The Traitor's Emblem (31 page)

“I’ve got to try.”

They were both silent for a few moments. They could hear the sounds of things being tossed onto the floor in the boy’s room.

“Have you thought about how you’re going to tell Julian?”

“I have no idea. Little by little, I guess.”

“How so, ‘little by little,’ Alys? Will you show him a leg first and say, ‘This is your father’s leg’? And the next day an arm? Look, you’ve got to do it all at once; you’ll have to admit you’ve been lying to him all his life. No one’s saying it won’t be hard.”

“I know,” she said pensively.

Another noise thundered through the wall, louder than the previous one.

“I’m ready!” shouted Julian from the other side of the door.

“You two had best go on ahead,” said Alys. “I’ll make some sandwiches and we’ll meet in half an hour by the fountain.”

When they had left, Alys tried to put her thoughts, and the battlefield of Julian’s bedroom, into some sort of order. She gave up when she realized she was matching up different-colored socks.

She went over to the little kitchen and put some fruit, cheese, jam sandwiches, and a bottle of juice into a basket. She was trying to decide whether to take one beer or two, when she heard the doorbell.

They must have forgotten something, she thought. It’s better this way: we can all go together.

She opened the front door.

“You really are so forget—”

The last word came out as a gasp. Anyone would have reacted the same way to the sight of an SS uniform.

But there was another dimension to Alys’s alarm: she recognized the person wearing it.

“So, did you miss me, my Jewish whore?” said Jürgen with a smile.

Alys opened her eyes just in time to see Jürgen draw back his fist, ready to pummel her. She had no time to duck or dash behind the door. The punch landed squarely on her temple and she tumbled to the ground. She tried to stand up and kick Jürgen in the knee, but she couldn’t hold him off for long. He yanked her head back by the hair and snarled, “It would be so easy to kill you.”

“So do it, you son of a bitch!” Alys sobbed, struggling to free herself and leaving a chunk of her hair in his hand. Jürgen punched her in the mouth and stomach, and Alys fell to the ground, gasping for breath.

“Everything in due time, darling,” he said, unhitching her skirt.

53

When he heard the knock at his door, Paul had a half-eaten apple in one hand and a newspaper in the other. He hadn’t touched the food his landlady had brought him, as the emotion of his meeting with Alys had unsettled his stomach. He was forcing himself to chew the fruit to calm his nerves.

On hearing the sound, Paul stood up, dropped the newspaper, and took the gun from under his pillow. Holding it behind his back, he opened the door. It was his landlady again.

“Herr Reiner, there are two people here who want to see you,” she said with a concerned expression.

She stepped aside. In the middle of the corridor stood Manfred Tannenbaum, holding the hand of a frightened boy who clung to a worn soccer ball as though it were a life preserver. Paul stared at the child, and his heart somersaulted. The dark-blond hair, the pronounced features, the dimple in his chin and blue eyes . . . The way he looked at Paul, afraid but not avoiding his eyes . . .

“Is this . . . ?” he stammered, seeking confirmation he didn’t need, as his heart told him everything.

The other man nodded, and for the third time in Paul’s life everything he thought he knew imploded in an instant.

“Oh, God—what have I done?”

He quickly ushered them inside.

Manfred, wanting to be alone with Paul, told Julian, “Go and wash your face and hands—go on.”

“What happened?” asked Paul. “Where is Alys?”

“We were going on a picnic. Julian and I went ahead to wait for his mother, but she didn’t show up, so we returned home. Just as we were coming around the corner, a neighbor told us that a man in an SS uniform had taken Alys away. We didn’t dare go back, in case they were waiting for us, and I thought this was the best place for us to go.”

Trying to remain calm in front of Julian, Paul went over to the cupboard and from the bottom of a suitcase took a little gold-topped bottle. With a twist of his wrist he broke the seal and held it out to Manfred, who took a long swig and started to cough.

“Not so fast or you’ll be singing before too long . . .”

“Damn, that burns. What the hell is it?”

“It’s called Krügsle. It’s distilled by the German colonists in Windhoek. The bottle was a present from a friend. I was saving it for a special occasion.”

“Thank you,” said Manfred, handing it back. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way, but . . .”

Julian came back from the bathroom and sat on a chair.

“Are you my father?” the boy asked Paul.

Paul and Manfred were aghast.

“Why do you say that, Julian?”

Without replying to his uncle, the boy grabbed Paul’s arm, forcing him to crouch down so they were face-to-face. He ran his fingertips around his father’s features, exploring them as though merely looking were not enough. Paul closed his eyes, trying to hold back tears.

“I look like you,” said Julian at last.

“Yes, son. You do. Very much so.”

“Could I have something to eat? I’m hungry,” said the boy, pointing to the tray.

