The Traitor's Emblem

by Juan Gomez-jurado

  There was no way that Paul could not fall in love with her.

  “Ah . . . it was nothing.”

  For the rest of his life Paul would curse that moment, that conversation, and the smile that would cause him so many problems. But back then he was oblivious, as was she. She was sincerely grateful to the skinny little boy with the intelligent blue eyes. Then, of course, Alys went back to being Alys.

  “Don’t think I couldn’t have got rid of him on my own.”

  “Of course,” said Paul, still reeling.

  Alys blinked; she wasn’t used to such an easy victory, so she changed the subject.

  “We can’t talk here. Wait for a minute, then meet me in the cloakroom.”

  “With great pleasure, Fräulein.”

  Paul did a circuit of the hall, trying to empty the tray as quickly as possible so he would have an excuse to disappear. At the start of the party he’d been eavesdropping on conversations and was surprised to discover how little attention people paid him. It really was as though he were invisible, which was why he found it strange when the last guest to take a glass smiled and said: “Well done, son.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He was an older man with white hair, a goatee, and prominent ears. He gave Paul a strange, meaningful look.

  “‘Never has a gentleman saved a lady with such gallantry and discretion.’ That’s Chrétien de Troyes. Apologies. My name is Sebastian Keller, bookseller.”

  “Delighted to meet you.”

  The man gestured toward the door with his thumb.

  “You’d better hurry. She’ll be waiting.”

  Surprised, Paul tucked the tray under his arm and left the room. The cloakroom had been set up in the entrance, and consisted of a high table and two enormous hanging rails on wheels that held the hundreds of overcoats belonging to the guests. The girl had retrieved hers from one of the servants the baroness had hired for the party, and was waiting for him by the door. She didn’t hold out her hand when she introduced herself.

  “Alys Tannenbaum.”

  “Paul Reiner.”

  “Is he really your cousin?”

  “Unfortunately he is.”

  “It’s just that you don’t seem like . . .”

  “The nephew of a baron?” said Paul, pointing to his apron. “This is the latest fashion from Paris.”

  “I mean, you don’t seem like him.”

  “That’s because I’m not like him.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. I just wanted to thank you again. Take care, Paul Reiner.”

  “Of course.”

  She put her hand on the door, but before opening it she turned quickly and kissed Paul on the cheek. Then she ran down the steps and disappeared. For a few moments he scanned the street anxiously, as though she would return, retracing her steps. Then finally he shut the door, rested his forehead on the frame, and sighed.

  His heart and stomach felt heavy and strange. He couldn’t give the feeling a name, so for want of anything better he decided—correctly—that it was love, and he felt happy.

  “So, the knight in shining armor has received his reward, isn’t that right, boys?”

  On hearing the voice he knew so well, Paul turned as fast as he could.

  The feeling changed instantly from happiness to fear.

  5

  There they were, seven of them.

  They stood in a broad semicircle in the entrance, blocking the way in to the main room. Jürgen was at the center of the group, slightly to the fore, as though he couldn’t wait to get his hands on Paul.

  “This time you’ve gone too far, Cousin. I don’t like people who don’t know their place in life.”

  Paul didn’t reply, knowing that nothing he said would make any difference. If there was one thing Jürgen couldn’t abide, it was humiliation. That it should have happened in public, and in front of all his friends—and at the hands of his poor dumb cousin, the servant, the black sheep of the family—was inconceivable. Jürgen had resolved to cause Paul a lot of pain. The more—and the more visible—the better.

  “After this, you’ll never want to play the knight again, you piece of shit.”

  Paul looked around desperately. The woman in charge of the cloakroom had disappeared, no doubt on the orders of the birthday boy. Jürgen’s friends had spaced themselves out across the middle of the entrance hall, removing any escape route, and were advancing toward him slowly. If he turned and tried to open the door to the street, they’d grab him from behind and throw him to the ground.

  “You’re trem-bling,” chanted Jürgen.

