The Traitor's Emblem (20 page)

“Well, then, don’t make me guess. Tell me what it is you want.”

“The truth is, Your Lordship, before conveying this important information, I would like to remind you that the objects whose sale I have put on hold for all this time, at great cost to my business—”

“Get on with it, Metzger.”

“—have increased in value a great deal. Your Lordship promised me an annual sum, and in return I was to inform you if Clovis Nagel redeemed any of them. And with all due respect, Your Lordship hasn’t paid this year or last.”

The baron lowered his voice.

“Don’t you dare blackmail me, Metzger. What I’ve paid you over two decades more than makes up for the junk you’ve kept in that dump of yours.”

“What can I say? Your Lordship gave his word, and Your Lordship hasn’t kept it. Well then, let us consider our agreement to be concluded. Good afternoon,” said the old man, donning his hat.

“Wait!” said the baron, raising his arm.

The pawnbroker turned, stifling a smile.

“Yes, Herr Baron?”

“I have no money, Metzger. I’m ruined.”

“You surprise me, Your Lordship!”

“I have treasury bonds, which might come to something if the government pays the dividends or restabilizes the economy. Till then they’re only worth as much as the paper they’re written on.”

The old man looked around him, his eyes narrowed.

“In that case, Your Lordship . . . I suppose I could accept as payment that little bronze and marble table you have beside your chair.”

“This is worth much more than your annual fee, Metzger.”

The old man shrugged but said nothing.

“Very well. Talk.”

“You would of course have to guarantee your payments for the years to come, Your Lordship. The embossed silver tea service on that little table would do, I imagine.”

“You’re a bastard, Metzger,” said the baron, giving him a look of undisguised hatred.

“Business is business, Herr Baron.”

Otto was silent for a few moments. He saw no other way but to give in to the old man’s blackmail.

“You win. For your sake, I hope it’s worth it,” he said at last.

“Today someone came to redeem one of the objects pawned by your friend.”

“Was it Nagel?”

“No, not unless he’s found some way of turning the clock back thirty years. It was a boy.”

“Did he give his name?”

“He was thin, with blue eyes, dark-blond hair.”

“Paul . . .”

“I’ve told you, he didn’t give his name.”

“And what was it he collected?”

“A black mahogany box containing a pistol.”

The baron leapt from his seat so quickly that it tipped backward and crashed into the low rail surrounding the fireplace.

“What did you say?” he said, grabbing the pawnbroker by the throat.

“You’re hurting me!”

“Talk, for God’s sake, or I’ll break your neck this instant.”

“A plain black mahogany box,” replied the old man in a whisper.

“The pistol! Describe it!”

“A Mauser C96 with a broom handle grip. The wood on the butt wasn’t oak, like the original model, but black mahogany, matching the case. A fine weapon.”

“How can this be?” said the baron.

Suddenly weak, he released the pawnbroker and slumped back into his seat.

Old Metzger straightened up, rubbing his neck.

“Mad. He’s gone mad,” Metzger said, making a dash for the door.

The baron didn’t notice him go. He remained seated, his head in his hands, consumed by dark thoughts.

35

Ilse was sweeping the corridor when she noticed the shadow of a visitor cast across the floor by the light of the wall lamps. She knew who it was even before raising her head, and she froze.

Holy God, how did you find us?

When she and her son had first arrived at the boardinghouse, Ilse had had to work to pay for part of the rent, since what Paul was making carrying coal wasn’t enough. Later, when Paul had transformed Ziegler’s grocery into a bank, the young man had insisted that they find better lodgings. Ilse had refused. There had been too many changes in her life, and she clung to whatever gave her security.

One of those things was the broom handle. Paul—and the owner of the boardinghouse, to whom Ilse wasn’t much help—had insisted that she stop working, but she had paid no attention. She needed to feel useful somehow. The silence into which she’d sunk after they’d been expelled from the mansion had initially been the result of anxiety, but later had become a voluntary manifestation of her love for Paul. She avoided conversation with him because she was afraid of his questions. When she spoke, it was of unimportant things, which she tried to invest with all the tenderness she could muster. The rest of the time she simply gazed at him silently, from afar, and grieved over what she had been deprived of.

