The Traitor's Emblem (28 page)

“I can’t see. Why can’t I see?” asked Otto.

He staggered forward, dragging the breakfast tablecloth with him as he fell. Cutlery, plates, and cups tumbled over, scattering their contents, but the baron didn’t seem to notice as he lay motionless on the floor. All that could be heard in the dining room were the screams of the maid, who had just entered holding a tray of freshly made toast.

*   *   *

As he stood at the door to the room, Jürgen couldn’t suppress a bitter grin as he recalled the ingenuity he’d shown back then. The doctor had explained that the baron had suffered a stroke that had deprived him of the power of speech and the use of his legs.

“With the excesses this man has indulged in during his life, I’m not surprised. I don’t expect he’ll last more than six months,” the doctor had said while putting away his instruments in a leather bag. Which was lucky, because Otto was spared seeing the cruel smile that had flashed across his son’s face when he heard the diagnosis.

And here you are, eleven years later.

He went in now without making a sound and brought a chair over to sit opposite the invalid. The light from the window may have looked like an idyllic sunbeam, but it was nothing more than the sun’s reflection on the bare white wall of the building opposite, the only view from the baron’s room.

Bored of waiting for him to wake up, Jürgen cleared his throat several times. The baron blinked and finally lifted his head. He stared at Jürgen, but if he felt any surprise or fear, his eyes didn’t show it. Jürgen contained his disappointment.

“You know, Otto? For a long time I tried very hard to win your approval. Of course, that didn’t matter to you in the slightest. You cared only about Eduard.”

He paused slightly, waiting for some reaction, some movement, anything. All he received was the same stare as before, alert but frozen.

“It was a huge relief to learn you weren’t my father. I was suddenly free to hate the disgusting cuckold swine who had ignored me all my life.”

The insults didn’t produce the slightest effect, either.

“Then you had the stroke and finally left me and my mother in peace. But of course, like everything you’ve done in your life, you didn’t finish it. I’ve given you too much leeway, waiting for you to correct this mistake, and I’ve been thinking for some time about how to get rid of you. And now, how convenient . . . someone appears who could save me the trouble.”

He took the newspaper he had been carrying under his arm and held it in front of the old man’s face, close enough so that he could read it. Meanwhile he recited the contents of the article from memory. He had read it over and over the night before, anticipating the moment when the old man would see it.

MYSTERIOUS BODY IDENTIFIED

Munich (Editorial). The police have finally been able to identify the body found last week in an alley close to the Hauptbahnhof. It is the body of former marine lieutenant Clovis Nagel, who since 1904 had an outstanding summons to a court-martial for having deserted his post during a mission to South-West Africa. Although he had returned to the country under a false name, the authorities were able to identify him from the large number of tattoos covering his torso. There are no further details regarding the circumstances surrounding his death, which as our readers will recall happened following a fall from a great height, possibly as a result of being pushed. The police have reminded the public that anyone who had contact with Nagel is under suspicion, and request that those with information make themselves known to the authorities immediately.

“Paul’s back. Isn’t that superb news?”

A glimmer of fear flickered in the baron’s eyes. It lasted only a few seconds, but Jürgen savored the moment as though it were the great humiliation his twisted mind had envisaged.

He got up and walked over to the bathroom. He took a glass and half filled it under the tap. Then he sat down next to the baron once more.

“You know he’ll come for you now. And I don’t imagine you want to see your name in the headlines, isn’t that right, Otto?”

Jürgen took a metal box no bigger than a postage stamp from his pocket. He opened it and extracted a small green pill, which he left on the table.

“There’s a new branch of the SS that’s experimenting with these lovely things. We have agents all over the world, people who at any given moment might have to disappear silently and painlessly,” said the young man, neglecting to mention that the painlessness had not yet been achieved. “Spare us the shame, Otto.”

