The Traitor's Emblem

by Juan Gomez-jurado

  “Who’s there?” asked a croaky voice.

  “Hello, Frau Kasyn.”

  “Fräulein Tannenbaum. What an unseemly time to be getting home!”

  “It’s my work, Frau Kasyn, as you know.”

  “I can’t say I approve of this sort of behavior.”

  “I don’t much approve of the leaks in my bathroom, either, Frau Kasyn, but the world isn’t a perfect place.”

  At that moment Paul moved slightly and the wood groaned under his feet.

  “Is there someone up there?” said the landlady, outraged.

  “Let me check!” replied Alys, racing up the flight of stairs that separated her from Paul and ushering him toward her apartment. She put the key in the lock and had just managed to get the door open and push Paul inside before the old woman—who had hobbled after her—poked her head up the staircase.

  “I’m sure I heard someone. Do you have a man in there?”

  “Oh, nothing for you to worry about, Frau Kasyn. It’s just a cat,” said Alys, closing the door in her face.

  “Your trick with the cat works every time, eh?” whispered Paul, putting his arms around her and kissing her long neck. His breath burned. She shivered and felt goose bumps rising up her left side.

  “I thought we’d be interrupted again, like that day in the bathtub.”

  “Stop talking and kiss me,” he said, holding her shoulders and turning her toward him.

  Alys kissed him and moved in close. They then fell onto the mattress, her body beneath his.

  “Stop.”

  Paul stopped abruptly and looked at her with a shadow of disappointment and surprise on his face. But Alys slipped between his arms and moved on top of him, taking over the tedious task of freeing them both from the rest of their clothes.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” she replied.

  “You’re crying.”

  Alys hesitated a moment. To tell him the reason for her tears would be to bare her soul, and she didn’t think she could do that, not even at a moment like this.

  “It’s just that . . . I’m so happy.”

  32

  When he received the envelope from Sebastian Keller, Paul couldn’t help shuddering.

  The months that had gone by since his admission to the Masons’ lodge had been disappointing. At first, there had been something almost romantic about entering the secret society almost blindly, the thrill of adventure. But once the initial euphoria had faded, Paul began to wonder about the point of it all. For a start, he’d been forbidden to speak at the lodge gatherings until he’d completed three years as an Apprentice. But that wasn’t the worst of it: the worst thing was performing the extremely long rituals, which seemed to be a waste of time.

  Stripped of their rituals, the meetings were no more than a series of conferences and debates on Masonic symbolism and its practical application in improving the virtue of the brother Masons. The only part Paul found even vaguely interesting was when the members decided which charities they would donate to with the money gathered at the end of each meeting.

  For Paul, the meetings became an onerous duty, which he endured each fortnight in order to get to know the members of the lodge. Even this aim wasn’t easy to achieve, as the older Masons, those who undoubtedly would have known his father, sat at different tables in the great dining hall. On occasion he’d tried to get close to Keller, wanting to press the bookseller about his promise to hand over whatever it was his father had left for him. In the lodge Keller treated him with distance, and in the bookshop he brushed Paul off with vague excuses.

  Keller had never written to him before now, and Paul knew at once that whatever was in the brown envelope the owner of his boardinghouse had given him was the thing he’d been awaiting for so long.

  Paul sat on the edge of his bed, his breath labored. He was sure the envelope would contain a letter from his father. He couldn’t hold back his tears when he imagined what must have driven Hans Reiner to compose a missive to his son, then just a few months old, attempting to freeze his voice in time until his son was ready to understand it.

  He tried to imagine what his father would want to tell him. Perhaps he would offer wise advice. Perhaps he would embrace him across time.

  Perhaps he’ll give me clues about the person or people who were going to kill him, Paul thought, his teeth clenched.

  With extreme care he tore open the envelope and put his hand inside. In it there was another, smaller envelope, white, together with a handwritten note on the back of one of the bookseller’s business cards.

  Dear Paul,

  Congratulations. Hans would be proud. This is what your father left for you. I don’t know what it contains, but I hope it will help you.

  S.K.

  Paul opened the second envelope and a small sheet of white paper printed in blue fell to the ground. He was paralyzed with disappointment when he picked it up and saw what it was.

  33

  The Metzger pawnshop was a cold place, colder even than the early November air. Paul wiped his feet on the mat before entering, as it was raining outside. He left his umbrella in the stand and looked around curiously. He vaguely recalled the morning, four years ago now, when he and his mother had gone to a shop in Schwabing to pawn his father’s watch. That had been a sterile place, with glass shelves and employees wearing ties.

  Metzger’s looked more like a large sewing box and smelled of naphthalene. From the outside, the shop seemed small and insignificant, but on crossing the threshold its enormous depth was revealed, a place filled to bursting with pieces of furniture, galena crystal radios, porcelain figures, and even a golden birdcage. Rust and dust overwhelmed the various objects that had dropped anchor there for the last time. Astonished, Paul considered a stuffed cat caught in the act of snatching a sparrow in flight. Between the feline’s extended leg and the wing of the bird, a spider’s web had formed.

