The Traitor's Emblem

by Juan Gomez-jurado

  My cowardice and selfishness have shaped your life, Paul. I never wanted your father’s death to affect you too. I tried to lie to you and hide the facts so that when you were older you wouldn’t go out in search of some ridiculous vengeance. Do not do that—please.

  If this is the letter that ends up in your hands, which I doubt, I want you to know that I love you very much, and all I have tried to do through my actions is to protect you. Forgive me.

  Your mother who loves you,

  Ilse Reiner

  58

  When he had finished reading his mother’s words, Paul cried for a long time.

  He shed tears for Ilse, who had suffered her entire life because of love and who, out of love, had made mistakes. He shed tears for Jürgen, who had been born into the worst possible situation. He shed tears for himself, for the boy who had cried for a father who hadn’t deserved it.

  As he fell asleep he was overcome by a strange sense of peace, a feeling he didn’t recall ever having experienced before. Whatever the outcome of the madness they were about to attempt in a few hours’ time, he had achieved his goal.

  Manfred woke him, tapping him gently on the back. Julian was a few meters away, eating a sausage sandwich.

  “It’s seven p.m.”

  “Why did you let me sleep for so long?”

  “You needed the rest. In the meantime I went shopping. I’ve brought everything you said. The towels, a steel spoon, the shovel, everything.”

  “So let’s begin.”

  Manfred made Paul take the sulfonamide to stop his wounds from becoming infected, then the two of them sent Julian to the car.

  “Can I start it?” the boy asked.

  “Don’t even think about it!” shouted Manfred.

  He and Paul then stripped the dead man of his trousers and boots and dressed him in Paul’s clothes. They tucked Paul’s documents into the jacket pocket. Then they dug a deep hole in the floor and buried him.

  “This’ll confuse them for a while, I hope. I don’t think they’ll find him for a few weeks, and by then there won’t be much of him left,” said Paul.

  Jürgen’s uniform was hanging from a nail in the stalls. Paul was more or less the same height as his brother, though Jürgen had been stockier. With the bulky bandages Paul was wearing around his arms and chest, the uniform sat reasonably well. The boots were tight, but the rest fitted.

  “That uniform fits you like a glove. The thing that’s never going to pass is this.”

  Manfred showed him Jürgen’s identity card. It was in a little leather wallet, together with his Nazi party card and an SS card. The resemblance between Jürgen and Paul had increased over the years. Both had a strong jaw, blue eyes, and similar features. Jürgen’s hair was darker, but they could solve that with the hair grease Manfred had bought. Paul could easily pass for Jürgen, except for one small detail, which Manfred was pointing to on the card. In the section about “distinguishing features” were clearly written the words “Right eye missing.”

  “A patch isn’t going to be enough, Paul. If they ask you to lift it . . .”

  “I know, Manfred. That’s why I need your help.”

  Manfred looked at him in complete amazement.

  “You’re not thinking of—”

  “I’ve got to do it.”

  “But it’s madness!”

  “Just like the rest of the plan. And this is its weakest point.”

  Finally Manfred agreed. Paul sat on the driver’s seat of the cart, towels covering his chest as though he were at the barber’s.

  “Ready?”

  “Wait,” said Manfred, who seemed terrified. “Let’s go over it again one more time to be sure there are no mistakes.”

  “I’m going to put the spoon at the edge of my right eyelid, and pull my eye out by its roots. While I’m taking it out, you have to put the antiseptics and then the gauze on me. All right?”

  Manfred nodded. He was so scared he could barely speak.

  “Ready?” he asked again.

  “Ready.”

  Ten seconds later, there was nothing but screaming.

  By eleven that night, Paul had taken almost an entire packet of aspirin, leaving himself two more. The wound had stopped bleeding, and Manfred disinfected it every fifteen minutes, putting on fresh gauze each time.

