Hulbert showed up at their first delivery an hour late. Klaus Graf was white with rage. When he saw Paul’s battered face and heard his tale—corroborated with constant nodding from Hulbert, whom Paul had found tied to his bed, humiliation etched across his face—he sent him home.

  The next morning Paul was surprised to find Graf at the stables, a place he almost never visited before the end of the day. Still confused by recent events, he didn’t notice the strange look the coal man was giving him.

  “Hello, Herr Graf. What are you doing here?” he asked cautiously.

  “Well, I just wanted to make sure that there wouldn’t be any more problems. Can you assure me those boys won’t be coming back, Paul?”

  The young man hesitated a moment before replying.