Juan Gomez-Jurado - The Traitor's emblem

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

“Not running anymore, eh?”

Jurgen 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, Jurgen,” 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.

Jurgen 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.”

Jurgen 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. Jurgen 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 Jurgen’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 Jurgen 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, Jurgen 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 Jurgen.

“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 Jurgen and placed his hand on the handle of the penknife. However, as he gripped it, Jurgen gave a sudden jerk in the opposite direction and the blade of the penknife gouged out much of his eyeball.

Jurgen 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 Jurgen 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.

“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.