Juan Gomez-Jurado - The Traitor's emblem

What were you trying to tell me with this, Father?

On a padded red velvet base lay a gleaming pistol and a magazine containing ten bullets.

“This had better be important, Metzger. I’m extremely busy. If it’s about the fees, better come back some other day.”

Otto von Schroeder was seated by the fireplace of his study, and he didn’t offer the pawnbroker a seat or anything to drink. Metzger, obliged to remain standing, hat in hand, contained his fury and contrived a servile tilt of the head and a fake smile.

“The truth is, Herr Baron, I’ve come about another matter. The money you’ve invested all these years is about to bear fruit.”

“Has he come back to Munich? Has Nagel come back?” asked the baron, tensing.

“It’s more complicated than that, Your Lordship.”

“Well, then, don’t make me guess. Tell me what it is you want.”

“The truth is, Your Lordship, before conveying this important information, I would like to remind you that the objects whose sale I have put on hold for all this time, at great cost to my business-”

“Get on with it, Metzger.”

“-have increased in value a great deal. Your Lordship promised me an annual sum, and in return I was to inform you if Clovis Nagel redeemed any of them. And with all due respect, Your Lordship hasn’t paid this year or last.”

The baron lowered his voice.

“Don’t you dare blackmail me, Metzger. What I’ve paid you over two decades more than makes up for the junk you’ve kept in that dump of yours.”

“What can I say? Your Lordship gave his word, and Your Lordship hasn’t kept it. Well then, let us consider our agreement to be concluded. Good afternoon,” said the old man, donning his hat.

“Wait!” said the baron, raising his arm.

The pawnbroker turned, stifling a smile.

“Yes, Herr Baron?”

“I have no money, Metzger. I’m ruined.”

“You surprise me, Your Lordship!”

“I have treasury bonds, which might come to something if the government pays the dividends or restabilizes the economy. Till then they’re only worth as much as the paper they’re written on.”

The old man looked around him, his eyes narrowed.

“In that case, Your Lordship… I suppose I could accept as payment that little bronze and marble table you have beside your chair.”

“This is worth much more than your annual fee, Metzger.”

The old man shrugged but said nothing.

“Very well. Talk.”

“You would of course have to guarantee your payments for the years to come, Your Lordship. The embossed silver tea service on that little table would do, I imagine.”

“You’re a bastard, Metzger,” said the baron, giving him a look of undisguised hatred.

“Business is business, Herr Baron.”

Otto was silent for a few moments. He saw no other way but to give in to the old man’s blackmail.

“You win. For your sake, I hope it’s worth it,” he said at last.

“Today someone came to redeem one of the objects pawned by your friend.”

“Was it Nagel?”

“No, not unless he’s found some way of turning the clock back thirty years. It was a boy.”

“Did he give his name?”

“He was thin, with blue eyes, dark-blond hair.”

“Paul…”

“I’ve told you, he didn’t give his name.”

“And what was it he collected?”

“A black mahogany box containing a pistol.”

The baron leapt from his seat so quickly that it tipped backward and crashed into the low rail surrounding the fireplace.

“What did you say?” he said, grabbing the pawnbroker by the throat.

“You’re hurting me!”

“Talk, for God’s sake, or I’ll break your neck this instant.”

“A plain black mahogany box,” replied the old man in a whisper.

“The pistol! Describe it!”

“A Mauser C96 with a broom handle grip. The wood on the butt wasn’t oak, like the original model, but black mahogany, matching the case. A fine weapon.”

“How can this be?” said the baron.

Suddenly weak, he released the pawnbroker and slumped back into his seat.

Old Metzger straightened up, rubbing his neck.

“Mad. He’s gone mad,” Metzger said, making a dash for the door.

The baron didn’t notice him go. He remained seated, his head in his hands, consumed by dark thoughts.

Ilse was sweeping the corridor when she noticed the shadow of a visitor cast across the floor by the light of the wall lamps. She knew who it was even before raising her head, and she froze.

Holy God, how did you find us?

When she and her son had first arrived at the boardinghouse, Ilse had had to work to pay for part of the rent, since what Paul was making carrying coal wasn’t enough. Later, when Paul had transformed Ziegler’s grocery into a bank, the young man had insisted that they find better lodgings. Ilse had refused. There had been too many changes in her life, and she clung to whatever gave her security.

One of those things was the broom handle. Paul-and the owner of the boardinghouse, to whom Ilse wasn’t much help-had insisted that she stop working, but she had paid no attention. She needed to feel useful somehow. The silence into which she’d sunk after they’d been expelled from the mansion had initially been the result of anxiety, but later had become a voluntary manifestation of her love for Paul. She avoided conversation with him because she was afraid of his questions. When she spoke, it was of unimportant things, which she tried to invest with all the tenderness she could muster. The rest of the time she simply gazed at him silently, from afar, and grieved over what she had been deprived of.

Which was why her anguish was so intense when she found herself face-to-face with one of the people responsible for her loss.

“Hello, Ilse.”

She took a step back cautiously.

“What do you want, Otto?”

The baron drummed on the ground with the end of his walking stick. He wasn’t comfortable here, that much was clear, as was the fact that his visit signaled some sinister intent.

“Can we talk somewhere more private?”

“I don’t want to go anywhere with you. Say what you have to say and leave.”

The baron snorted in annoyance. Then he gestured scornfully at the moldy paper on the walls, the uneven floor, and the fading lamps that gave off more shadow than light.

“Look at you, Ilse. Sweeping the corridor in a third-class boardinghouse. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“Sweeping floors is sweeping floors, it makes no difference if it’s a mansion or a boardinghouse. And there are linoleum floors that are more respectable than marble.”

“Ilse, dear, you know that when we took you in you were in a bad way. I wouldn’t have wanted-”

“Stop right there, Otto. I know whose idea that was. But don’t think I’m going to fall for the routine that you’re only a puppet. You’re the one who’s controlled my sister from the very start, making her pay dearly for the mistake she made. And for the things you’ve done hiding behind that mistake.”

Otto took a step back, shocked at the anger that seethed from Ilse’s lips. The monocle fell from his eye and swung against the front of his overcoat like a condemned man hanging from a gibbet.

“You surprise me, Ilse. They told me you’d-”

Ilse gave a joyless laugh.

“Lost it? Gone crazy? No, Otto. I’m quite sane. I’ve chosen to remain silent all this time because I’m afraid of what my son might do if he found out the truth.”

“So stop him. Because he’s going too far.”

“So that’s why you’ve come,” she said, unable to contain her scorn. “You’re afraid the past will finally catch up with you.”