The Traitor's Emblem

by Juan Gomez-jurado

  The woman shrugged.

  “They said something about Fräulein Tannenbaum. I didn’t ask anything else.”

  “Thank you, Frau Frink. Just give me a moment, I’ll get my jacket,” said Paul, leaving the door ajar.

  “It might be a trick,” said Manfred, holding on to his arm.

  “I know.”

  Paul put the gun in his hand.

  “I don’t know how to use this,” said Manfred, frightened.

  “You have to keep it for me. If I don’t come back, look in the suitcase. There’s a false bottom under the zip where you’ll find a little money. It’s not much, but it’s all I have. Take Julian and get out of the country.”

  Paul followed the landlady down the stairs. The woman was bursting with curiosity. The mysterious tenant who had spent two weeks locked in his room was now causing a commotion, receiving strange visitors and even stranger telephone calls.

  “There it is, Herr Reiner,” she said to him, pointing toward the telephone halfway along the corridor. “Perhaps afterward you would all like to eat something in the kitchen. On the house.”

  “Thank you, Frau Frink,” said Paul, picking up the receiver. “Paul Reiner here.”

  “Good evening, Little Brother.”

  When he heard who it was Paul shivered. A voice deep inside had told him that Jürgen might have something to do with Alys’s disappearance, but he had stifled his fears. Now the clock turned back fifteen years, to the night of the party, when he had stood surrounded by Jürgen’s friends, alone and defenseless. He wanted to yell, but he had to force the words out.

  “Where is she, Jürgen?” he said, squeezing his hand into a fist.

  “I raped her, Paul. I hurt her. I hit her very hard, several times. Now she’s somewhere she’ll never escape from ever again.”

  Amid his fury and pain, Paul clung to a tiny hope: Alys was alive.

  “You still there, Little Brother?”

  “I’m going to kill you, you son of a bitch.”

  “Perhaps. The truth is, that’s the only way out for you and me, isn’t it? Our fates have both been hanging from the same thread for years, but that thread is very fine—and eventually one of us has to fall.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want us to meet.”

  It was a trap. It had to be a trap.

  “First, I want you to let Alys go.”

  “Sorry, Paul. I can’t promise you that. I want us to meet, just you and me, somewhere quiet where we can settle this once and for all, without anyone interfering.”

  “Why don’t you just send your gorillas over and be done with it?”

  “Don’t think that hasn’t occurred to me. But it would be too easy.”

  “And what’s in it for me if I go?”

  “Nothing, because I’m going to kill you. And if by any chance you’re the one left standing, Alys will die. If you die, Alys dies too. Whatever happens, she’s going to die.”

  “Then you can rot in hell, you son of a bitch.”

  “Now, now, not so fast. Listen to this: ‘My dear son: There isn’t a right way to begin this letter. The truth is, this is only one of several attempts I’ve made—’”

  “What the hell is that, Jürgen?”

  “A letter, five sheets of tracing paper. Your mother had very neat handwriting for a kitchen maid, you know that? Dreadful style, but the contents are extremely illuminating. Come and find me, and I’ll give it to you.”

  Paul banged his forehead against the black dial of the telephone in frustration. He had no option but to give in.

  “Little Brother . . . You haven’t hung up, have you?”

  “No, Jürgen. I’m still here.”

  “Well, then?”

  “You win.”

  Jürgen gave a triumphant laugh.

  “You’ll see a black Mercedes parked outside your boardinghouse. Tell the driver I sent for you. He has instructions to give you the keys and tell you where I am. Come alone, no guns.”

  “Okay. And, Jürgen . . .”

  “Yes, Little Brother?”

  “You might find I’m not so easy to kill.”

  The line went dead. Paul ran to the door, almost knocking over his landlady. The limousine was waiting outside, completely out of place in this area. A liveried chauffeur got out as he approached.

  “I’m Paul Reiner. Jürgen von Schroeder sent for me.”

  The man opened the door.

  “Go ahead, sir. The keys are in the ignition.”

  “Where am I meant to go?”

