The Traitor's Emblem

by Juan Gomez-jurado

  It was just after she’d arrived back from the factory one day, her hair and fingers green with dust, her eyes dazed after a whole day of inhaling chemicals, that Paul asked his mother for the first time why they didn’t find somewhere else to live. A place where they weren’t both being constantly humiliated.

  “You don’t understand, Paul.”

  She had given him the same response many times, always looking away or leaving the room or rolling over to sleep, just as she had done a few minutes ago.

  Paul watched his mother’s back for a few moments. She seemed to be breathing deeply and regularly, but the boy knew that she was only pretending to be asleep and wondered what ghosts would assail her in the middle of the night.

  He looked away and fixed his gaze on the ceiling. If his eyes could have bored through the plaster, the square of ceiling immediately above Paul’s pillow would have caved in long ago. That was where he focused all his fantasies about his father on the nights when he had trouble reconciling himself to sleep. All Paul knew was that he’d been a captain in the Kaiser’s fleet and that he’d commanded a frigate in South-West Africa. He had died when Paul was two years old, and the only thing he had left of him was a faded photo of his father in uniform, with a large moustache, his dark eyes looking straight at the camera, proud.

  Ilse tucked the photo under her pillow every night and the greatest anguish Paul had caused his mother wasn’t the day Jürgen pushed him down the stairs and broke his hand; it was the day he stole the photo, took it to school, and showed it to everyone who had called him an orphan behind his back. By the time he returned home, Ilse had turned the room upside down looking for it. When he took it out tentatively from between the pages of his math book, Ilse gave him a slap and then began to cry.

  “It’s the only one I have. The only one.”

  She hugged him, of course. But she grabbed the photograph back first.

  Paul had tried to imagine what this impressive man must have been like. Under the grubby whiteness of the ceiling, by the light of the streetlamp, his mind’s eye conjured the outline of the Kiel, the frigate in which Hans Reiner had “sunk in the Atlantic along with all his crew.” He invented hundreds of possible scenarios to explain those nine words, the only information about his death that Ilse had given her son. Pirates, reefs, a mutiny . . . However it began, Paul’s fantasy always ended the same way, with Hans clinging to the rudder, waving good-bye as the waters closed over his head.

  When he reached this point, Paul always fell asleep.

  4

  “Honestly, Otto, I can’t bear the Jew a moment longer. Just look at him, stuffing himself with Dampfnudeln. He’s got custard down the front of his shirt.”

  “Please, Brunhilda, keep your voice down, and try to stay calm. You know as well as I do how much we need Tannenbaum. We’ve spend our last pfennig on this party. Which was your idea, by the way . . .”

  “Jürgen deserves the best. You know how confused he’s been since his brother came back . . .”

  “Then don’t complain about the Jew.”

  “You have no idea what it’s like playing hostess to him, with his endless chatter, those ridiculous compliments, as if he doesn’t know he’s the one holding all the cards. A while ago he even had the cheek to suggest that his daughter and Jürgen should marry,” said Brunhilda, expecting a contemptuous response from Otto.

  “It might put an end to all our problems.”

  The tiniest crack opened in Brunhilda’s granite smile as she looked at the baron in shock.

  They were standing at the entrance to the hall, their tense conversation muttered between clenched teeth, and interrupted only when they paused to receive guests. Brunhilda was about to respond but was forced instead to paint a grimace of welcome on her face once more:

  “Good evening, Frau Gerngross, Frau Sagebiel! How good of you to come.”

  “Sorry we’re late, Brunhilda, dear.”

  “The bridges, oh, the bridges.”

  “Yes, the traffic is just dreadful. Really, atrocious.”

  “When are you going to give up this cold old mansion and come over to the east bank, my dear?”

  The baroness smiled with pleasure at their darts of envy. Any one of the many nouveaux riches at the party would have killed for the class and power that exuded from her husband’s coat of arms.

