Juan Gomez-Jurado - The Traitor's emblem

For Paul, the meetings became an onerous duty, which he endured each fortnight in order to get to know the members of the lodge. Even this aim wasn’t easy to achieve, as the older Masons, those who undoubtedly would have known his father, sat at different tables in the great dining hall. On occasion he’d tried to get close to Keller, wanting to press the bookseller about his promise to hand over whatever it was his father had left for him. In the lodge Keller treated him with distance, and in the bookshop he brushed Paul off with vague excuses.

Keller had never written to him before now, and Paul knew at once that whatever was in the brown envelope the owner of his boardinghouse had given him was the thing he’d been awaiting for so long.

Paul sat on the edge of his bed, his breath labored. He was sure the envelope would contain a letter from his father. He couldn’t hold back his tears when he imagined what must have driven Hans Reiner to compose a missive to his son, then just a few months old, attempting to freeze his voice in time until his son was ready to understand it.

He tried to imagine what his father would want to tell him. Perhaps he would offer wise advice. Perhaps he would embrace him across time.

Perhaps he’ll give me clues about the person or people who were going to kill him, Paul thought, his teeth clenched.

With extreme care he tore open the envelope and put his hand inside. In it there was another, smaller envelope, white, together with a handwritten note on the back of one of the bookseller’s business cards. Dear Paul, Congratulations. Hans would be proud. This is what your father left for you. I don’t know what it contains, but I hope it will help you. S.K.

Paul opened the second envelope and a small sheet of white paper printed in blue fell to the ground. He was paralyzed with disappointment when he picked it up and saw what it was.

The Metzger pawnshop was a cold place, colder even than the early November air. Paul wiped his feet on the mat before entering, as it was raining outside. He left his umbrella in the stand and looked around curiously. He vaguely recalled the morning, four years ago now, when he and his mother had gone to a shop in Schwabing to pawn his father’s watch. That had been a sterile place, with glass shelves and employees wearing ties.

Metzger’s looked more like a large sewing box and smelled of naphthalene. From the outside, the shop seemed small and insignificant, but on crossing the threshold its enormous depth was revealed, a place filled to bursting with pieces of furniture, galena crystal radios, porcelain figures, and even a golden birdcage. Rust and dust overwhelmed the various objects that had dropped anchor there for the last time. Astonished, Paul considered a stuffed cat caught in the act of snatching a sparrow in flight. Between the feline’s extended leg and the wing of the bird, a spider’s web had formed.

“This isn’t a museum, lad.”

Paul turned, startled. A thin, hollow-faced old man had materialized beside him, wrapped in blue overalls that were too large for his frame, and which accentuated his thinness.

“Are you Metzger?”

“I am. And if whatever you’ve brought me isn’t gold, I don’t want it.”

“The truth is I haven’t come to pawn anything. I’ve come to collect something,” replied Paul. He had already taken a dislike to this man and his suspicious behavior.

A flash of greed crossed the old man’s tiny eyes. It was obvious that business wasn’t going too well.

“Sorry, lad… I have twenty people coming in here every day who think their great-grandmother’s old copper cameo is worth thousands of marks. But let’s see… let’s see what you’re here for.”

Paul held out the blue and white piece of paper that he’d found in the envelope the bookseller had sent him. In the top left corner was Metzger’s name and address. Paul had rushed there as fast as he could, still recovering from the surprise of not finding a letter inside. Instead, there were four handwritten words: Art. 91231

21 marks

The old man pointed at the slip. “There’s a bit missing. We don’t accept damaged slips.”

The top right-hand corner, which should have shown the name of the person who had made the deposit, had been torn off.

“The article number is perfectly readable,” said Paul.

“But we can’t hand over objects deposited by our customers to the first person who walks through the door.”

“Whatever it is belonged to my father.”

The old man scratched his chin, pretending to study the slip with interest.

“In any case the number is very low: the article must have been pawned many years ago. I’m sure it will have gone out to auction.”

“I see. And how can we be certain?”

“I suppose if the customer were prepared to recover the article, taking into account inflation…”

Paul flinched as the pawnbroker at last showed his hand: it was clear he wanted to get as much out of the transaction as he could. But Paul was resolved to recover the object, whatever the cost.

“Very well.”

“Wait here,” said the other man with a triumphant smile.

The old man disappeared and returned half a minute later with a moth-eaten cardboard box marked with a yellowing ticket.

“Here you go, lad.”

Paul held out his hand to take it, but the old man grabbed him tightly by the wrist. The touch of his cold, wrinkled skin was repulsive.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“First the money.”

“First you show me what’s inside.”

“I’m not having any of that,” said the old man, shaking his head slowly. “I’m trusting that you’re the legitimate owner of this box, and you’re trusting that what’s inside is worth the trouble. A double act of faith, as it were.”

Paul wrestled with himself a few moments, but he knew he had no choice.

“Let go of me.”

Metzger opened his fingers, and Paul dug his hand into the inside pocket of his coat. He took out his wallet.

“How much?”

“Forty million marks.”

It was equivalent to ten dollars at that day’s rate, enough to feed a family for many weeks.

“That’s a lot of money,” said Paul, pursing his lips.

“Take it or leave it.”

Paul sighed. He had the money on him, as the next day he was supposed to go make some payments for the bank. He’d have to take it out of his next six months’ wages, the little he earned after diverting all the profits from the business to Herr Ziegler’s charity shop. To cap it all, share prices had recently been stagnating or falling, and the investors had dwindled, making the queues at the welfare food halls longer each day, with no end to the crisis in sight.

Paul took out the enormous stack of recently printed banknotes. Paper money never grew old in those days. In fact, the notes from the previous quarter were already worthless and fueled Munich’s chimneys, as they were cheaper than firewood.

The pawnbroker snatched the notes from Paul’s hand and began to count them slowly, studying them one at a time against the light. Finally he looked at the young man and smiled, showing his missing teeth.

“Satisfied?” Paul asked sarcastically.

Metzger drew back his hand.

Paul opened the box carefully, raising a cloud of dust that floated around him in the light of the bulb. He lifted out a flat, square box made of smooth, dark mahogany. It had no decorations, no varnish, only a clasp that opened when Paul pushed on it. The lid of the box rose slowly and silently, as though nineteen years hadn’t passed since the last time it was opened.

Paul felt an icy fear in his heart as he looked at the contents.

“You’d best take care, lad,” said the pawnbroker, from whose hands the banknotes had disappeared as if by magic. “You could find yourself in enormous trouble if they find you on the streets with that toy.”