He picked up his cap and pulled it firmly back on his head, then walked over to the door. When he reached it, he turned and saw Otto groping for the tablet. His father held the pill between his fingers, his face still as blank as it had been throughout Jürgen’s visit. Then his hand rose to his mouth so slowly that the movement was almost imperceptible.

Jürgen left. For a moment he was tempted to stay and watch, but it was better to stick to the plan and avoid potential problems.

From tomorrow, the staff will address me as Baron von Schroeder. And when my brother comes looking for answers, he’ll have to ask me.

48

Two weeks after Nagel’s death, Paul finally dared to go back outside.

The sound of the ex-marine’s body hitting the ground had echoed in his mind the whole time he’d spent closed away in the room he’d rented in a Schwabing boardinghouse. He had tried going back to the old building he’d shared with his mother, but it was now a private apartment block.

That wasn’t the only thing that had changed in Munich during his absence. The streets were cleaner and there were no longer groups of the unemployed loitering on street corners. The queues outside churches and employment offices had disappeared, and people didn’t have to lug around two suitcases of small banknotes every time they wanted to buy bread. There were no bloody tavern brawls. The enormous columns of notices, which could be found on the main roads, had other things to report. Previously they had been packed with news of political meetings, fiery manifestos, and dozens of “Wanted for Theft” posters. Now they displayed peaceful things such as meetings of horticultural societies.

In place of all these omens of doom, Paul found that the prophecy had been fulfilled. Everywhere he went he saw groups of boys wearing red swastika armbands. Passersby had to raise their arm and shout “Heil Hitler!” if they didn’t want to risk being tapped on the shoulder by a couple of plainclothes agents with an order to come along with them. A few, the minority, scurried off into doorways to escape the salute, but that solution wasn’t always possible, and sooner or later everyone had to raise his or her arm.

Everywhere you looked, people were displaying the flag with the swastika, that mischievous black spider, whether on tiepins, armbands, or kerchiefs tied around their necks. They were sold at trolley stops and kiosks alongside tickets and newspapers. This burst of patriotism had started at the end of June, when dozens of SA leaders were killed in the middle of the night for “betraying the fatherland.” With this action, Hitler had sent out two messages: that nobody was safe and that in Germany he was the only person in charge. Fear was etched on every face, however much people tried to hide it.

Germany became a death trap for the Jews. With every passing month, the laws against them grew more restrictive, the injustice silently tightening around them. First the Germans went after the Jewish doctors, lawyers, and teachers, stripping them of jobs they coveted and, in the process, making it impossible for these professionals to earn a living. The new laws meant that hundreds of mixed marriages were now nullified. A rash of suicides unlike anything Germany had ever seen swept across the country. And still there were Jews who looked the other way or were in denial, insisting things weren’t really that bad, partly because few knew how far-reaching the problem was—the German press barely wrote about it—and partly because the alternative, emigration, became more complicated every day. Because of the global economic crisis and a job market saturated with skilled professionals, leaving seemed like madness. Whether they realized it or not, the Jews were being held hostage by the Nazis.

The walk through the city brought Paul some small measure of relief, although this was at the cost of the concern he felt for the direction Germany was heading.

“You want a tiepin, sir?” a young lad called, after having looked him up and down. The boy was wearing a long leather sash showcasing several models, everything from the simple twisted cross to an eagle holding the Nazi crest.

Paul shook his head and walked on.

“You’d do well to wear one, sir. An excellent sign of your support for our glorious Führer,” the boy insisted, running along behind him.

Seeing that Paul wasn’t giving in, he stuck out his tongue and went in search of new prey.

I’ll die before I wear that symbol, thought Paul.

His mind plunged back into the feverish, nervous state it had been in since Nagel’s death. The story of the man who had been his father’s first lieutenant had besieged him with doubts, not only about how to continue his investigation but also about the nature of that search. If he were to believe Nagel, Hans Reiner had lived a life that was complex and twisted, and he had committed a crime for money.