Which was why her anguish was so intense when she found herself face-to-face with one of the people responsible for her loss.

“Hello, Ilse.”

She took a step back cautiously.

“What do you want, Otto?”

The baron drummed on the ground with the end of his walking stick. He wasn’t comfortable here, that much was clear, as was the fact that his visit signaled some sinister intent.

“Can we talk somewhere more private?”

“I don’t want to go anywhere with you. Say what you have to say and leave.”

The baron snorted in annoyance. Then he gestured scornfully at the moldy paper on the walls, the uneven floor, and the fading lamps that gave off more shadow than light.

“Look at you, Ilse. Sweeping the corridor in a third-class boardinghouse. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“Sweeping floors is sweeping floors, it makes no difference if it’s a mansion or a boardinghouse. And there are linoleum floors that are more respectable than marble.”

“Ilse, dear, you know that when we took you in you were in a bad way. I wouldn’t have wanted—”

“Stop right there, Otto. I know whose idea that was. But don’t think I’m going to fall for the routine that you’re only a puppet. You’re the one who’s controlled my sister from the very start, making her pay dearly for the mistake she made. And for the things you’ve done hiding behind that mistake.”

Otto took a step back, shocked at the anger that seethed from Ilse’s lips. The monocle fell from his eye and swung against the front of his overcoat like a condemned man hanging from a gibbet.

“You surprise me, Ilse. They told me you’d—”

Ilse gave a joyless laugh.

“Lost it? Gone crazy? No, Otto. I’m quite sane. I’ve chosen to remain silent all this time because I’m afraid of what my son might do if he found out the truth.”

“So stop him. Because he’s going too far.”

“So that’s why you’ve come,” she said, unable to contain her scorn. “You’re afraid the past will finally catch up with you.”

The baron took a step toward Ilse. Paul’s mother moved back against the wall as Otto brought his face up close to hers.

“Now, listen carefully, Ilse. You’re the only link there is to that night. If you don’t stop him before it’s too late, I shall have to break that link.”

“Go on, then, Otto, kill me,” said Ilse, feigning a bravery she didn’t feel. “But you should know I’ve written a letter revealing the whole affair. All of it. If anything happens to me, Paul will receive it.”

“But . . . you can’t be serious! You can’t write that down! What if it falls into the wrong hands?”

Ilse didn’t reply. All she did was stare at him. Otto tried to hold her stare, a tall, solid, well-dressed man facing down a fragile woman in ragged clothes who clung to her broom to stop herself from falling.

Finally the baron gave up.

“It doesn’t end here,” said Otto, turning and rushing out.

36

“You called for me, Father?”

Otto glanced at Jürgen with misgiving. It had been weeks since he’d last seen him, and he still found it hard to identify the uniformed figure standing in his dining room as his son. He was suddenly aware of how Jürgen’s shoulders filled the brown shirt, how the red armband with the twisted cross framed his thick biceps, how the black boots increased the young man’s stature to the point where he had to duck slightly to go under the door frame. He felt a hint of pride, but at the same time he was overwhelmed by a wave of self-pity. He couldn’t help but draw comparisons to himself: Otto was fifty-two, and he felt old and tired.

“You haven’t been home for a long time, Jürgen.”

“I’ve had important things to do.”

The baron didn’t reply. Though he did understand the Nazis’ ideals, he had never really believed in them. Like the great majority of Munich’s high society, he considered them to be a party with little promise, condemned to become extinct. If they’d come so far, it was only because they were benefiting from a social situation that was so dramatic, the underprivileged would believe any extremist prepared to make them wild promises. But at that moment he did not have time for subtleties.

“So much so that you neglect your mother? She’s been worried about you. Might we know where you’ve been sleeping?”

“In SA quarters.”

“This year you were meant to have begun your university studies, two years late!” said Otto, shaking his head. “It’s already November, and you still haven’t shown up for a single class.”

“I’m in a position of responsibility.”

Otto watched as the pieces of the image he’d preserved of this ill-mannered adolescent—who not long ago would have hurled a cup onto the floor because the tea was too sweet for him—finally disintegrated. He wondered what the best way of approaching him would be. A lot was riding on Jürgen’s doing as he was told.

