The Traitor's Emblem

by Juan Gomez-jurado

  There was something of his cousin in him.

  He let go of the Communist’s hair and watched as he fell limply to the floor.

  He doesn’t look much like anyone anymore, Jürgen thought.

  He raised his eyes and saw that all around him the fighting had stopped. The only ones left standing were the storm troopers, who were watching him with a mixture of approval and fear.

  “Let’s get out of here!” shouted the head of the platoon.

  Back in the truck, a storm trooper Jürgen had never seen before, and who hadn’t traveled with them, sat down beside him. The baron’s son barely looked at his companion. After such a violent episode, he would usually sink into a state of melancholic withdrawal, and he didn’t like anyone to disturb him. Which was why he snarled with displeasure when the other man spoke to him in a low voice.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Jürgen von Schroeder,” he replied reluctantly.

  “So it is you. They told me about you. I came here today especially to meet you. My name’s Julius Schreck.”

  Jürgen noticed the subtle differences in the man’s uniform. He wore an insignia with a skull and crossbones, and a black tie.

  “To meet me? Why?”

  “I’m setting up a special group . . . people with guts, skill, intelligence. Without any bourgeois scruples.”

  “How do you know I have those things?”

  “I saw you in action back there. You went about it cleverly, not like the rest of this cannon fodder. And then there’s the matter of your family, of course. Having you on our team would give us prestige. It would distinguish us from the riffraff.”

  “What is it you want?”

  “I want you to join my Stosstruppen. The elite of the SA, who answer only to the Führer.”

  24

  Ever since spotting Paul at the other end of the cabaret club, Alys had been having a terrible night. It was the last place she had expected to find him. She looked again, just to be sure, as the lights and smoke could lead to some confusion, but her eyes had not deceived her.

  What the hell is he doing here?

  Her first impulse was to hide the Kodak behind her back, ashamed, but couldn’t maintain that position for long as the camera and flash were too heavy.

  Besides, I’m working. Hell, that’s something I should feel proud of.

  “Hey, nice body! Take my photo, gorgeous!”

  Alys smiled, raised the flash—supported on a long stick—and squeezed the trigger so that it went off without her having to use up any film. The two drunks obstructing her view of Paul’s tables tumbled sideways. Although she had to recharge the flash with magnesium powder every once in a while, this was still the most efficient way of getting rid of anyone bothering her.

  A lot of people buzzed around her on nights like this, when she would have to take two or three hundred photos of the customers at the BeldaKlub. Once they had been developed, the owner would choose half a dozen to put up on the wall by the entrance, shots showing customers living it up with the club’s dancing girls. The best photos, according to the owner, were the ones taken in the early hours of the morning, when you could frequently witness the biggest wastrels drinking champagne from the girls’ shoes. Alys detested the whole place: the noisy music, the sequined suits, the provocative songs, the alcohol, and the people who consumed it in vast quantities. But it was her job.

  She hesitated before approaching Paul. She felt that she wasn’t looking particularly pretty in her dark blue secondhand suit with a little hat that didn’t quite match, and yet she continued to attract the losers like a magnet. She’d long since come to the conclusion that men loved being in the center of her lens and she decided to use this fact to break the ice with Paul. She still felt ashamed of the way her father had thrown him out of the house, and a slight unease at the lie she’d been told about him keeping the money.

  I’ll play a joke on him. I’ll approach him with the camera covering my face, I’ll take the photo, and then I’ll reveal to him who I am. I’m sure he’ll be pleased.

  She set off with a smile.

  Eight months earlier Alys had been out on the street looking for work.

  Unlike Paul, her search hadn’t been desperate, as she had enough money to last her a few months. All the same, it had been tough. The only jobs for women—called out from street corners or whispered in back rooms—were as prostitutes or mistresses, and that was a path down which Alys wasn’t prepared to go under any circumstances.

  Not that, and I won’t go back home, either, she swore.

  She thought about traveling to another city. Hamburg, Düsseldorf, Berlin. However, the news that arrived from those places was as bad as what was happening in Munich, or worse. And there was something—the hope of meeting a certain someone again, perhaps—that held her back. But as her reserves dwindled, Alys increasingly began to despair. Then one afternoon, walking down the Agnesstrasse in search of a sewing workshop she had been told about, Alys saw a notice on a shop window.

  Assistant Required

  Women Need Not Apply

  She didn’t even check what sort of business it was. She pushed open the door indignantly and marched up to the only person behind the counter: a thin, older man, with dramatically receding gray hair.

  “Afternoon, Fräulein.”

  “Good afternoon. I’ve come about the job.”

  The little man looked at her intently.

  “Might I hazard a guess that you do actually know how to read, Fräulein?”

  “Yes, although I always have difficulty with any nonsense.”

  At that, the man’s face changed. His mouth creased up in amusement, revealing a pleasant smile, which was followed by a laugh. “You’re hired!”

  Alys looked at him, utterly thrown. She’d gone into the place ready to rub the owner’s face in his ridiculous sign, and thinking that all she’d achieve would be to make a fool of herself.

  “Surprised?”

  “Quite surprised, yes.”