  “Do please help yourselves to a glass of punch. It’s delicious,” said Brunhilda, gesturing toward the center of the room, where an enormous table surrounded by people was overflowing with food and drink. An ice horse, a meter high, was poised over the punch bowl, and at the back of the room a string quartet added Bavarian popular songs to the general hubbub.

  When she was sure that the new arrivals were out of earshot, the countess turned toward Otto and said in a steely tone that very few ladies of Munich’s high society would have deemed acceptable:

  “You’ve done a deal on our daughter’s wedding without even telling me, Otto? Over my dead body.”

  The baron didn’t blink. A quarter of a century of marriage had taught him how his wife would react when she felt undermined. But on this occasion she would have to yield, because there was much more at stake than her foolish pride.

  “Brunhilda, dear, don’t tell me you didn’t see this Jew coming from the very beginning. With his supposedly elegant suits, going to the same church as us every Sunday, pretending that he doesn’t hear every time he’s called ‘the convert,’ sidling up toward our seats . . .”

  “Of course I’ve noticed. I’m not stupid.”

  “Of course you aren’t, Baroness. You’re perfectly capable of putting two and two together. And we don’t have a penny to our name. The bank accounts are completely empty.”

  The color drained from Brunhilda’s cheeks. She had to reach out to the alabaster wall moldings to stop herself falling.

  “Damn you, Otto.”

  “That red dress you’re wearing . . . The dressmaker insisted on being paid for it in cash. The word is out, and when rumors start, there’s no stopping them until you find yourself in the gutter.”

  “You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t noticed the way they look at us, the way they take little nibbles from their cakes and smirk at each other when they realize they aren’t from Casa Popp? I can hear what those old ladies are muttering about as clearly as if they were shouting in my ear, Otto. But to go from that to allowing my son, my Jürgen, to marry a dirty Jew . . .”

  “There’s no other solution. All we have left is the house and our land, which I put in Eduard’s name the day he was born. If I can’t get Tannenbaum to lend me the capital to set up a factory on that land, we might as well give up. One morning the police will come for me, and then I’ll have to act like a good Christian gentleman and blow my brains out. And you’ll end up like your sister, doing someone else’s sewing. Is that what you want?”

  Brunhilda removed her hand from the wall. She took advantage of the pause necessitated by the arrival of new guests to gather her rage and then hurl it at Otto like a stone.

  “You and your gambling are what got us into this mess, what devastated the family fortune. Sort it out, Otto, the same way you sorted things out with Hans fourteen years ago.”

  The baron took a step back, shocked.

  “Don’t you dare mention that name again!”

  “You were the one who dared to do something back then. And what good did it do us? I’ve had to put up with my sister living in this house for fourteen years.”

  “I still haven’t found the letter. And the boy’s growing up. Perhaps now . . .”

  Brunhilda leaned in toward him. Otto was almost a head taller, but he still looked small standing next to his wife.

  “There’s a limit to my patience.”

  With an elegant wave, Brunhilda dived into the throng of guests, leaving the baron with a smile frozen on his face, struggling not to scream.

  * * *

  On the other side of the room, Jürgen von Sc
hroeder set aside his third glass of champagne to open the present one of his friends was holding out to him.

  “I didn’t want to put it with the others,” the boy said, pointing behind him to a table stacked with brightly colored packages. “This one’s special.”

  “What do you say, lads? Shall I open Krohn’s present first?”

  Half a dozen adolescents huddled around him, all of them dressed in the stylish blue blazers that bore the crest of Metzingen Academy. They all came from good German families, and were all uglier than Jürgen and shorter than Jürgen and laughed at every single joke Jürgen made. The baron’s young son had a gift for surrounding himself with people who wouldn’t overshadow him, and in front of whom he could show off.

  “Open it, but only if you then open mine too!”

  “And mine!” chorused the others.

  They’re fighting for me to open their presents, thought Jürgen. They worship me.