He’d lain awake for several nights, tossing and turning on his mattress, before deciding to call on his son.

“A position of responsibility, you say?”

“I protect the most important man in Germany.”

“‘The most important man in Germany,’” mimicked his father. “You, the future Baron von Schroeder, hired thug to an obscure Austrian corporal with delusions of grandeur. You must be proud.”

Jürgen flinched as though he’d just been struck.

“You don’t understand . . .”

“Enough! I want you to do something important. You’re the only person I can trust to do it.”

Jürgen was confused by the change of tack. His reply died on his lips as his curiosity took over.

“What is it?”

“I’ve found your aunt and your cousin.”

Jürgen didn’t respond. He sat down next to his father and took the patch from his eye, revealing the unnatural void beneath the wrinkled skin of his eyelid. He stroked the skin slowly.

“Where?” he asked, his voice cold and distant.

“In a boardinghouse in Schwabing. But I forbid you even to think about revenge. We have something much more important to deal with. I want you to go to your aunt’s room, search it from top to bottom, and bring me any papers you find. Especially any that are handwritten. Letters, notes—anything.”

“Why?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“You can’t tell me? You bring me here, you ask for my help after you’ve denied me the chance to go after the person who did this to me—the same person who gave my sick brother a pistol so he could blow his brains out. You forbid me all this, and then you expect me to obey you without any explanation?” Jürgen was shouting now.

“You’ll do what I tell you to do, unless you want me to cut you off!”

“Go ahead, Father. I’ve never much cared for debts. There’s only one thing left of value, and you can’t take that away from me. I’ll inherit your title whether you like it or not.” Jürgen went out of the dining room, slamming the door shut behind him. He was about to go out into the street, when a voice stopped him.

“Son, wait.”

He turned. Brunhilda was coming down the stairs.

“Mother.”

She went up to him and kissed his cheek. She had to stand on tiptoe to do it. She straightened his black tie and with her fingertips she caressed the place where his right eye had once been. Jürgen drew back and pulled down the patch.

“You have to do as your father asks.”

“I . . .”

“You have to do what you’re told, Jürgen. He’ll be proud of you if you do. And so will I.”

Brunhilda kept talking for some time. Her voice was sweet and to Jürgen it conjured up images and feelings he hadn’t experienced for a long time. He had always been her favorite. She had always treated him differently, never denied him anything. He wanted to curl up in her lap, as he did when he was a child and summer seemed never-ending.

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s the eighth of November, Mother. I can’t—”

“It has to be tomorrow afternoon. Your father’s been watching the boardinghouse, and Paul’s never there at that time.”

“But I already have plans!”

“Are they more important than your own family, Jürgen?”

Brunhilda brought her hand to his face once more. This time Jürgen didn’t recoil.

“I suppose I could do it, if I’m quick.”

“Good boy. And when you’ve got the papers,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper, “bring them to me first. Don’t say a word to your father.”

37

From the corner, Alys watched Manfred alighting from the trolley. She had taken up her position close to her old house, as she had done every week for the past two years, in order to see her brother for a few moments. Never before had she so powerfully felt the need to approach him, to speak to him, to give up once and for all and return home. She wondered what her father would do if she appeared.

I can’t do it, especially like . . . like this. It would be like finally admitting he’s right. It would be like dying.

Her gaze followed Manfred, who was turning into a good-looking young man. Unruly hair stuck out from under his cap, his hands were in his pockets, and there was sheet music tucked under his arm.

I bet he’s still terrible at the piano, thought Alys with a mixture of irritation and regret.

Manfred walked along the pavement and, before reaching the gate to his house, stopped at the sweetshop. Alys smiled. She’d seen him do this the first time two years ago, when she’d discovered by chance that on Thursdays her brother came back from his piano lessons on public transport instead of in their father’s chauffeur-driven Mercedes. Half an hour later Alys had gone into the sweetshop and bribed a shop assistant to give Manfred a packet of toffees with a note inside when he came the following week. She’d hastily scribbled