  “This isn’t a museum, lad.”

  Paul turned, startled. A thin, hollow-faced old man had materialized beside him, wrapped in blue overalls that were too large for his frame, and which accentuated his thinness.

  “Are you Metzger?”

  “I am. And if whatever you’ve brought me isn’t gold, I don’t want it.”

  “The truth is I haven’t come to pawn anything. I’ve come to collect something,” replied Paul. He had already taken a dislike to this man and his suspicious behavior.

  A flash of greed crossed the old man’s tiny eyes. It was obvious that business wasn’t going too well.

  “Sorry, lad . . . I have twenty people coming in here every day who think their great-grandmother’s old copper cameo is worth thousands of marks. But let’s see . . . let’s see what you’re here for.”

  Paul held out the blue and white piece of paper that he’d found in the envelope the bookseller had sent him. In the top left corner was Metzger’s name and address. Paul had rushed there as fast as he could, still recovering from the surprise of not finding a letter inside. Instead, there were four handwritten words:

  Art. 91231

  21 marks

  The old man pointed at the slip. “There’s a bit missing. We don’t accept damaged slips.”

  The top right-hand corner, which should have shown the name of the person who had made the deposit, had been torn off.

  “The article number is perfectly readable,” said Paul.

  “But we can’t hand over objects deposited by our customers to the first person who walks through the door.”

  “Whatever it is belonged to my father.”

  The old man scratched his chin, pretending to study the slip with interest.

  “In any case the number is very low: the article must have been pawned many years ago. I’m sure it will have gone out to auction.”

  “I see. And how can we be certain?”

  “I suppose if the customer were prepared to recover the article, taking into account inflation . . .”

  Paul flinched as the pawnbr
oker at last showed his hand: it was clear he wanted to get as much out of the transaction as he could. But Paul was resolved to recover the object, whatever the cost.

  “Very well.”

  “Wait here,” said the other man with a triumphant smile.

  The old man disappeared and returned half a minute later with a moth-eaten cardboard box marked with a yellowing ticket.

  “Here you go, lad.”

  Paul held out his hand to take it, but the old man grabbed him tightly by the wrist. The touch of his cold, wrinkled skin was repulsive.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “First the money.”

  “First you show me what’s inside.”

  “I’m not having any of that,” said the old man, shaking his head slowly. “I’m trusting that you’re the legitimate owner of this box, and you’re trusting that what’s inside is worth the trouble. A double act of faith, as it were.”

  Paul wrestled with himself a few moments, but he knew he had no choice.

  “Let go of me.”

  Metzger opened his fingers, and Paul dug his hand into the inside pocket of his coat. He took out his wallet.

  “How much?”

  “Forty million marks.”

  It was equivalent to ten dollars at that day’s rate, enough to feed a family for many weeks.

  “That’s a lot of money,” said Paul, pursing his lips.

  “Take it or leave it.”

  Paul sighed. He had the money on him, as the next day he was supposed to go make some payments for the bank. He’d have to take it out of his next six months’ wages, the little he earned after diverting all the profits from the business to Herr Ziegler’s charity shop. To cap it all, share prices had recently been stagnating or falling, and the investors had dwindled, making the queues at the welfare food halls longer each day, with no end to the crisis in sight.

  Paul took out the enormous stack of recently printed banknotes. Paper money never grew old in those days. In fact, the notes from the previous quarter were already worthless and fueled Munich’s chimneys, as they were cheaper than firewood.

  The pawnbroker snatched the notes from Paul’s hand and began to count them slowly, studying them one at a time against the light. Finally he looked at the young man and smiled, showing his missing teeth.

  “Satisfied?” Paul asked sarcastically.

  Metzger drew back his hand.

  Paul opened the box carefully, raising a cloud of dust that floated around him in the light of the bulb. He lifted out a flat, square box made of smooth, dark mahogany. It had no decorations, no varnish, only a clasp that opened when Paul pushed on it. The lid of the box rose slowly and silently, as though nineteen years hadn’t passed since the last time it was opened.

  Paul felt an icy fear in his heart as he looked at the contents.

  “You’d best take care, lad,” said the pawnbroker, from whose hands the banknotes had disappeared as if by magic. “You could find yourself in enormous trouble if they find you on the streets with that toy.”

  What were you trying to tell me with this, Father?

  On a padded red velvet base lay a gleaming pistol and a magazine containing ten bullets.

  34

  “This had better be important, Metzger. I’m extremely busy. If it’s about the fees, better come back some other day.”

  Otto von Schroeder was seated by the fireplace of his study, and he didn’t offer the pawnbroker a seat or anything to drink. Metzger, obliged to remain standing, hat in hand, contained his fury and contrived a servile tilt of the head and a fake smile.

  “The truth is, Herr Baron, I’ve come about another matter. The money you’ve invested all these years is about to bear fruit.”

  “Has he come back to Munich? Has Nagel come back?” asked the baron, tensing.

  “It’s more complicated than that, Your Lordship.”

  “Well, then, don’t make me guess. Tell me what it is you want.”