  Paul ruled out the corridor that led to the servants’ quarters, which was practically a dead end, and the only route they’d left open to him. Although he’d never gone hunting in his life, Paul had heard all too often the story of how his uncle had bagged each of the specimens that hung on his study wall. Jürgen wanted to force him in that direction, because down there, no one would be able to hear his cries.

  There was only one option.

  Without another moment’s thought, he ran straight at them.

  Jürgen was so surprised to see Paul speeding toward them that he simply turned his head as he passed. Krohn, who was two meters behind, had a little more time to react. He planted both feet firmly on the floor and prepared himself to thump the boy who was running toward him, but before Krohn could punch him in the face, Paul launched himself onto the floor. He fell on his left hip—which gave him a bruise he’d have for two weeks—but the momentum allowed him to slide across the polished marble tiles like hot butter on a mirror, finally coming to rest at the foot of the staircase.

  “What are you waiting for, idiots? Get him!” shouted Jürgen, exasperated.

  Without stopping to look back, Paul got to his feet and raced up the stairs. He’d run out of ideas, and it was only survival instinct that kept his legs moving. His feet, which had been bothering him all day, were beginning to hurt terribly. Halfway up the stairs to the second floor he almost tripped and rolled down, but managed to get his balance back just in time as the hands of one of Jürgen’s friends brushed his heels. Grabbing the bronze banister, he continued up and up until, on the last flight between the third and fourth floors, he slipped suddenly on one of the steps and fell, his arms flung out in front of him, almost knocking his teeth out on the edge of the staircase.

  The first of his pursuers had caught up with him, but he in turn tripped at the crucial moment, and was only just able to grab hold of the edge of Paul’s apron.

  “I’ve got him! Quick!” said his captor, gripping the banister with his other hand.

  Paul tried to get to his feet, but the other boy pulled on the apron and Paul slid down a step, banging his head. He kicked out blindly, striking the boy, but he didn’t manage to free himself. Paul struggled for what seemed an eternity with the knot of his apron, hearing the others closing in on him.

  Damn it, why did I have to do it up so tight? he thought as he struggled.

  Suddenly his fingers found the exact spot to pull, and the apron came undone. Paul fled and reached the fourth and final floor of the house. With nowhere else to go, he ran through the first door he saw and closed it, fastening the bolt.

  “Where’s he gone?” Jürgen screamed when he reached the landing. The boy who’d grabbed Paul’s apron was now clutching his injured knee. He gestured to the left of the corridor.

  “Let’s go!” said Jürgen to the others, who had stopped a few steps below.

  They didn’t move.

  “What the hell are you . . .”

  He stopped abruptly. His mother was watching him from farther down the stairs.

  “I’m disappointed in you, Jürgen,” she said icily. “We’ve gathered together the best of Munich in order to celebrate your birthday, and then you disappear in the middle of the party to mess around on the stairs with your friends.”

  “But . . .”

  “Enough. I want you all to go down at once and rejoin the guests. We’ll
talk later.”

  “Yes, Mother,” said Jürgen, humiliated in front of his friends for the second time that day. Gritting his teeth, he set off down the stairs.

  That isn’t the only thing that will happen later. You’ll pay for this one, too, Paul.

  6

  “It’s good to see you again.”

  Paul was concentrating on calming down and recovering his breath. It took him a few moments to comprehend where the voice was coming from. He was sitting on the floor, his back against the door, afraid that any moment Jürgen might fight his way through. But when he heard those words, Paul jumped to his feet.

  “Eduard!”

  Without realizing it, he’d gone into his elder cousin’s room, a place he hadn’t visited in months. It all looked the same as it had before Eduard left: an organized, tranquil space, but one that reflected its owner’s personality. There were posters on the wall, Eduard’s collection of rocks, and above all, books—books everywhere. Paul had already read most of them. Spy novels, Westerns, fantasies, books on philosophy and history . . . They occupied the bookcases, the desk, and even the floor beside the bed. Eduard had to rest the volume he was reading on the mattress in order to turn the pages with his only hand. A number of cushions were stacked under his body to allow him to sit up, and a sad smile floated on his pale face.

