Juan Gomez-Jurado - The Traitor's emblem

What the hell is he doing here?

Her first impulse was to hide the Kodak behind her back, ashamed, but couldn’t maintain that position for long as the camera and flash were too heavy.

Besides, I’m working. Hell, that’s something I should feel proud of.

“Hey, nice body! Take my photo, gorgeous!”

Alys smiled, raised the flash-supported on a long stick-and squeezed the trigger so that it went off without her having to use up any film. The two drunks obstructing her view of Paul’s tables tumbled sideways. Although she had to recharge the flash with magnesium powder every once in a while, this was still the most efficient way of getting rid of anyone bothering her.

A lot of people buzzed around her on nights like this, when she would have to take two or three hundred photos of the customers at the BeldaKlub. Once they had been developed, the owner would choose half a dozen to put up on the wall by the entrance, shots showing customers living it up with the club’s dancing girls. The best photos, according to the owner, were the ones taken in the early hours of the morning, when you could frequently witness the biggest wastrels drinking champagne from the girls’ shoes. Alys detested the whole place: the noisy music, the sequined suits, the provocative songs, the alcohol, and the people who consumed it in vast quantities. But it was her job.

She hesitated before approaching Paul. She felt that she wasn’t looking particularly pretty in her dark blue secondhand suit with a little hat that didn’t quite match, and yet she continued to attract the losers like a magnet. She’d long since come to the conclusion that men loved being in the center of her lens and she decided to use this fact to break the ice with Paul. She still felt ashamed of the way her father had thrown him out of the house, and a slight unease at the lie she’d been told about him keeping the money.

I’ll play a joke on him. I’ll approach him with the camera covering my face, I’ll take the photo, and then I’ll reveal to him who I am. I’m sure he’ll be pleased.

She set off with a smile.

Eight months earlier Alys had been out on the street looking for work.

Unlike Paul, her search hadn’t been desperate, as she had enough money to last her a few months. All the same, it had been tough. The only jobs for women-called out from street corners or whispered in back rooms-were as prostitutes or mistresses, and that was a path down which Alys wasn’t prepared to go under any circumstances.

Not that, and I won’t go back home, either, she swore.

She thought about traveling to another city. Hamburg, Dusseldorf, Berlin. However, the news that arrived from those places was as bad as what was happening in Munich, or worse. And there was something-the hope of meeting a certain someone again, perhaps-that held her back. But as her reserves dwindled, Alys increasingly began to despair. Then one afternoon, walking down the Agnesstrasse in search of a sewing workshop she had been told about, Alys saw a notice on a shop window. Assistant Required

Women Need Not Apply

She didn’t even check what sort of business it was. She pushed open the door indignantly and marched up to the only person behind the counter: a thin, older man, with dramatically receding gray hair.

“Afternoon, Fraulein.”

“Good afternoon. I’ve come about the job.”

The little man looked at her intently.

“Might I hazard a guess that you do actually know how to read, Fraulein?”

“Yes, although I always have difficulty with any nonsense.”

At that, the man’s face changed. His mouth creased up in amusement, revealing a pleasant smile, which was followed by a laugh. “You’re hired!”

Alys looked at him, utterly thrown. She’d gone into the place ready to rub the owner’s face in his ridiculous sign, and thinking that all she’d achieve would be to make a fool of herself.

“Surprised?”

“Quite surprised, yes.”

“You see, Fraulein…”

“Alys Tannenbaum.”

“August Muntz,” the man said, with an elegant bow. “You see, Fraulein Tannenbaum, I put up that sign so that a woman just like you would respond. The job I’m offering requires technical skill, presence of mind, and above all a good deal of insolence and daring. It would appear you possess the latter two qualities, and the first can be taught, especially with the benefit of my own experience…”

“And you don’t mind that I’m…”

“A Jew? You’ll soon discover that I’m not very conventional, darling.”

“What precisely is it that you want me to do?” asked Alys suspiciously.

“Isn’t it obvious?” the man said, gesturing around him. Alys looked at the shop for the first time and saw that it was a photography studio. “Take photos.”

Though Paul had changed with each job he’d taken on, Alys had been completely transformed by hers. The young woman had instantly fallen in love with photography. She’d never been behind a camera before, but once she had learned the basics, she understood there was nothing else she wanted to do with her life. She was particularly fond of the darkroom, where the chemicals were mixed in trays. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the image as it began to appear on the paper, as features and faces became distinct.

She immediately hit it off with the photographer too. Although the sign on the door said MUNTZ AND SONS, Alys soon discovered that there were no sons, nor would there ever be. August lived in a flat above the shop with a delicate, pale young man he called “my nephew Ernst.” Alys spent long evenings playing backgammon with the two of them, and as time went on her smile returned.

There was only one aspect of the job she didn’t like, which was precisely what August had hired her for. The owner of a nearby cabaret club-August confessed to Alys that the man had been a former lover of his-had offered a good sum of money to have a photographer on the premises three nights a week.

“He’d like it to be me, of course. But I think it’s best if a pretty girl shows up… one who won’t allow herself to be bullied,” said August with a wink.

The club owner was happy. The photos at the entrance to his establishment helped to spread the word about the BeldaKlub until it became one of the highlights of Munich’s nightlife. It couldn’t compare to the likes of Berlin, of course, but in dark times any business based on alcohol and sex is bound to succeed. It was a widely spread rumor that many customers would spend their entire salaries in five frenzied hours before resorting to the trigger, the rope, or a bottle of pills.

As she approached Paul, Alys trusted that he wouldn’t be one of these customers out for a final fling.

No doubt he’s come with a friend. Or out of curiosity, she thought. After all, everyone was coming to the BeldaKlub these days, even if it was only to waste hours sipping a single beer. The barmen were understanding sorts, and they were known to accept engagement rings in exchange for a couple of pints.

As she drew near, she held the camera up to her face. There were five people at the table, two men and three women. On the tablecloth were several half-empty or overturned bottles of champagne, and a heap of food that was almost untouched.

“Hey, Paul! You’ve got to pose for posterity!” said the man standing next to Alys.

Paul looked up. He was wearing a black tuxedo that didn’t sit at all well on his shoulders, and a bow tie that was undone and hung down over his shirt. When he spoke, his voice was thick and his words slurred.

“Hear that, girls? Put a smile on those faces.”

The two women on either side of Paul were wearing silvery party dresses and hats to match. One of them grabbed him by the chin, forced him to look at her, and planted a sloppy French kiss just as the shutter came down. The surprised recipient returned the kiss and then burst out laughing.