  “Now, don’t worry,” he said, raising his hands in what he thought was a gesture of impartiality. “We’ll depart from tradition and I’ll open your presents first, then those from the rest of the guests after the toasts.”

  “Excellent idea, Jürgen!”

  “Well, then, whatever could this be, Krohn?” he continued, opening the small box and lifting its contents to eye level.

  In his fingers Jürgen held a gold chain with a strange cross, the bent arms of which formed a pattern that was almost a square. He stared at it, mesmerized.

  “It’s a swastika. An anti-Semitic symbol. My father says they’re in fashion.”

  “You’re mistaken, my friend,” said Jürgen, putting it around his neck. “Now they are. Here’s hoping we’ll be seeing a lot of these.”

  “Definitely!”

  “Here, Jürgen, open mine. Though best not show this one off in public . . .”

  Jürgen unwrapped a parcel about the size of a packet of tobacco, and found himself looking at a small leather box. He opened it with a flourish. His chorus of admirers laughed nervously when they saw what was inside: a sort of cylindrical hood of vulcanized rubber.

  “Hey, hey . . . that looks big!”

  “I’ve never seen one before!”

  “A present of the most personal kind, eh, Jürgen?”

  “Is that some kind of proposal?”

  For a few moments Jürgen felt he was losing control over them, that they had suddenly begun to laugh at him. It’s not fair. It’s not fair at all, and I won’t allow it. He felt the rage growing inside him, and turned to the one who’d made the last comment. He put the sole of his right foot on top of the other’s left and leaned his full weight on it. His victim turned white but gritted his teeth.

  “I’m sure you’d like to apologize for that unfortunate joke?”

  “Of course, Jürgen . . . I’m sorry . . . I wouldn’t think of questioning your manhood.”

  “Just as I thought,” Jürgen said, slowly lifting his foot. The huddle of boys had fallen quiet, a silence accentuated by the noise of the party. “Well, I don’t want you to think I have no sense of humor. Actually, this . . . thing will be extremely useful to me,” he said with a wink. “With her, for example.”

  He was pointing at a tall, dark-haired girl with dreamy eyes who was holding a glass of punch in the middle of the crowd.

  “Nice tits,” whispered one of his acolytes.

  “Any of you want to bet I can premiere this thing and get back in time for the toasts?”

  “I’ll bet fifty marks on Jürgen,” the one with the trodden foot felt compelled to say.

  “I’ll take the bet,” said another behind him.

  “Well, gents, you just wait here and watch; you might learn something.”

  Jürgen swallowed softly, hoping the others wouldn’t notice. He hated talking to girls, as they always made him feel awkward and inferior. Although he was good-looking, his only contact with the opposite sex had been in a brothel in Schwabing, where he’d experienced more shame than excitement. He’d been taken there by his father a few months before, dressed in a discreet black overcoat and hat. While he did his business, his father waited downstairs, drinking cognac. When it was over, he gave his son a slap on the back and told him that he was now a man. This was the beginning and the end of Jürgen von Schroeder’s education on the subject of women and love.

  I’ll show them how a real man behaves, the boy thought, feeling his companions’ eyes on the back of his neck.

  “Hello, Fräulein. Are you enjoying yourself?”

  She turned her head but didn’t smile.

  “Not really. Do we know each other?”

  “I can see why you’re not enjoying yourself. My name’s Jürgen von Schroeder.”

  “Alys Tannenbaum,” she said, holding out her hand without much enthusiasm.

  “Do you want to dance, Alys?”

  “No.”

  The girl’s brusque response startled Jürgen.

  “You know I’m hosting this party? It’s my birthday today.”

  “Congratulations,” she said sarcastically. “No doubt there are plenty of girls in this room desperate for you to ask them to dance. I wouldn’t want to take up too much of your time.”

  “But you have to dance with me at least once.”

  “Oh, really? And why is that?”

  “Good breeding dictates it. When a gentleman asks a lady . . .”

