The Traitor's Emblem (24 page)

The decisive moment.

I’ve done it, she thought.

Squeezing the camera to her chest, Alys dove into the crowd. Right now her only priority was to make it out of there and get to a darkroom. She couldn’t exactly remember the name of the man who’d fired the gun, though his face was very familiar; he was one of the many fanatical anti-Semites who shouted their opinions in the town’s taverns.

Ziegler. No . . . Hitler. That’s it—Hitler. The mad Austrian.

Alys didn’t believe this coup stood any chance at all. Who would follow a madman who had declared that he would wipe the Jews from the face of the earth? In the synagogues people were joking about idiots like Hitler. And the image she’d captured with sweat dripping down his forehead and the wild expression in his eyes would put that man in his place.

By which she meant a lunatic asylum.

Alys could barely make any headway through the sea of bodies. People had started shouting again, and some of them were fighting. One man smashed a beer glass on another’s head, and the dregs soaked Alys’s jacket. It took her almost twenty minutes to reach the other end of the hall, but there she found a wall of brownshirts armed with rifles and pistols blocking the exit. She tried to talk to them, but the storm troopers refused to let her through.

Hitler and the dignitaries he’d interrupted had disappeared through a side door. A new speaker had taken his place, and the temperature in the room continued to rise.

With a grim expression, Alys found a spot where she’d be as protected as possible and tried to think of a way to escape.

Three hours later her mood was bordering on desperation. Hitler and his acolytes had given a number of speeches, and the band in the gallery had played Deutschlandlied more than a dozen times. Alys had tried to move discreetly back into the main hall, in search of a window through which she could climb, but the storm troopers blocked her path there too. They weren’t even allowing people to go to the bathroom, which in such a crowded place, and with the waitresses still serving beer after beer, would soon be a problem. She’d already seen more than one person relieving himself against the back wall.

But wait a moment: the waitresses . . .

Struck by a sudden flash of inspiration, Alys approached a service table. She picked up an empty tray, took off her jacket, wrapped it around her camera, and held it under the tray. Then she collected a couple of empty beer glasses and headed for the kitchen.

Perhaps they won’t see. I’m wearing a white blouse and black skirt just like the waitresses. Perhaps they won’t notice I’m not wearing an apron. Just as long as they don’t notice the jacket under the tray . . .

Alys passed through the crowd, holding the tray aloft, and had to bite her tongue when a couple of patrons touched her bottom. She didn’t want to attract attention to herself. As she approached the swinging doors, she got behind another waitress and passed by the SA guards, fortunately without any of them giving her a second glance.

The kitchen was long and very large. The same tense atmosphere reigned in there, though without the tobacco smoke and flags. A couple of waiters were filling glasses with beer while the kitchen boys and cooks talked to one another by the stoves under the stern gaze of a couple of storm troopers who were again blocking the exit. Both were carrying rifles and pistols.

Shit.

Not knowing quite what to do, Alys realized she couldn’t just stand there in the middle of the kitchen. Someone would realize that she wasn’t one of the staff and throw her out. She left the glasses in the enormous metal sink and picked up a dirty rag she found nearby. She ran it under the tap, soaked it, wrung it out, and pretended to be cleaning while she tried to come up with a plan. Looking around cautiously, an idea occurred to her.

She sidled over to one of the trash cans next to the sink. It was full almost to bursting with leftovers. She placed her jacket in it, put the lid on, and picked up the can. Then she began to walk brazenly toward the door.

“You can’t go past, Fräulein,” said one of the storm troopers.

“I’ve got to take out the garbage.”

“Leave it here.”

“But the cans are full. You can’t have full garbage cans inside a kitchen: it’s against the law.”

Don’t worry about that, Fräulein, we’re the law now. Put the can back where it was.”

Alys, deciding to gamble everything on a single hand, put the can down on the floor and folded her arms.

“If you want to move it, move it yourself.”

“I’m telling you to get that thing away from here.”

The young man didn’t take his eyes off Alys. The kitchen staff had noticed the scene and were looking at him angrily. As Alys had her back to them, they couldn’t tell she wasn’t one of them.