  “Don’t feel sorry for me, Paul. I couldn’t bear it.”

  Paul looked him in the eye and understood that Eduard had been watching carefully for his reaction, and had found it strange when Paul hadn’t been surprised to see him like this.

  “I’ve seen you before, Eduard. The day you came back.”

  “So, how come you never visited me? I’ve seen almost no one but your mother since the day I got back. Your mother and my friends May, Salgari, Verne, and Dumas,” he said, raising the book he was reading so that Paul could see the title. It was The Count of Monte Cristo.

  “They forbade me to come.”

  Paul bowed his head, ashamed. Of course Brunhilda and his mother had forbidden him to see Eduard, but he could have at least tried. In truth, he had been afraid of seeing Eduard like this again, after the horrible experience of that afternoon when he had returned from the war. Eduard looked at him bitterly, no doubt aware of what Paul was thinking.

  “I know how ashamed my mother is. Haven’t you noticed?” he said, gesturing toward a tray of cakes from the party that sat untouched. “It wouldn’t do to let my stumps spoil Jürgen’s birthday, so I wasn’t invited. How’s the party going, by the way?”

  “There’s a band; people are drinking, talking about politics, and criticizing the military for losing a war we were winning.”

  Eduard gave a snort.

  “It’s easy to criticize from where they’re standing. What else are they saying?”

  “Everyone’s talking about the Versailles negotiations. They’re pleased we’re rejecting the terms.”

  “Damned fools,” said Eduard bitterly. “Since no one fired a shot on German soil, they can’t believe we’ve lost the war. Still, I suppose it’s always the same. Are you going to tell me who you were running away from?”

  “The birthday boy.”

  “Your mother’s told me you haven’t been getting along very well.”

  Paul nodded.

  “You haven’t touched the cakes.”

  “I don’t need much food these days. There’s a lot less of me. Take them; go on, you look hungry. And come closer, I want to see you better. God, how you’ve grown.”

  Paul sat on the edge of the bed and began to wolf down the food. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast; he had even missed school so he could prepare for the party. He knew his mother would be looking for him, but he didn’t care. Now that he’d overcome his fear, he couldn’t pass up this chance to be with Eduard, the cousin he’d missed so much.

  “Eduard, I want to . . . I’m sorry I haven’t been to see you. I could have snuck in, in the afternoons when Aunt Brunhilda goes out for a walk . . .”

  “It’s okay, Paul. You’re here, and that’s what matters. You are the one who has to forgive me, for not having written. I promised I would.”

  “What stopped you?”

  “I could tell you I was too busy shooting the English, but I’d be lying. A wise man once said that war is seven parts boredom to one part horror. In the trenches we had plenty of time, until we started killing each other.”

  “So?”

  “I couldn’t do it, simple as that. Not even at the start of this absurd war. The only people who’ve come back from it are a handful of cowards.”

  “What are you talking about, Eduard? You’re a hero! You volunteered to go to the front, one of the first!”

  Eduard gave an inhuman cackle that made Paul’s hair stand on end.

  “A hero . . . Do you know who decides for you whether you’ll sign up as a volunteer? Your schoolmaster, when he talks to you about the glories of the Fatherland, the Empire, and the Kaiser. Your father, who tells you to be a man. Your friends—the same friends who, not that long ago, were arguing with you in gym class over whose was biggest. They all hurl the word ‘coward’ in your face if you betray the smallest doubt and blame you for the defeat. No, Cousin, there are no volunteers in war, only those who are stupid and those who are cruel. The latter stay at home.”

  Paul was dumbstruck. Suddenly his fantasies about the war, the maps he’d drawn in his exercise books, the newspaper reports he’d loved to read, all seemed ridiculous and childish. He considered telling his cousin this but feared Eduard would laugh at him and throw him out of the room. For at that moment Paul could see the war, right there in front of him. The war wasn’t a bald list of advances toward enemy lines nor the dreadful stumps hidden below the bedsheets. The war was in Eduard’s empty, devastated eyes.