  “You see, Fräulein . . .”

  “Alys Tannenbaum.”

  “August Muntz,” the man said, with an elegant bow. “You see, Fräulein Tannenbaum, I put up that sign so that a woman just like you would respond. The job I’m offering requires technical skill, presence of mind, and above all a good deal of insolence and daring. It would appear you possess the latter two qualities, and the first can be taught, especially with the benefit of my own experience . . .”

  “And you don’t mind that I’m . . .”

  “A Jew? You’ll soon discover that I’m not very conventional, darling.”

  “What precisely is it that you want me to do?” asked Alys suspiciously.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” the man said, gesturing around him. Alys looked at the shop for the first time and saw that it was a photography studio. “Take photos.”

  Though Paul had changed with each job he’d taken on, Alys had been completely transformed by hers. The young woman had instantly fallen in love with photography. She’d never been behind a camera before, but once she had learned the basics, she understood there was nothing else she wanted to do with her life. She was particularly fond of the darkroom, where the chemicals were mixed in trays. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the image as it began to appear on the paper, as features and faces became distinct.

  She immediately hit it off with the photographer too. Although the sign on the door said MUNTZ AND SONS, Alys soon discovered that there were no sons, nor would there ever be. August lived in a flat above the shop with a delicate, pale young man he called “my nephew Ernst.” Alys spent long evenings playing backgammon with the two of them, and as time went on her smile returned.

  There was only one aspect of the job she didn’t like, which was precisely what August had hired her for. The owner of a nearby cabaret club—August confessed to Alys that the man had been a former lover of his—had offered a good sum of money to have a photographer on the premises three nights a wee
k.

  “He’d like it to be me, of course. But I think it’s best if a pretty girl shows up . . . one who won’t allow herself to be bullied,” said August with a wink.

  The club owner was happy. The photos at the entrance to his establishment helped to spread the word about the BeldaKlub until it became one of the highlights of Munich’s nightlife. It couldn’t compare to the likes of Berlin, of course, but in dark times any business based on alcohol and sex is bound to succeed. It was a widely spread rumor that many customers would spend their entire salaries in five frenzied hours before resorting to the trigger, the rope, or a bottle of pills.

  As she approached Paul, Alys trusted that he wouldn’t be one of these customers out for a final fling.

  No doubt he’s come with a friend. Or out of curiosity, she thought. After all, everyone was coming to the BeldaKlub these days, even if it was only to waste hours sipping a single beer. The barmen were understanding sorts, and they were known to accept engagement rings in exchange for a couple of pints.

  As she drew near, she held the camera up to her face. There were five people at the table, two men and three women. On the tablecloth were several half-empty or overturned bottles of champagne, and a heap of food that was almost untouched.

  “Hey, Paul! You’ve got to pose for posterity!” said the man standing next to Alys.

  Paul looked up. He was wearing a black tuxedo that didn’t sit at all well on his shoulders, and a bow tie that was undone and hung down over his shirt. When he spoke, his voice was thick and his words slurred.

  “Hear that, girls? Put a smile on those faces.”

  The two women on either side of Paul were wearing silvery party dresses and hats to match. One of them grabbed him by the chin, forced him to look at her, and planted a sloppy French kiss just as the shutter came down. The surprised recipient returned the kiss and then burst out laughing.

  “See? They really put a smile on your face!” said his friend, braying with laughter.

  Alys was astonished to see this, and the Kodak almost slipped from her hands. She wanted to vomit. This drunk, just another one of the kind she had despised night after night for weeks, was so far from her image of the shy coal bearer that Alys couldn’t believe it was really Paul.

  And yet it was.

  Through the haze of alcohol, the young man suddenly recognized her and unsteadily got to his feet.

  “Alys!”

  The man who was with him turned to her and raised his glass.

  “You know each other?”

  “I thought I knew him,” said Alys coldly.

  “Superb! Then you ought to know that your friend is the most successful banker in Isartor . . . We sell more shares than any of the other banks that have been popping up lately! I’m his proud accountant . . . Come on, drink a toast with us.”

  Alys felt a wave of scorn run through her body. She’d heard all about the new banks. Almost all of those set up in recent months had been established by young people, and a lot of student types came to the club every night to burn away their earnings on champagne and whores before the money lost its value completely.

  “When my father told me you’d taken the money, I didn’t believe him. How wrong I was. Now I can see it’s the only thing you’re interested in,” she said, turning away.

  “Alys, wait . . .” stammered the young man, embarrassed. He stumbled around the table and tried to grab her hand.

  Alys turned and gave him a slap that rang out like a bell. Although Paul tried to save himself by clutching at the tablecloth, he toppled over and ended up on the floor amid a shower of broken bottles and the laughter of the three chorus girls.

  “By the way,” Alys said as she walked off, “in that tuxedo you still look like a waiter.”

  Paul used the chair to pull himself up, just in time to see Alys’s back disappearing into the crowd. His friend the accountant was now leading the girls to the dance floor. Suddenly an arm grabbed Paul firmly and guided him into the chair.

  “Looks like you’ve rubbed her the wrong way, eh?”