“Of course,” said Paul, suppressing the need to hug him. He didn’t dare get too close, because he understood that the boy must also be in shock.

“I need to talk to Herr Reiner alone outside. You stay here and eat,” Manfred said.

The boy folded his arms. “Don’t go anywhere. The Nazis have taken Mama away, and I want to know what you’re talking about.”

“Julian . . .”

Paul placed his hand on Manfred’s shoulder and gave him a questioning look. Manfred shrugged.

“Very well, then.”

Paul turned toward the boy and tried to force a smile. To be sitting there looking at the small version of his own face was a painful reminder of his last night in Munich, back in 1923. Of the terrible, selfish decision he had taken, leaving Alys without at least trying to understand why she had told him to leave her, leaving without putting up a fight. Now the pieces were falling into place, and Paul understood the serious mistake he had made.

I’ve lived my whole life without a father. Blaming him and those who killed him for his absence. I swore a thousand times that if I had a child I would never, never let him grow up without me.

“Julian, my name is Paul Reiner,” he said, holding out his hand.

The boy returned the handshake.

“I know. Uncle Manfred told me.”

“And did he also tell you I didn’t know I had a son?”

Julian shook his head, silent.

“Alys and I always told him his father was dead,” said Manfred, avoiding his gaze.

This was too much for Paul. He felt the pain of all those nights when he’d lain awake, imagining his father as a hero, now projected onto Julian. Fantasies built on a lie. He wondered what dreams this boy must have conjured in those moments before he fell asleep. He couldn’t bear it any longer. He ran over, lifted his son from the chair, and hugged him tight. Manfred stood up, wanting to protect Julian, but he stopped when he saw that Julian, his fists clenched and tears in his eyes, was hugging his father back.

“Where have you been?”

“Forgive me, Julian. Forgive me.”

54

When their emotions had calmed a little, Manfred told them that when Julian was old enough to ask about his father, Alys had decided to tell him he was dead. After all, no one had heard from Paul for a long time.

“I don’t know if it was the right decision. I was just a teenager at the time, but your mother did think long and hard about it.”

Julian sat listening to his explanation, his expression serious. When Manfred had finished, he turned to Paul, who tried to explain his long absence, though the story was as hard to tell as it was difficult to believe. And yet, Julian, in spite of his sadness, seemed to understand the situation and interrupted his father only to ask the occasional question.

He’s a smart lad, with nerves of steel. His world has just been turned upside down, and he’s not crying, not stamping his feet or calling for his mother the way many other children would do.

“So you spent all these years trying to find the person who hurt your father?” asked the boy.

Paul nodded. “Yes, but it was a mistake. I never should have left Alys, because I love her very much.”

“I understand. I’d look everywhere for someone who had hurt my family too,” replied Julian in a low voice that seemed strange for someone his age.

Which brought them back to Alys. Manfred told Paul what little he knew about his sister’s disappearance.

“It’s happening more and more frequently,” he said, looking at his nephew out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t want to blurt out what had happened to Josef Tannenbaum; the boy had suffered enough. “No one does anything to stop it.”

“Is there anyone we can go to?”

“Who?” said Manfred, throwing up his hands in despair. “They didn’t leave a report, or a search warrant, or a list of charges. Nothing! Just an empty space. And if we show up at the Gestapo headquarters . . . well, you can guess. We’d have to be accompanied by an army of lawyers and journalists, and I worry even that wouldn’t be enough. The whole country is in these people’s hands, and the worst thing is that nobody noticed until it was too late.”

They went on talking for a long while. Outside, dusk hung over the Munich streets like a gray blanket, and the streetlamps were starting to be turned on. Tired from so much emotion, Julian was giving his leather ball desultory kicks. He ended up putting it down and falling asleep on top of the bedspread. The ball rolled toward the feet of his uncle, who picked it up and showed it to Paul.

“Familiar?”

“No.”

“It’s the ball I hit you on the head with all those years ago.”

Paul smiled at the recollection of his trip down the stairs and the chain of events that had led him to fall in love with Alys.

“It’s thanks to this ball that Julian exists.”

“That’s what my sister said. When I was old enough to confront my father and resume contact with Alys, she asked for the ball. I had to rescue it from a storeroom, and we gave it to Julian on his fifth birthday. I think that was the last time I saw my father,” he recalled bitterly. “Paul, I—”

He was interrupted by a knocking at the door. Alarmed, Paul gestured for him to be quiet and got up to fetch the gun, which he had put away in the cupboard. It was the landlady again.

“Herr Reiner, there’s a phone call for you.”

Paul and Manfred exchanged a curious look. Nobody knew Paul was staying there but Alys.

“Did they say who they were?”

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.