  “You could . . . have resisted. Stayed at home.”

  “No, I could not,” he said, turning his face away. “I’ve told you a lie, Paul; at least, it’s partly a lie. I also went to get away from them. So I wouldn’t turn out like them.”

  “Like who?”

  “You know who did this to me? It was around five weeks before the end of the war and already we knew we’d lost. We knew that at any moment they’d call on us to go home. And we were more confident than ever. We didn’t bother about the people falling beside us, because we knew that it wouldn’t be long before we’d be going back. Then one day, in the middle of a retreat, a shell fell too close.”

  Eduard’s voice was quiet—so quiet that Paul had to lean in to hear what he was saying.

  “I’ve asked myself a thousand times what would have happened if I’d run two meters to the right. Or if I’d stopped to tap my helmet twice, like we always did before leaving the trench.” He rapped on Paul’s forehead with his knuckles. “Doing that made us feel invincible. I didn’t do it that day, you see?”

  “I wish you’d never gone.”

  “No, Cousin, believe me. I went because I didn’t want to be a Schroeder, and if I came back, it was only to reassure myself that I was right to leave.”

  “I don’t understand, Eduard.”

  “My dear Paul, you should understand better than anyone. After what they’ve done to you. What they did to your father.”

  This last phrase fixed itself into Paul’s heart like a rusty hook.

  “What are you talking about, Eduard?”

  His cousin looked at him in silence, biting his lower lip. Finally he shook his head and closed his eyes.

  “Forget what I said. Sorry.”

  “I can’t forget it! I never knew him, no one ever talks to me about him, though they mutter things behind my back. All I know is what my mother’s told me: that he went down with his ship on the way back from Africa. So tell me, please, what did they do to my father?”

  There was another silence, this time much longer. So long that Paul wondered if Eduard had fallen asleep. Suddenly his eyes opened again.

  “I’ll burn in hell for this, but I have no cho
ice. First I want you to do me a favor.”

  “Anything you say.”

  “Go to my father’s study and open the second drawer on the right. If it’s locked, the key used to be kept in the middle drawer. You’ll find a black leather bag; it’s rectangular with a flap folded over it. Bring it to me.”

  Paul did as he was told. He tiptoed down to the study, scared that he might meet someone on the way, but the party was still in full swing. The drawer was locked, and it took him a few moments to find the key. It wasn’t where Eduard had said, but finally he found it in a little wooden box. The drawer was filled with papers. Paul found a piece of black felt at the back, with a strange symbol etched in gold. A square and a compass, with a letter G inside. The leather bag lay underneath.

  The boy put it under his shirt and returned to Eduard’s room. He could feel the weight of the bag against his stomach, and trembled just imagining what would happen if someone were to find him with this object that wasn’t his hidden beneath his clothes. He felt immense relief as he entered the room.

  “Have you got it?”

  Paul took out the leather bag and walked toward the bed, but on the way he tripped over one of the piles of books strewn across the room. The books scattered and the bag fell onto the floor.

  “No!” cried Eduard and Paul at the same time.

  The bag had fallen between a copy of May’s The Blood Revenge and Hoffman’s The Devil’s Elixirs, revealing its contents: a pearl-colored handle.

  It was a pistol.

  “Why do you want a gun, Cousin?” said Paul, his voice trembling.

  “You know what I want it for.” He raised the stump of his arm in case Paul was in any doubt.

  “Well, I won’t give it to you.”

  “Listen carefully, Paul. Sooner or later I’ll manage, because the only thing I want to do in this world is to leave it. You can turn your back on me today, put it back where you got it, and force me to go through the terrible indignity of having to drag myself on this ruined arm in the dead of night to my father’s study. But then you’d never find out what I have to tell you.”