  “Herr Baron didn’t give me an actual address, sir. He said only that you should go to the place where, thanks to you, he had to start wearing an eye patch. He said you would understand.”

  THE MASTER MASON

  1934

  Where the hero triumphs when he accepts his own death

  The secret handshake of the Master Mason is the most complex of the three degrees. Commonly known as “the lion’s claw,” the thumb and little finger are used as a grip, while the other three press against the inside of the brother Mason’s wrist. Historically this was done with the body in a particular position, known as the five points of friendship—foot to foot, knee to knee, chest to chest, a hand on the other’s back and cheeks touching. This practice was abandoned in the twentieth century. The secret name of this handshake is MAHABONE, and the special way of spelling it out is by dividing it into three syllables: MA—HA—BONE.

  55

  The wheels squealed slightly as the car came to a stop. Paul studied the alley through the windshield. A light rain had started to fall. In the darkness it would barely have been possible to see, were it not for the yellow cone of light projected by a solitary streetlamp.

  After a couple of minutes Paul finally emerged from the car. It had been fourteen years since he’d set foot in that alley by the bank of the Isar. It smelled as bad as ever, of wet peat, rotting fish, and damp. At this time of night the only sound was that of his own footsteps echoing on the pavement.

  He reached the stable door. It seemed nothing had changed. The peeling dark green stains that spattered the wood were perhaps a little larger than in the days when Paul used to cross the threshold each morning. The hinges still gave the same high-pitched screech as they opened, and the door still got stuck halfway and required a shove to open it completely.

  Paul went in. A bare bulb hung from the ceiling. The stalls, the earth floor, and the coal man’s cart . . .

  . . . and on it, Jürgen, with a pistol in his hand.

  “Hello, Little Brother. Close the door and put your hands up.”

  Jürgen was wearing only the black trousers and boots of his uniform. From the waist up he was naked, apart from his eye patch.

  “We said no firearms,” Paul replied, raising his arms cautiously.

  “Lift up your shirt,” said Jürgen, gesturing with the gun while Paul obeyed his orders. “Slowly. That’s it—very good. Now turn around. Good. Looks like you’ve played by the rules, Paul. So I shall play by them too.”

  He removed the magazine from the gun and set it on the wood that separated the horses’ stalls. It must have had a bullet left in the chamber, however, and the barrel was still pointing at Paul.

  “Is this place as you remember it? I do hope so. Your friend the coal man’s business went bust five years ago, so I was able to get my hands on these stables for a pittance. I hoped you’d come back one day.”

  “Where’s Alys, Jürgen?”

  His brother licked his lips before replying.

  “Ah, the Jewish whore. Have you heard of Dachau, Brother?”

  Paul nodded slowly. People didn’t talk about the Dachau camp much, but everything they did say was bad.

  “I’m sure she’ll be very comfortable there. At least, she seemed happy enough when my friend Eichmann took her there this afternoon.”

  “You’re a disgusting swine, Jürgen.”

  “What can I say? You don’t know how to protect your women,
Brother.”

  Paul staggered as though he’d been struck. Now he understood the truth.

  “You killed her, didn’t you? You killed my mother.”

  “Fuck, it’s taken you a long time to figure that out,” Jürgen sneered.

  “I was with her before she died. She . . . she told me it wasn’t you.”

  “What do you expect? She lied to protect you with her final breath. But there are no lies in here, Paul,” said Jürgen, holding up Ilse Reiner’s letter. “You have the whole story here, from beginning to end.”

  “Are you going to give it to me?” said Paul, looking anxiously at the sheets of paper.

  “No. I’ve told you already, there’s absolutely no possibility of you winning. I’m going to kill you myself, Little Brother. But if by any chance a thunderbolt from heaven strikes me down . . . well, here it is.”

  Jürgen leaned over and impaled the letter onto a loose nail sticking out of the wall.

  “Take off your jacket and shirt, Paul.”

  Paul obeyed, throwing the pieces of clothing on the floor. His bare torso was no longer than that of a skinny adolescent. Powerful muscles bulged under his dark skin, which was crisscrossed with little scars.