“Come on, man, let her past,” the other storm trooper intervened. “It’s bad enough having to be stuck here in the kitchen. We’re going to have to wear these clothes all night and the smell’s going to stick to my shirt.”

The one who’d spoken first shrugged and moved aside.

“You go, then. Accompany her to the bin outside and then get back here as quickly as possible.”

Silently cursing, Alys led the way. A narrow door gave onto an even narrower alley. The only light came from a single bulb at the opposite end, closer to the street. The bin was there, surrounded by scrawny cats.

“So . . . have you been working here long, Fräulein?” said the storm trooper, in a slightly embarrassed tone.

I don’t believe it: we’re walking down an alley, I’m carrying a garbage can, he’s carrying a machine gun, and this idiot is making a pass at me.

“You might say I’m new,” replied Alys, pretending to be friendly. “And what about you: Have you been carrying out coups d’état for long?”

“No, this is my first,” the man replied seriously, failing to catch her irony.

They reached the bin.

“Right, well, you can go back now. I’ll stay and empty the can.”

“Oh, no, Fräulein. You empty the can, then I’ve got to accompany you back.”

“I wouldn’t want you to have to wait for me.”

“I’d wait for you anytime you like. You’re lovely . . .”

He went to kiss her. Alys tried to step back but she was trapped between the bin and the storm trooper.

“No, please,” said Alys.

“Come on, Fräulein . . .”

“Please, no.”

The storm trooper hesitated, remorseful.

“I’m sorry if I offended you. I just thought . . .”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s just that I’m already engaged.”

“I’m sorry. He’s a lucky man.”

“Don’t worry about it,” repeated Alys, shaken.

“Let me help you with the garbage can.”

“No!”

Alys tried to pull away the hand of the brownshirt, who, in his confusion, let go of the can. It tumbled over and rolled along the ground.

Some of the leftovers scattered in a semicircle, revealing Alys’s jacket and its precious cargo.

“What the hell is that?”

The parcel had opened slightly and the lens of the camera was clearly visible. The soldier looked at Alys, who wore a guilty expression. She didn’t need to confess.

“Damn slut! You’re a Communist spy!” said the storm trooper, feeling for his cudgel.

Before he could grab it, Alys picked up the metal lid of the garbage can and tried to hit the storm trooper on the head. Seeing the attack coming, he raised his right arm. The lid struck his wrist with a deafening noise.

“Aaargh!”

He snatched the lid with his left hand, throwing it far away. Alys tried to dodge him and run off, but the alley was too narrow. The Nazi grabbed her by the blouse and pulled hard. Alys’s body turned, and her shirt tore down one side, exposing her bra. The Nazi, who’d raised an arm to strike her, froze for a moment, torn between excitement and fury. That look filled her heart with fear.

“Alys!”

She looked toward the entrance to the alley.

Paul was there, in a dreadful state, but he was there all the same. In spite of the cold, he was wearing only a sweater. His breathing was ragged and he had a cramp from having run across the city. Half an hour earlier he’d planned to enter the Bürgerbräukeller by the back door, but he hadn’t even been able to cross the Ludwigsbrücke, as the Nazis had set up a roadblock.

So he had taken the long way around. He looked for policemen, soldiers, anyone who could answer his questions about what was going on in the beer hall, but all he found were citizens applauding those who had taken part in the coup, or booing them—from a wise distance.

Having crossed to the opposite bank via the Maximiliansbrücke, he started asking the people he met on the street. Finally someone mentioned the alley that led to the kitchen and Paul ran toward it, praying that he’d arrive before it was too late.

He was so surprised to see Alys outside, struggling with the storm trooper, that instead of launching a surprise attack he announced his arrival like an idiot. When the other man drew his gun, Paul had no choice but to hurl himself forward. His shoulder bashed the Nazi’s stomach, knocking him over.

The two of them rolled on the ground, struggling for the weapon. The other man was stronger than Paul, who was also utterly drained by the events of the previous hours. The struggle lasted less than five seconds, at the end of which the other man pushed Paul aside, got to his knees, and pointed the gun.