  Julian, who had come back in a few hours earlier, alarmed by the shouts, found his father holding his head in his hands and howling at the top of his lungs, while his uncle screamed hysterically for him to get out. He’d gone back and shut himself away in the Mercedes, then burst into tears.

  When everything had calmed down, Manfred went out to fetch his nephew and explain the plan. On seeing Paul, Julian asked: “Are you doing all this just for my mother?” He had reverence in his voice.

  “And for you, Julian. Because I want us to be together.”

  The boy didn’t answer, but he clung tightly to Paul’s arm, and still hadn’t let go when Paul decided it was time for them to leave. He climbed into the backseat of the car with Julian, and Manfred drove the sixteen kilometers that separated them from the camp with a tense expression on his face. It took them almost an hour to reach their destination, as Manfred barely knew how to drive and the car kept stalling.

  “When we get there, the car mustn’t stall under any circumstances, Manfred,” said Paul, concerned.

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  As they approached the city of Dachau, Paul noticed a dramatic change compared to Munich. Even in the darkness, the poverty in this city was evident. The pavement was badly maintained and dirty, the traffic signs pockmarked, the façades of the buildings old and peeling.

  “What a sad place,” said Paul.

  “Of all the places they could have taken Alys, this is definitely the worst.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Our father owned the gunpowder factory that used to be situated in this city.”

  Paul was about to tell Manfred that his own mother had worked in that munitions factory and that she’d been dismissed, but found he was too tired to start the conversation.

  “The really ironic thing is that my father sold the land to the Nazis. And they built the camp on it.”

  Finally they saw a yellow sign with black letters informing them that the camp was 1.2 miles away.

  “Stop, Manfred. Turn around slowly and go back a bit.”

  Manfred did as he was told, and they backtracked as far as a small building that looked like an empty barn, though it seemed to have been deserted for some time.

  “Julian, listen very carefully,” said Paul, holding the boy by his shoulders and forcing him to look him in the eye. “Your uncle and I are going to go into the concentration camp to try to get your mother out. But you can’t come with us. I want you to get out of the car now with my suitcase and wait in the back of this building. Hide yourself away as best as you can, don’t talk to anyone, and don’t come out unless you hear me or your uncle calling you, understand?”

  Julian nodded, his lips quivering.

  “Brave boy,” said Paul, giving him a hug.

  “And what if you don’t come back?”

  “Don’t even think about that, Julian. We will.”

  With Julian installed in his hiding place, Paul and Manfred got back in the car.

  “Why didn’t you tell him what to do if we don’t come back?” asked Manfred.

  “Because he’s an intelligent child. He’ll look in the suitcase; he’ll take the money and leave the rest. Anyway, I don’t have anyone to send him to. How does the wound look?” he said, turning on the reading light and pulling away the gauze from his eye.

  “It’s swollen, but not too badly. The lid isn’t too red. Does it hurt?”

  “Like hell.”

  Paul looked at himself in the rearview mirror. Where previously there had been an eyeball, there was now a patch of wrinkled skin. A little thread of blood trickled from the corner of his eye like a scarlet tear.

&
nbsp; “It’s got to look old, for fuck’s sake.”

  “They might not ask you to take the patch off.”

  “Thanks.”

  He took the patch from his pocket and put it on, throwing the pieces of gauze out of the window into a ditch. When he looked at himself in the mirror again, a shiver went down his spine.

  The person looking back at him was Jürgen.

  He glanced at the Nazi armband on his left arm.

  I once thought I’d rather die than wear this symbol, thought Paul. Today Paul Reiner is dead. I am now Jürgen von Schroeder.

  He got out of the passenger seat and moved into the back, trying to remember what his brother was like, his contemptuous air, his arrogant manner. The way he projected his voice as though it were an extension of himself, trying to make everyone else feel inferior.

  I can do it, said Paul to himself. We shall see . . .

  “Start her up, Manfred. We mustn’t waste any more time.”