  “Satisfied?”

  “Well, well . . . Looks like someone’s been taking his vitamins,” said Jürgen. “I wonder if I shouldn’t just shoot you and save myself the trouble.”

  “So do it, Jürgen. You’ve always been a coward.”

  “Don’t even think of calling me that, Little Brother.”

  “Six against one? Knives against bare hands? What would you call that, Big Brother?”

  With a gesture of rage, Jürgen hurled the gun down and picked up a hunting knife from the driver’s seat of the cart.

  “Yours is over there, Paul,” he said, gesturing toward the other end. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Paul approached the cart. Fourteen years earlier he had been the one standing up there, defending himself against a band of thugs.

  It was my boat. My father’s boat, attacked by pirates. Now the roles have changed so much, I don’t know who’s the good guy and who’s the bad guy.

  He approached the back of the cart. There he found another knife, with a red handle, identical to the one held by his brother. He took it in his right hand, pointing the blade up, just as the Herero had taught him. Jürgen’s was pointing downward, which would hinder his arm movements.

  I may be stronger now, but he’s a lot stronger than I am: I will have to tire him out, not let him push me to the ground or back me up against the sides of the cart. Use his blind right side.

  “Who’s a chicken now, Brother?” said Jürgen, beckoning to him.

  Paul rested his free hand on the side of the cart, then hoisted himself up. Now they were standing face-to-face for the first time since Jürgen had been left blind in one eye.

  “There’s no need for us to do this, Jürgen. We could—”

  His brother didn’t hear him. Raising the knife, Jürgen tried to slash at Paul’s face, missing by millimeters as Paul ducked to the right. He almost fell off the cart, and had to break his fall by grabbing on to one of the sides. He kicked out, hitting his brother’s ankle. Jürgen tottered backward, giving Paul time to straighten up.

  The two men were now facing each other, standing two steps apart. Paul put his weight on his left leg, a gesture Jürgen took to mean he was going to jab toward the other side. Trying to preempt this, Jürgen attacked on the left, just as Paul had hoped. As Jürgen’s arm surged forward, Paul ducked down and slashed upward—not with too much force but just enough to slice him with the edge of the blade. Jürgen screamed but instead of pulling back, as Paul had expected, he punched Paul twice in the side.

  They both backed off momentarily.

  “The first blood is mine. Let’s see whose is spilled last,” said Jürgen.

  Paul didn’t reply. The punches had robbed him of breath, and he didn’t want his brother to notice. He needed a few seconds to recover, but he wasn’t going to get them. Jürgen rushed toward him, his knife held at shoulder height, in a lethal version of the ridiculous Nazi salute. At the last moment he twisted to the left and traced a short straight slash across Paul’s chest. With no space to retreat, Paul had to jump off the cart, but couldn’t dodge another cut that marked him from his left nipple to his sternum.

  As his feet hit the ground he forced himself to ignore the pain and rolled under the cart to avoid an assault from Jürgen, who had already jumped down after him. He emerged on the other side and immediately tried to get back up onto the cart, but Jürgen had anticipated his move and was back up there himself. He was now running toward Paul, ready to skewer him the moment he set foot on the timbers, so Paul had to drop back.

  Jürgen made the most of the situation by using the driver’s seat to launch himself at Paul, holding the knife out in front of him. As he tried to dodge the attack, Paul tripped. He fell, and that would have been the end of him but for the fact that the cart’s shafts were in the way and his brother had to crouch down under the thick slabs of wood. Paul made the most of the opportunity by giving Jürgen a kick in the face, catching him full in the mouth.

  Paul turned and tried to wriggle away from Jürgen’s reach. Wild with rage, and with blood frothing from his lips, Jürgen managed to grab him by an ankle, but he lost his grip when his brother kicked back and struck his arm.

  Panting for breath, Paul managed to get to his feet, almost at the same time as Jürgen. Jürgen bent down, picked up a bucket of wood chips, and hurled it at Paul. The bucket hit him square in the chest.

