The Traitor's Emblem (12 page)

He had a sudden flashback to one of the many scenarios he’d invented around the sinking of his father’s boat: his father surrounded by enemies on all sides who were attempting to board. He told himself that this cart was his boat.

I’m not going to let them board.

He looked around, desperately seeking something he could use as a weapon, but the only things on hand were the leftover bits of coal scattered around the cart. The pieces were so small, he’d have to throw forty or fifty before he’d cause any harm. With his broken arm, the only advantage Paul had was the height of the cart, which put him just at the right level to kick any attackers in the face.

Another boy attempted to sneak around onto the back of the cart, but Paul sensed the trick. The one by the driver’s seat took advantage of the momentary distraction and pulled himself up, no doubt preparing to jump onto Paul’s back. Moving quickly, Paul unscrewed the lid of his Thermos and threw the hot coffee into the face of the boy. It wasn’t boiling, as it had been an hour before when he’d prepared it on the stove in his bedroom, but it was hot enough to make the lad clasp his hands to his face, scalded. Paul charged at him and pushed him off the cart. The boy fell on his back, groaning.

“Shit, what are we waiting for? Everyone, get him!” Jürgen called.

Paul saw the gleam of a penknife once more. He spun around, fists in the air, wanting to show them he wasn’t afraid, but everyone in the filthy stables knew it was a lie.

Ten hands seized the cart in ten places. Paul stamped his foot down left and right, but in seconds they were all around him. One of the thugs grabbed his left arm, and Paul, trying to get free, felt the fist of another in the face. There was a crunch and an explosion of pain as his nose was broken.

For a moment all he saw was a pulsating red light. He kicked out, missing his cousin Jürgen by miles.

“Hold on to him, Krohn!”

Paul felt them grab him from behind. He tried wriggling out of their grasp but it was useless. In seconds they had pinned his arms back, leaving his face and chest at his cousin’s mercy. One of his captors held his neck in an iron grip, forcing Paul to look straight at Jürgen.

“Not running anymore, eh?”

Jürgen carefully put his weight on his right leg, then drew his arm back. The blow struck Paul right in the stomach. He felt the air leave his body as though it were a punctured tire.

“Hit me all you want, Jürgen,” Paul wheezed when he managed to get his breath back. “It won’t stop you being a useless pig.”

Another punch, this time in the face, split an eyebrow in two. His cousin shook his hand and massaged his injured knuckles.

“You see? There are seven of you to one of me, someone’s holding me down, and you’re still coming off worse than I am,” said Paul.

Jürgen threw himself forward and grabbed his cousin by the hair so hard that Paul thought he’d pull it out.

“You killed Eduard, you son of a bitch.”

“All I did was help him. Which is more than can be said for the rest of you.”

“So, Cousin, you’re claiming some relationship to the Schroeders all of a sudden? I thought you’d renounced all that. Wasn’t that what you said to the little Jewish slut?”

“Don’t call her that.”

Jürgen came even closer, till Paul could feel his breath on his face. His eyes were locked on Paul’s, savoring the pain he was about to cause with his words.

“Relax, she’s not going to be a slut for much longer. She’s going to become respectable now, a lady. The future Baroness von Schroeder.”

Paul knew at once that it was true, not just his cousin’s usual bragging. Bitter pain rose in his stomach, producing a shapeless, desperate cry. Jürgen laughed out loud, his eyes bulging. At last he let go of Paul’s hair, and Paul’s head dropped down onto his chest.

“Well, then, boys, let’s give him what he deserves.”

At that moment Paul threw his head back with all his might. The boy behind him had slackened his grip after Jürgen’s blows, doubtless believing victory was theirs. The top of Paul’s skull struck the thug’s face and he let Paul go, dropping to his knees. The others hurled themselves at Paul, but they all landed in a tangle on the floor.

Paul flailed, blindly throwing punches. In the middle of the confusion he felt something hard under his fingers and seized it. He tried to get to his feet, and had almost succeeded, when Jürgen noticed and launched himself at his cousin. Reflexively Paul shielded his face, unaware he was still holding the object he’d just picked up.