Of course, Nagel was not the most trustworthy of sources. But in spite of that, the song he’d sung was not out of tune with the note that had always sounded in Paul’s heart when he thought about the father he had never known.

As he looked at the calm, clear nightmare into which Germany was plunging so enthusiastically, Paul wondered whether he wasn’t finally waking up.

Last week I turned thirty, he thought bitterly as he walked along the bank of the Isar, where couples gathered on benches, and I’ve wasted more than a third of my life looking for a father who might not have been worth the effort. I left the person I loved, and have found nothing but sadness and sacrifice in exchange.

Perhaps that was why he had idealized Hans in his daydreams—because he needed to make up for the dark reality he guessed at in Ilse’s silences.

He realized all of a sudden that he was saying good-bye to Munich once again. The only thought in his head was a desire to leave, to get away from Germany and return to Africa, the place where, although he had not been happy, he had at least been able to find a part of his soul.

But I have come so far . . . How can I allow myself to give up now?

The problem was twofold. He also had no idea how to continue. Nagel’s death had eliminated not only his hopes but also the last concrete clue he had. He wished that his mother had confided in him more, as then she might still be alive.

I could go and find Jürgen, talk to him about what my mother told me before she died. Maybe he knows something.

After a while he rejected that idea. He had had his fill of the Schroeders, and in all likelihood Jürgen still hated him for what had happened in the coal man’s stables. He doubted that time had done anything to appease his anger. And if he approached Jürgen, with no proof at all, and told him he had reason to believe they might be brothers, his reaction would surely be terrible. Nor could he imagine trying to talk to the baron or Brunhilda. No, this alley was a dead end.

It’s over. I’m leaving.

His erratic journey brought him to Marienplatz. He decided to pay one last visit to Sebastian Keller before leaving the city for good. On his way, he wondered whether the bookshop was still open, or if its owner had succumbed to the crisis in the twenties like so many other businesses.

His fears proved unfounded. The place looked just as it had always done, neat and tidy, with its generous window displays offering a careful selection of classic German poetry. Paul barely paused before going in, and Keller immediately poked his head around the back room door, just as he had done that first day in 1923.

“Paul! Dear God, what a surprise!”

The bookseller held out his hand, a warm smile on his face. It was as though time had barely passed. He still dyed his hair white, and he wore new gold-framed glasses, but apart from that, and the odd wrinkle around his eyes, he continued to exude the same aura of wisdom and tranquillity.

“Good afternoon, Herr Keller.”

“But this is such a pleasure, Paul! Where have you been hiding yourself all this time? We’d given you up for lost . . . I read in the papers about the fire at the boardinghouse and feared you had died there too. You could have written!”

Somewhat ashamed, Paul apologized for having remained silent all those years. Contrary to his custom, Keller closed the bookshop and took the young man into the back room, where they spent a couple of hours drinking tea and talking about the old days. Paul recounted his travels in Africa, the various jobs he had done, and his experiences in different cultures.

“You’ve had some real adventures . . . Karl May, whom you so admire, would have liked to have found himself in your shoes.”

“I suppose so . . . though novels are a completely different matter,” said Paul with a bitter smile, thinking about Nagel’s tragic end.

“And what about Masonry, Paul? Have you kept in touch with any lodge during this time?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, then, when all’s said and done, the essence of our Brotherhood is order. As it happens, there’s a meeting tonight. You must come along, I won’t take no for an answer. You can resume your work where you left off,” said Keller, patting him on the shoulder.

Reluctantly, Paul accepted.

49

That night, back in the temple, Paul felt the familiar sense of artifice and boredom that had swamped him years earlier when he had started attending Masonic meetings. The place was full to bursting with more than a hundred people in attendance.

At an opportune moment, Keller, who was still Grand Master of the Lodge of the Rising Sun, stood up and introduced Paul to his brother Masons. Many of them already knew him, but at least ten members greeted him for the first time.