  “The truth is, Your Lordship, before conveying this important information, I would like to remind you that the objects whose sale I have put on hold for all this time, at great cost to my business—”

  “Get on with it, Metzger.”

  “—have increased in value a great deal. Your Lordship promised me an annual sum, and in return I was to inform you if Clovis Nagel redeemed any of them. And with all due respect, Your Lordship hasn’t paid this year or last.”

  The baron lowered his voice.

  “Don’t you dare blackmail me, Metzger. What I’ve paid you over two decades more than makes up for the junk you’ve kept in that dump of yours.”

  “What can I say? Your Lordship gave his word, and Your Lordship hasn’t kept it. Well then, let us consider our agreement to be concluded. Good afternoon,” said the old man, donning his hat.

  “Wait!” said the baron, raising his arm.

  The pawnbroker turned, stifling a smile.

  “Yes, Herr Baron?”

  “I have no money, Metzger. I’m ruined.”

  “You surprise me, Your Lordship!”

  “I have treasury bonds, which might come to something if the government pays the dividends or restabilizes the economy. Till then they’re only worth as much as the paper they’re written on.”

  The old man looked around him, his eyes narrowed.

  “In that case, Your Lordship . . . I suppose I could accept as payment that little bronze and marble table you have beside your chair.”

  “This is worth much more than your annual fee, Metzger.”

  The old man shrugged but said nothing.

  “Very well. Talk.”

  “You would of course have to guarantee your payments for the years to come, Your Lordship. The embossed silver tea service on that little table would do, I imagine.”

  “You’re a bastard, Metzger,” said the baron, giving him a look of undisguised hatred.

  “Business is business, Herr Baron.”

  Otto was silent for a few moments. He saw no other way but to give in to the old man’s blackmail.

  “You win. For your sake, I hope it’s worth it,” he said at last.

  “Today someone came to redeem one of the objects pawned by your friend.”

  “Was it Nagel?”

  “No, not unless he’s found some way of turning the clock back thirty years. It was a boy.”

  “Did he give his name?”

  “He was thin, with blue eyes, dark-blond hair.”

  “Paul . . .”

  “I’ve told you, he didn’t give his name.”

  “And what was it he collected?”

  “A black mahogany box containing a pistol.”

  The baron leapt from his seat so quickly that it tipped backward and crashed into the low rail surrounding the fireplace.

  “What did you say?” he said, grabbing the pawnbroker by the throat.

  “You’re hurting me!”

  “Talk, for God’s sake, or I’ll break your neck this instant.”

  “A plain black mahogany box,” replied the old man in a whisper.

  “The pistol! Describe it!”

  “A Mauser C96 with a broom handle grip. The wood on the butt wasn’t oak, like the original model, but black mahogany, matching the case. A fine weapon.”

  “How can this be?” said the baron.

  Suddenly weak, he released the pawnbroker and slumped back into his seat.

  Old Metzger straightened up, rubbing his neck.

  “Mad. He’s gone mad,” Metzger said, making a dash for the door.

  The baron didn’t notice him go. He remained seated, his head in his hands, consumed by dark thoughts.

  35

  Ilse was sweeping the corridor when she noticed the shadow of a visitor cast across the floor by the light of the wall lamps. She knew who it was even before raising her head, and she froze.

  Holy God, how did you find us?

  When she and her son had first arrived at the boardinghouse, Ilse had had to work to pay f
or part of the rent, since what Paul was making carrying coal wasn’t enough. Later, when Paul had transformed Ziegler’s grocery into a bank, the young man had insisted that they find better lodgings. Ilse had refused. There had been too many changes in her life, and she clung to whatever gave her security.

  One of those things was the broom handle. Paul—and the owner of the boardinghouse, to whom Ilse wasn’t much help—had insisted that she stop working, but she had paid no attention. She needed to feel useful somehow. The silence into which she’d sunk after they’d been expelled from the mansion had initially been the result of anxiety, but later had become a voluntary manifestation of her love for Paul. She avoided conversation with him because she was afraid of his questions. When she spoke, it was of unimportant things, which she tried to invest with all the tenderness she could muster. The rest of the time she simply gazed at him silently, from afar, and grieved over what she had been deprived of.

  Which was why her anguish was so intense when she found herself face-to-face with one of the people responsible for her loss.

  “Hello, Ilse.”

  She took a step back cautiously.

  “What do you want, Otto?”

  The baron drummed on the ground with the end of his walking stick. He wasn’t comfortable here, that much was clear, as was the fact that his visit signaled some sinister intent.

  “Can we talk somewhere more private?”

  “I don’t want to go anywhere with you. Say what you have to say and leave.”

  The baron snorted in annoyance. Then he gestured scornfully at the moldy paper on the walls, the uneven floor, and the fading lamps that gave off more shadow than light.

  “Look at you, Ilse. Sweeping the corridor in a third-class boardinghouse. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “Sweeping floors is sweeping floors, it makes no difference if it’s a mansion or a boardinghouse. And there are linoleum floors that are more respectable than marble.”