  The man who’d helped him seemed vaguely familiar.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m a friend of your father’s, Paul. Someone who right now is wondering whether you’re worthy of sharing his name.”

  “What do you know about my father?”

  The man pulled out a card and put it in the inside pocket of Paul’s tuxedo.

  “Come see me when you’ve sobered up.”

  25

  Paul looked up from the card and contemplated the sign above the bookshop, still not understanding what he was doing there.

  The shop was just a few steps from Marienplatz, in the tiny heart of Munich. This was where Schwabing’s butchers and hawkers gave way to watchmakers, milliners, and shops selling walking sticks. There was even a small cinema close to Keller’s establishment that was showing F.W. Murnau’s Nosferatu, more than a year after it had first come out. It was the afternoon, and they must have already been halfway through the second screening. Paul pictured the projectionist in his booth, changing the worn reels of film one by one. He felt sorry for him. He had slipped in to see that film—the first and only film he’d seen—in a cinema close to the boardinghouse, when the whole town had been talking about it. He hadn’t much liked the thinly veiled screen adaptation of Bram Stoker’s Dracula. For him, the true emotion of the story resided in its words and its silence, in the white that surrounded the black letters on the page. The cinematic version seemed rather too simple, like a jigsaw with only two pieces.

  Paul entered the bookshop cautiously, but soon forgot his misgivings as he studied the volumes scrupulously arranged on the floor-to-ceiling bookcases and on the large tables beside the window. There was no counter in sight.

  He was leafing through a first edition of Death in Venice when he heard a voice behind him.

  “Thomas Mann’s not a bad choice, but I’m sure you’ve read that one already.”

  Paul turned. There was Keller, smiling at him. His hair was completely white, he sported an old-fashioned goatee, and from time to time he would scratch his large ears, drawing even more attention to them. Paul felt that he knew this man, though he was unable to say how.

  “Yes, I’ve read it, but in a hurry. I was lent it by someone staying in the boardinghouse where I live. Books don’t normally stay in my hands for long, however much I want to reread them.”

  “Ah. But don’t reread, Paul, you’re too young, and people who reread tend to fill themselves with inadequate wisdom too quickly. For now you should read everything you can, as wide a variety as possible. Only when you get to my age will you find that rereading isn’t a waste of time.”

  Paul took another good look at him. Keller was well past fifty, though his back was straight as a rod and his body was trim in an old-fashioned three-piece suit. His white hair gave him a venerable appearance, though Paul suspected that it might have been dyed. Suddenly he realized where he’d seen this man before.

  “You were at Jürgen’s birthday party, four years ago.”

  “You have a good memory, Paul.”

  “You told me to leave as soon as I could . . . that she was waiting outside,” Paul said sadly.

  “I remember you rescuing the girl with absolute clarity, right in the middle of the ballroom. In my day I had my moments too . . . and my low points, although I never made as big a mistake as the one I saw you making yesterday, Paul.”

  “Don’t remind me. How the hell was I supposed to know she was there? It’s been two years since I last saw her!”

  “Well, then, I think the right question here is: What the hell were you doing getting yourself as drunk as a sailor?”

  Paul shuffled his feet uncomfortably. He was embarrassed to be discussing these things with a complete stranger, but at the same time he experienced a peculiar calm in the bookseller’s company.

  “Anyway,” Keller went on, “I don’t want to torture you, as the bags under your eyes
and your pale face tell me you’ve tortured yourself enough already.”

  “You said you wanted to talk to me about my father,” Paul said anxiously.

  “No, that wasn’t what I said. I said you should come and see me.”

  “Then why?”

  This time it was Keller’s turn to remain silent. He led Paul to the window and pointed over to the church of St. Michael, just across from the bookshop. A bronze plaque detailing the family tree of the Wittelsbach dynasty stood above the statue of the archangel who gave his name to the building. In the afternoon sun, the statue’s shadows were long and threatening.

  “Look . . . three and a half centuries of splendor. And that’s just a short prologue. In 1825, Ludwig the First decided to transform our city into the new Athens. Full of light, space, and harmony in its avenues and boulevards. Now look a little lower, Paul.”

  At the door to the church, beggars had gathered, lining up to receive the soup that the parish distributed at sunset. The queue had only just started to form, and already it reached farther than Paul could see from the shop window. He wasn’t surprised to spot war veterans, still in their grubby uniforms, which had been forbidden for almost five years now. Nor was he shocked by the appearance of the tramps, whose faces had been imprinted by poverty and drink. What did surprise him was seeing dozens of adult men dressed in worn suits but with their shirts perfectly ironed, all of them with no sign of an overcoat in spite of the strong wind that June evening.

  The overcoat of a family man who has to go out every day to find bread for his children—that’s always one of the last things to be pawned, thought Paul, nervously moving his hands in his own coat pockets. He’d bought the coat secondhand, surprised to find such good-quality fabric for the price of an average-size cheese.

  Just like the tuxedo.

  “Five years after the fall of the monarchy: terror, killings in the streets, hunger, poverty. Which version of Munich do you prefer, lad?”

  “The real one, I suppose.”