Alys, who had now retrieved the metal garbage can lid, stepped in, pounding the soldier furiously with it. The impacts rang out through the alley like the crash of cymbals. The Nazi’s eyes went blank, but he didn’t fall. Alys struck him again, and at last he toppled forward and fell flat on his face.

Paul got up and ran to embrace her, but she pushed him away and crouched down on the ground.

“What’s wrong with you? Are you all right?”

Alys stood up, furious. In her hands she held the remains of the camera, which was completely destroyed. During Paul’s fight with the Nazi, it had been crushed.

“Look.”

“It’s broken. Don’t worry, we’ll buy a better one.”

“You don’t understand! There were photos in there!”

“Alys, there’s no time for that now. We have to go before his friends come looking for him.”

He tried to take her by the hand, but she pulled away and ran ahead of him.

42

They didn’t look back until they were far from the Bürgerbräukeller. At last they stopped beside the Church of St. Johann Nepomuk, whose impressive spire pointed at the night sky like an accusing finger. Paul led Alys to the archway over the main entrance to take shelter from the cold.

“God, Alys, you have no idea how scared I was,” he said, kissing her on the mouth. She returned the kiss without much conviction.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s not what it looks like to me,” said Paul, annoyed.

“I said it’s nothing.”

Paul decided not to pursue the matter. When Alys was in this mood, trying to get her out of it was like trying to escape from quicksand: the more you struggled, the deeper you sank.

“Are you all right? Have they hurt you or . . . anything?”

She shook her head. It was only then that she fully registered Paul’s appearance. His shirt stained with blood, his face covered in soot, his bloodshot eyes.

“What’s happened to you, Paul?”

“My mother died,” he replied, lowering his head.

As Paul recounted the events of the night, Alys felt sorrow for him and shame at the way she’d treated him. More than once she opened her mouth to ask his forgiveness, but she had never believed in the meaning of that word. It was a disbelief fed by pride.

When he told her his mother’s last words, Alys was astonished. She couldn’t understand how the brutal, vicious Jürgen could be Paul’s brother, and yet deep down it didn’t surprise her. Paul had a dark side that flared up at certain moments, like a sudden autumn wind shaking the curtains of a cozy house.

When Paul described breaking into the pawnshop and how he’d had to hit Metzger to make him talk, Alys began to feel very afraid for him. Everything to do with this mystery seemed unbearable, and she wanted to distance him from it as quickly as possible before it consumed him completely.

Paul concluded his tale by recounting his dash to the beer hall.

“And that’s all.”

“It’s more than enough, I think.”

“What do you mean?”

“You aren’t seriously planning to keep digging around, are you? It’s obvious there’s someone out there who is prepared to do anything to keep the truth hidden.”

“That’s precisely the reason to keep digging. It proves someone’s responsible for the murder of my father . . .”

There was a brief pause.

“. . . of my parents.”

Paul didn’t cry. After what had just happened, his body was begging him to cry, his soul needed him to, and his heart was overflowing with tears. But Paul kept it all inside, forming a small shell around his heart. Perhaps some ridiculous sense of manhood wouldn’t allow him to show his feelings in front of the woman he loved. Perhaps it was this that ignited what happened moments later.

“Paul, you should give up,” said Alys, increasingly alarmed.

“I have no intention of doing that.”

“But you have no proof. No clues.”

“I have a name: Clovis Nagel. I have a place: South-West Africa.”

“South-West Africa is a very big place.”

“I’ll start at Windhoek. A white man shouldn’t be hard to spot over there.”

“South-West Africa is very big . . . and very far away,” repeated Alys, emphasizing every word.

“I have to do it. I’ll leave on the first boat.”

“So that’s it?”

“Yes, Alys. Haven’t you listened to a word I’ve said since we met? Don’t you realize how important it is for me to find out what happened nineteen years ago? And now . . . now this.”

For a moment Alys contemplated stopping him. Explaining how much she’d miss him, how much she needed him. How much she’d fallen in love with him. But pride stilled her tongue. Just as it prevented her from telling Paul the truth about her own behavior over the last few days.

“So go, then, Paul. Do whatever you have to do.”