  With a cry of triumph, Jürgen surged at Paul. Still stunned by the blow from the bucket, Paul was knocked over and the two of them tumbled to the floor. Jürgen attempted to slit Paul’s throat with the edge of his blade, but Paul used his own arms as protection. However, he knew he couldn’t last long like this. His brother was more than forty pounds heavier than he was, and besides, he was the one on top. Sooner or later Paul’s arms would give way and the steel would slit his jugular.

  “You’re done for, Little Brother,” screamed Jürgen, spattering Paul’s face with blood.

  “The hell I am.”

  Summoning all his strength, Paul brought his knee up hard against Jürgen’s side, and Jürgen toppled over. Immediately he threw himself back on top of Paul. His left hand gripped Paul by the neck, and his right tried to free itself from Paul’s grip as he tried to keep the knife away from his throat.

  Too late, he noticed that he had lost sight of the hand in which Paul was holding his own knife. He glanced down and saw the tip of Paul’s blade grazing his abdomen. He looked up again, fear etched on his face.

  “You can’t kill me. If you kill me, Alys dies.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Big Brother. If you die, Alys will live.”

  Hearing that, Jürgen desperately tried to free his right hand. He succeeded and raised his knife to plunge it into Paul’s throat, but the movement seemed to happen in slow motion, and by the time Jürgen’s arm came down, there was no strength left in it.

  Paul’s knife was buried up to the hilt in his belly.

  56

  Jürgen collapsed. Utterly exhausted, Paul lay spread out beside him, on his back. The two young men’s labored breathing mingled then faded. After a minute Paul was better; Jürgen was dead.

  With great difficulty Paul managed to get to his feet. He had several broken ribs, superficial cuts all over his body, and a much uglier one across his chest. He had to find help as soon as possible.

  He climbed over Jürgen’s body to reach his clothes. He tore his shirtsleeves and improvised some bandages to bind the wounds on his forearms. They were immediately soaked with blood, but that was the least of his worries. Fortunately his jacket was dark, which would help to hide the damage.

  Paul went out into the alley. As he opened the door, he didn’t notice a figure slipping off into the shadows to the right. Paul walked straight past, o
blivious to the presence of the person watching him, so close he could have touched him if he’d stretched out an arm.

  He reached the car. As he sat behind the wheel he felt an intense pain in his chest, as though a giant hand were crushing it.

  I hope my lung isn’t punctured.

  He started the engine, trying to forget about the pain. He didn’t have far to go. On the way, he’d noticed a cheap hotel, probably the place his brother had called from. It was little more than six hundred yards from the stables.

  The employee behind the counter paled when Paul came in.

  I can’t look too good if someone’s afraid of me in a dump like this.

  “Do you have a telephone?”

  “On that wall over there, sir.”

  The telephone was old, but it worked. The landlady of the boardinghouse answered on the sixth ring and seemed to be wide-awake in spite of the unreasonable hour. She usually stayed up late, listening to music and serials on her wireless.

  “Yes?”

  “Frau Frink, this is Herr Reiner. I’d like to speak to Herr Tannenbaum.”

  “Herr Reiner! I was very worried about you: I was wondering what you were doing out at this time. And with those people still in your room . . .”

  “I’m fine, Frau Frink. Could I—”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Herr Tannenbaum. Right away.”

  The wait seemed to go on forever. Paul turned toward the counter and noticed the receptionist studying him attentively over the top of the Völkischer Beobachter.

  Just what I need: a Nazi sympathizer.

  Paul lowered his gaze and realized that blood was still dripping from his right arm, trickling down his hands, and forming a strange pattern on the wooden floor. He raised his arm to stop the dripping and tried to wipe the stain with the soles of his shoes.

  He turned around. The receptionist hadn’t taken his eyes off him. If he spotted anything suspicious, he would most likely alert the Gestapo the moment Paul stepped out of the hotel. And then it would all be over. Paul would have no way of explaining his injuries, nor the fact that he was driving a car belonging to the baron. The body would be found in a matter of days if Paul didn’t dispose of it immediately, as some tramp would doubtless notice the stench.