There was a dreadful scream, then silence.

Paul pulled himself over to the side of the cart. His cousin was on his knees, writhing on the floor. From the socket of his right eye protruded the wooden handle of the penknife. The boy had been lucky: if his friends had had the bright idea of bringing something bigger, Jürgen would be dead.

“Get it out! Get it out!” he screamed.

The others watched him, paralyzed. They didn’t want to be there anymore. For them, it was no longer a game.

“It hurts! Help me, for fuck’s sake!”

Finally one of the thugs managed to get to his feet and approached Jürgen.

“Don’t do it,” said Paul, horrified. “Get him to a hospital and have them remove it.”

The other boy glanced at Paul, his face expressionless. It was almost as though he weren’t there or weren’t in control of his actions. He approached Jürgen and placed his hand on the handle of the penknife. However, as he gripped it, Jürgen gave a sudden jerk in the opposite direction and the blade of the penknife gouged out much of his eyeball.

Jürgen was suddenly silent and brought his hand to the place where the penknife had been a moment earlier.

“I can’t see. Why can’t I see?”

Then he fainted.

The boy who had pulled out the penknife stood looking at him dumbly as the pinkish mass that had been the future baron’s right eye slid down the blade to the ground.

“You’ve got to take him to a hospital!” shouted Paul.

The rest of the gang were getting slowly to their feet, still not quite understanding what had happened to their leader. They had gone to the stable to obtain a simple, crushing victory; instead the unthinkable had happened.

Two of them took Jürgen by the hands and feet and carried him toward the door. The others joined them. Not one of them said a word.

Only the boy with the penknife stayed where he was, looking questioningly at Paul.

“Go on, then, if you dare,” Paul said, praying to heaven that he wouldn’t.

The boy opened his hand, dropped the penknife to the ground, and ran outside. Paul watched him leave; then, finally alone, he started to cry.

18

“I have no intention of doing that.”

“You’re my daughter, you’ll do as I say.”

“I’m not an object you can buy and sell.”

“This is the greatest opportunity of your life.”

“Of your life, you mean.”

“You’re the one who’ll be a baroness.”

“You don’t know him, Father. He’s a pig, a rude, arrogant . . .”

“Your mother described me in very similar terms when we first met.”

“Keep her out of this. She would never have . . .”

“Wanted the best for you? Tried to secure your happiness?”

“. . . forced her daughter to marry someone she detests. And a gentile, what’s more.”

“Would you have preferred someone nicer? A starving pauper like your friend the coal man? He’s not Jewish, either, Alys.”

“At least he’s not a bad person.”

“That’s what you think.”

“I matter to him.”

“You matter to him to the tune of exactly three thousand marks.”

“What?”

“The day your friend came to visit, I left a wad of banknotes on the washbasin. Three thousand marks for his troubles, on the condition he never show up here again.”

Alys was speechless.

“I know, my child. I know it’s hard . . .”

“You’re lying.”

“I swear to you, Alys, on your mother’s grave, that your friend the coal man took the money from the sink. You know I wouldn’t joke about something like that.”

“I . . .”

“People will always disappoint you, Alys. Come here, give me a hug . . .”

“Don’t touch me!”

“You’ll get over it. And you’ll learn to love the son of Baron von Schroeder as your mother ended up loving me.”

“I hate you!”

“Alys! Alys, come back!”

She left home two days later, in the dim morning light, amid a blizzard that had already blanketed the streets in snow.

She took with her a large suitcase filled with clothes and all the money she was able to get together. It wasn’t much, but it would be enough to keep her going for a few months until she could find a decent job. Her absurd, childish plan to return to Prescott, dreamt up at a time when it had seemed normal to travel in first-class compartments and eat her fill of lobster, was a thing of the past. Now she sensed that she was a different Alys, one who had to make her own way.

She also took a locket that had belonged to her mother. It contained a photo of Alys and another of Manfred. Her mother had worn it around her neck until the day she died.

Before leaving, Alys paused a moment at her brother’s door. She rested her hand on the doorknob but did not open it. She was afraid that seeing Manfred’s round, innocent face would diminish her resolve. Her willpower had already proved to be considerably weaker than she had anticipated.

