Juan Gomez-Jurado - The Traitor's emblem

Increasingly, Paul closed in on himself, and the few times he and his mother crossed paths at the boardinghouse, they barely said a word. He ate little, hardly slept, and paid no attention to his surroundings. On one occasion the back wheel of the cart narrowly missed a trolley. As he endured the curses of the passengers-who shouted that he could have killed them all-Paul told himself he had to do something to escape the thick storm clouds of melancholy that floated around inside his head.

It was not surprising that he didn’t notice the figure watching him one afternoon on Frauenstrasse. The stranger approached the cart slowly at first to get a closer look, trying to keep out of Paul’s line of sight. The man jotted down notes in a booklet he carried in his pocket, carefully writing the name Klaus Graf. Now that Paul had more time and a healthy arm, the sideboards of the cart were always clean and the letters visible, which went some way to dampening the coal man’s anger. Finally the observer sat down in a nearby beer hall until the carts had left. It was only then that he approached the estate they had been supplying to make some discreet inquiries.

Jurgen was in an extremely bad mood. He had just received his marks for the first four months of the year, and they were not in the least bit encouraging.

I’ll have to get that cretin Kurt to give me private lessons, he thought. Maybe he’ll do a couple of bits of work for me. I’ll ask him to come round to my house and use my typewriter so they won’t find out.

It was his final year of secondary school, and a place at university was at stake, with all that it entailed. He had no particular interest in getting a degree, but he liked the idea of strutting around campus, parading his baronial title. Even if he didn’t actually have it yet.

It’ll be full of pretty girls. I’ll be fighting them off.

He was in his bedroom, fantasizing about university girls, when the maid-a new one hired by his mother after she’d thrown out the Reiners-called to him from outside the door.

“Young Master Krohn is here to see you, Master Jurgen.”

“Let him in.”

Jurgen greeted his friend with a grunt.

“Just the person I wanted to see. I need you to autograph my report card; if my father sees it, he’ll fly off the handle. I’ve spent the whole morning trying to fake his signature, but it doesn’t look anything like it,” he said, pointing to the floor, which was covered in scrunched-up bits of paper.

Krohn glanced at the report lying open on the table and gave a whistle of surprise.

“Well, we have been enjoying ourselves, haven’t we?”

“You know Waburg hates me.”

“From what I can tell, half of the teachers share his dislike. But let’s not worry about your performance at school right now, Jurgen, because I bring you news. You should prepare yourself for the hunt.”

“What are you talking about? What are we hunting?”

Krohn smiled, already enjoying the recognition he would earn from his discovery.

“A bird that’s flown the nest, my friend. A bird with a broken wing.”

Paul had absolutely no idea something was wrong until it was too late.

His day began as usual, with a trolley journey from the boardinghouse to Klaus Graf’s stables on the banks of the Isar. Every day when he arrived it was still dark, and he sometimes had to wake Hulbert. He and the mute had hit it off after their initial distrust, and Paul really valued those moments before dawn when they harnessed the horses to the carts and headed for the coal stores. There they’d put the cart in the loading bay, where a wide metal pipe would fill the cart in under ten minutes. An employee would take note of how many times the Graf men came in to load up each day, so the total could be settled on a weekly basis. Then Paul and Hulbert would head off toward their first appointment. Klaus would be there, waiting for them, puffing impatiently on his pipe. A simple, exhausting routine.

That day Paul reached the stables and pushed open the door as he did every morning. It was never locked, because there was nothing inside worth stealing, apart from the harnesses. Hulbert slept only half a meter from the horses, in a room with a rickety old bed to the right of the animals’ stalls.

“Wake up, Hulbert! There’s more snow than usual today. We’ll have to head out a little early if we want to get to Moosach in time.”

There was no sign of his mute companion, but that was normal. It always took him a while to appear.

Suddenly Paul heard the horses stamping nervously in their stalls and something turned over in his guts, a feeling he’d not experienced in a long time. His lungs felt leaden and there was an acidic taste in his mouth.

Jurgen.

He took a step toward the door but then stopped. There they were, appearing from every cranny, and he cursed himself for not having seen them earlier. From inside the cupboard where the shovels were kept, from the horses’ stalls, and from underneath the carts. There were seven of them-the same seven who’d pursued him at Jurgen’s birthday party. It seemed like an eternity ago. Their faces were broader, harder, and they no longer wore their school jackets but thick sweaters and boots. Clothes better suited to the task.

“You won’t be sliding across the marble this time, Cousin,” said Jurgen, gesturing contemptuously at the earth floor.

“Hulbert!” Paul cried desperately.

“Your retarded friend is tied up in his bed. We didn’t have to gag him, of course…” said one of the thugs. The others seemed to find this very funny.

Paul leapt up onto one of the carts as the boys closed in on him. One of them tried to grab his ankle, but Paul lifted his foot just in time and brought it down on the boy’s fingers. There was a crunching sound.

“He’s broken them! The absolute son of a bitch!”

“Shut up! Half an hour from now, this little piece of shit will wish he was in your place,” said Jurgen.

Some of the boys went around to the back of the cart. Out of the corner of his eye Paul saw another grab hold of the driver’s seat, meaning to climb on. He sensed the glint of a penknife blade.

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!” Jurgen 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.