  59

  Arbeit Macht Frei

  Those were the words written in iron letters above the gate of the camp. The words, however, were no more than bars in another form. None of the people in there would earn their freedom through work.

  When the Mercedes stopped at the entrance, a sleepy guard in a black uniform came out of a sentry box, briefly shone his flashlight into the car, and gestured for them to pass. The gates opened at once.

  “That was simple,” whispered Manfred.

  “Ever known a prison that was hard to get into? The difficult part tends to be getting out,” Paul replied.

  The gate was fully open, but the car didn’t move.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you? Don’t just stop here.”

  “I don’t know where to go, Paul,” replied Manfred, his hands clenched on the steering wheel.

  “Shit.”

  Paul opened his window and gestured to the guard to approach. He ran over to the car.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Corporal, I have a splitting headache. Please explain to my idiot driver how to get to whoever is in charge here. I’m bringing orders from Munich.”

  “At the moment the only people are in the guardhouse, sir.”

  “Well, then, go on, Corporal, tell him.”

  The guard gave instructions to Manfred, who didn’t have to fake his expression of displeasure. “You didn’t overdo things a little?” asked Manfred.

  “If you’d ever seen my brother talking to the staff . . . this would be him on one of his good days.”

  Manfred drove the car around a fenced-off area, where a strange and acrid odor seeped into the car, despite the windows being rolled up. On the other side they could see the dark outlines of countless barracks. The only movement came from a group of prisoners running near a lit streetlamp. They were dressed in striped jumpsuits with a single yellow star sewn onto the chest. Each of the men had his right foot tied to the ankle of the one behind him. When one fell, at least four or five would go down with him.

  “Move it, you dogs! You’ll keep going till you’ve done ten straight laps without stumbling!” shouted a guard waving a stick he used to beat the prisoners who fell. Those who did quickly jumped to their feet with their faces muddied and terrified.

  “My God, I can’t believe Alys is in this hell,” Paul muttered. “We’d better not fail, or we’ll end up right alongside her as guests of honor. That is, if we’re not shot to death.”

  The car stopped in front of a low white building whose floodlit door was guarded by two soldiers. Paul had his hand on the door handle when Manfred stopped him.

  “What are you doing?” he whispered. “I have to open the door for you!”

  Paul caught himself just in time. His headache and sense of disorientation had grown worse in the past few minutes, and he was struggling to get his thoughts in order. He felt a stab of fear at what he was about to do. For a moment he was tempted to tell Manfred to turn around and get away from that place as quickly as possible.

  I can’t do that to Alys. Or to Julian, or to myself. I have to go in . . . whatever happens.

  The car door was opened. Paul put one foot on the cement and stuck out his head and the two soldiers instantly stood to attention and raised their arms. Paul got out of the Mercedes and returned the salute.

  “At ease,” he said as he went through the door.

  The guard house consisted of a small office-like room with three or four neat desks, each one with a tiny Nazi flag next to the pencil holder, and a portrait of the Führer as the only decoration on the walls. Close to the door was a long table, like a counter, manned by a single, sour-faced official. He straightened up when he saw Paul come in.

  “Heil Hitler!”

  “Heil Hitler!” replied Paul, studying the room carefully. At the back there was a window overlooking what seemed to be a sort of common room. Through the glass he could see about ten soldiers playing cards amid a cloud of smoke.

  “Good evening, Herr Obersturmführer,” said the official. “What can I do for you at this time of night?”

  “I’m here on urgent business. I have to take a female prisoner back with me to Munich for . . . for interrogation.”

  “Certainly, sir. And the name?”

  “Alys Tannenbaum.”

  “Ah, the one they brought in yesterday. We don’t have many women here—no more than fifty, you know. It’s a shame she’s being taken away. She’s one of the few who’s . . . not bad,” he said with a lascivious smile.

  “You mean for a Jew?”

  The man behind the counter gulped at the threat in Paul’s voice.

  “Of course, sir, not bad for a Jew.”