  “You know what annoys me most about arrogant people, Jürgen? The number of things you take for granted. Well, you should know this: the world isn’t the way you see it. By the way, your friends are giggling and they can’t seem to take their eyes off you.”

  Jürgen glanced around. He couldn’t fail, couldn’t allow this ill-mannered girl to humiliate him.

  She’s playing hard to get because really she likes me. She must be one of those girls who thinks the best way to excite a man is to push him away until he goes crazy. Well, I know how to deal with her sort, he thought.

  Jürgen took a step forward, taking the girl by the waist and drawing her toward him.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she gasped.

  “Teaching you to dance.”

  “If you don’t let me go right now, I’ll scream.”

  “You wouldn’t want to make a scene, now, would you, Alys?”

  The young woman tried to force her arms between her body and Jürgen’s, but she was no match for his strength. The baron’s son squeezed her to him even more closely, feeling her breasts through her dress. He began to move to the rhythm of the music, a smile on his lips, knowing that Alys would not scream. Creating a fuss at a party like this would only harm her reputation and that of her family. He saw the young woman’s eyes crystallizing into a cold hatred, and suddenly toying with her seemed a lot of fun, much more satisfying than if she’d simply agreed to dance with him.

  “Would you like a drink, miss?”

  Jürgen stopped with a jolt. Paul was at his side, holding a tray with several glasses of champagne, his lips firmly pursed.

  “Hey, it’s my cousin the waiter. Get lost, you cretin!” barked Jürgen.

  “First I’d like to know if the young lady is thirsty,” said Paul, extending the tray toward him.

  “Yes,” Alys said hurriedly, “that champagne looks marvelous.”

  Jürgen half closed his eyes, trying to work out what to do. If he let go of her right hand to allow her to take a glass from the tray, she would be able to detach herself completely. He slightly weakened the pressure on her back, allowing her to free her left arm, but squeezed the right even harder. The girl’s fingertips were turning purple.

  “Come on, then, Alys, take a glass. They say it brings happiness,” he added, feigning good humor.

  Alys leaned toward the tray, trying to free herself, but it was useless. There was nothing for it but to take the champagne with her left hand.

  “Thank you,” she said weakly.

  “Perhaps the young lady would like a napkin,” said Paul, rais
ing his other hand, in which he held a saucer with small squares of fabric. He had moved around so that he was now on the other side of the couple.

  “That would be marvelous,” said Alys, staring intently at the baron’s son.

  For a few seconds, no one moved. Jürgen studied the situation. With the glass in her left hand, the only way she could take a napkin would be with her right. At last, boiling with rage, he had to give up the battle. He released Alys’s hand, and she stepped back, taking the napkin.

  “I think I’ll get some air,” she said with remarkable poise.

  Jürgen, as though spurning her, turned his back to return to his friends. Passing by Paul, he clenched his shoulder and whispered:

  “You’ll pay for that.”

  Somehow Paul managed to keep the champagne glasses balanced on the tray: they clinked but didn’t topple. His inner balance was another matter entirely, and at that precise moment he felt like a cat trapped in a barrel of nails.

  How could I have been so stupid?

  There was only one rule in life: stay as far away from Jürgen as possible. It wasn’t easy to do, since they both lived under the same roof; but it was simple, at least. There wouldn’t be much he could do if his cousin decided to make his life impossible, but he could certainly avoid crossing his path, much less humiliate him in public. This would cost him dearly.

  “Thank you.”

  Paul lifted his eyes and, for a few moments, he forgot absolutely everything: his fear of Jürgen, the heavy tray, the pain in the soles of his feet from having worked twelve hours straight in preparation for the party. Everything disappeared, because she was smiling at him.

  Alys wasn’t the sort of woman who could take a man’s breath away at first sight. But were you to give her a second glance, it would probably be a long one. The sound of her voice was attractive. And if she smiled at you the way she smiled at Paul that moment . . .