Now it’s time to change all that, she thought, going out onto the street.

Her leather boots left dirty tracks in the snow, but the blizzard took care of that, wiping them out as it raged by.

19

On the day he was attacked, Paul and Hulbert showed up at their first delivery an hour late. Klaus Graf was white with rage. When he saw Paul’s battered face and heard his tale—corroborated with constant nodding from Hulbert, whom Paul had found tied to his bed, humiliation etched across his face—he sent him home.

The next morning Paul was surprised to find Graf at the stables, a place he almost never visited before the end of the day. Still confused by recent events, he didn’t notice the strange look the coal man was giving him.

“Hello, Herr Graf. What are you doing here?” he asked cautiously.

“Well, I just wanted to make sure that there wouldn’t be any more problems. Can you assure me those boys won’t be coming back, Paul?”

The young man hesitated a moment before replying.

“No, sir. I can’t.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Klaus rummaged in his coat and pulled out a couple of wrinkled, dirty banknotes. He handed them guiltily to Paul.

Paul took them, doing the sums in his head.

“A portion of my monthly salary, including today. Sir, are you dismissing me?”

“I’ve been thinking about what happened yesterday . . . I don’t want any problems, you understand?”

“Of course, sir.”

“You don’t seem surprised,” said Klaus, who had deep bags under his eyes, doubtless from a sleepless night trying to decide if he should dismiss the lad or not.

Paul looked at him, wondering whether to explain the depth of the abyss into which he was being cast by the bills in his hand. He decided against it, because the coal man already knew his plight. He opted instead for irony, which was increasingly becoming his currency.

“This is the second time you’ve betrayed me, Herr Graf. Betrayal loses its charm the second time around.”

20

“You can’t do this to me!”

The baron smiled and sipped his herbal tea. He was enjoying this situation, and what was worse, he was making no attempt to pretend otherwise. For the first time he could see the possibility of getting his hands on the Jew’s money without having to marry off Jürgen.

“My dear Tannenbaum, I don’t see how I’m doing anything at all.”

“Precisely!”

“There’s no bride, is there?”

“Well, no,” Tannenbaum acknowledged reluctantly.

“So there can’t be a wedding. And since the lack of a bride,” he said, clearing his throat, “is your responsibility, it’s reasonable that you should be taking care of the costs.”

Tannenbaum shifted uneasily in his seat, searching for a response. He served himself more tea and half the sugar bowl.

“I see you take it sweet,” said the baron, arching an eyebrow. The revulsion Josef produced in him had slowly been transformed into a strange fascination as the balance of power shifted.

“Well, after all, I’m the one who’s paid for this sugar.”

The baron responded with a grimace.

“There’s no need to be rude.”

“Do you think I’m an idiot, Baron? You told me you’d use the money to set up a factory to manufacture rubber products, like the one you lost five years ago. I believed you and transferred the vast sum you asked me for. And what do I find two years later? Not only have you not set up the factory, but the money’s ended up in a portfolio of stocks to which only you have access.”

“They’re reliable stocks, Tannenbaum.”

“That may be. But I don’t trust their keeper. It wouldn’t be the first time you’d wagered your family’s future on a winning hand.”

Baron Otto von Schroeder’s face assumed a look of offense that he couldn’t bring himself to feel. Lately he had contracted gambling fever again, and had spent long nights staring at the leather folder that contained the investments he’d made with Tannenbaum’s money. Each one had an instant liquidity clause, which meant that he could convert them into wads of banknotes in little over an hour with only his signature and a stiff penalty. He didn’t try to fool himself: he knew why the clause had been included. He knew the risk he was running. He’d started drinking more and more before bed, and the previous week he’d returned to the gaming table.

Not at the Munich casino; he wasn’t that stupid. He had disguised himself in the most modest clothes he could find, and visited an establishment in the Altstadt. A cellar with sawdust on the floor and whores with more paint on them than you’d find in the Alte Pinakothek. He asked for a glass of Korn and started at a table where the opening play was just two marks. He had five hundred in his pocket, the maximum he would allow himself to squander.