  “Of course. Well, then, what are you waiting for? Fetch her!”

  “Straightaway, sir. Can I see the transfer order, sir?”

  Paul, whose arms were crossed behind his back, clenched his fists tightly. He had prepared his answer to this question. If his little speech worked, they would get Alys out, jump into the car, and leave the place, as free as the wind. If not, there would be a telephone call, possibly more than one. In less than half an hour he and Manfred would be the camp’s guests of honor.

  “Now, listen carefully, Herr . . .”

  “Faber, sir. Gustav Faber.”

  “Listen, Herr Faber. Two hours ago I was in bed with this delightful girl from Frankfurt I’d been chasing for days. Days! Suddenly the telephone rang, and you know who it was?”

  “No, sir.”

  Paul leaned over the counter and lowered his voice discreetly.

  “It was Reinhard Heydrich, the great man himself. He said to me, ‘Jürgen, my good man, bring me that Jewish girl we sent to Dachau yesterday, because it turns out we didn’t get enough out of her.’ And I said to him, ‘Can’t someone else go?’ And he said to me, ‘No, because I want you to work on her on the way. Frighten her with that special method of yours.’ So I got into my car and here I am. Anything to do a favor for a friend. But that doesn’t mean I’m not in a foul mood. So get the Jewish whore out here once and for all, so I can get back to my little friend before she’s fallen asleep.”

  “Sir, I’m sorry, but—”

  “Herr Faber, do you know who I am?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I’m Baron von Schroeder.”

  At that, the little man’s face changed.

  “Why didn’t you say so before, sir? I’m a good friend of Adolf Eichmann’s. He’s told me a lot about you”—he lowered his voice—“and I know the two of you are working on a special job for Herr Heydrich. Anyway, don’t you worry, I’ll sort this out.”

  He got up, walked over to the common room, and summoned one of the soldiers, who was clearly annoyed at having his card game interrupted. After a few moments the man disappeared through a door that was out of Paul’s sight.

  In the meantime Faber returned. He took a purple form out from under the counter and started to fill it in.

  “May I have your ID? I need to take down your SS number.”
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  Paul held out the leather wallet.

  “It’s all here. Make it quick.”

  Faber removed the identity card and looked at the photo for a few moments. Paul watched him closely. He saw a shadow of doubt cross the official’s face as he looked up at him and then back down at the photo. He had to do something. Distract him, give him the coup de grâce to remove any doubt.

  “What’s the matter, you can’t find it? Need me to cast my eye over it?”

  When the official looked at him, confused, Paul lifted the patch for a moment and gave an unpleasant laugh.

  “N-no, sir. I’m just making a note of it now.”

  He returned the leather wallet to Paul.

  “Sir, I hope you don’t mind me mentioning this, but . . . there’s blood in your socket.”

  “Oh, thank you, Herr Faber. The doctor is draining the tissue that has formed over the years. He says he can put in a glass eye. In the meantime I’m at the mercy of his instruments. Anyway . . .”

  “It’s all set, sir. Look, they’re bringing her over now.”

  A door opened behind Paul, and he heard footsteps. Paul didn’t turn to look at Alys just yet, for fear that his face would betray even the slightest emotion or, worse, that she would recognize him. It was only when she was standing next to him that he dared to give her a quick sideways glance.

  Alys, dressed in a sort of coarse gray smock, had her head bowed, her eyes on the floor. She was barefoot, and her hands were cuffed.

  Don’t think about how she is, thought Paul. Just think about how to get her out of here alive.

  “Well, if that is all . . .”

  “Yes, sir. Sign here and here, please.”

  The fake baron took the pen and was careful to make his scribble illegible. Then he took Alys by the arm and turned, dragging her along with him.

  “Just one last thing, sir?”

  Paul turned again.

  “What the hell is it now?” he shouted, exasperated.

  “I’ll have to call Herr Eichmann to authorize the prisoner’s departure, since he was the one who signed her in.”