Juan Gomez-Jurado - The Traitor's emblem

He’d hidden his cudgel in the folded paper and, fearful that it might fall, squeezed it so hard against his armpit that the next day he would have a considerable bruise. Under his civilian clothes he was wearing the brown uniform of the SA, which would certainly have attracted too much attention in an area that was as full of Jews as this one. His cap was in his pocket and he’d left his boots at the barracks, choosing a pair of sturdy shoes instead.

Finally, after going past many times, he managed to find a breach in the line of defense. The landlady left her broom leaning against the wall and disappeared through a small inner door, perhaps to prepare dinner. Jurgen made the most of this gap to slip into the house and trot up the stairs to the top floor. Having passed various landings and corridors, he found himself outside Ilse Reiner’s door.

He knocked.

If she’s not here, everything will be easier, thought Jurgen, anxious to complete the task as soon as possible and cross over to the east bank of the Isar, where the members of the Stosstrupp had been told to meet two hours earlier. It was a historic day and here he was, wasting his time in some intrigue he couldn’t have cared less about.

If at least I’d been able to fight Paul… that would have been different.

A smile lit up his face. At the same moment, his aunt opened the door and looked straight into his eyes. Perhaps she read betrayal and murder in them; perhaps she was simply afraid of Jurgen’s presence. But whatever the reason, she reacted by trying to slam the door shut.

Jurgen was quick. He managed to get his left hand there just in time. The doorjamb hit his knuckles hard and he stifled a cry of pain, but he had succeeded. However hard Ilse pushed, her fragile body was powerless against Jurgen’s brutal strength. He leaned his great weight against the door, and both his aunt and the chain protecting her were dispatched onto the floor.

“If you scream I’ll kill you, old woman,” said Jurgen, his voice low and serious as he closed the door behind him.

“Have some respect: I’m younger than your mother,” said Ilse from the floor.

Jurgen didn’t reply. His knuckles were bleeding: the blow had been harder than it had seemed. He set the newspaper and cudgel on the ground and approached the neatly made bed. He tore off a piece of the sheet and was tying it around his hand when Ilse, believing him to be distracted, opened the door. Just as she was about to make a run for it, Jurgen yanked hard at her dress, pulling her back down.

“Nice try. So, now can we talk?”

“You haven’t come here to talk.”

“That’s true.”

Grabbing her by the hair, he forced her to stand up again and look him in the eye.

“So, Auntie, where are the papers?”

“How typical of the baron, sending you to do what he doesn’t dare do himself,” snorted Ilse. “Do you know what it is he’s sent you to get?”

“You people and your secrets. No, my father hasn’t told me anything, he’s just asked me to get your papers. Luckily my mother gave me more detail. She said I have to find a letter of yours that’s full of lies, and another from your husband.”

“I have no intention of giving you anything.”

“You don’t seem to understand what I’m prepared to do, Auntie.”

He took off his overcoat and put it down on a chair. Then he drew out a red-handled hunting knife. The sharp edge gave off a silvery gleam in the light from the oil lamp, which was reflected in his aunt’s trembling eyes.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, I think you’ll find I would.”

For all his bravado, the situation was more difficult than Jurgen had imagined. It wasn’t like a tavern brawl, where he would allow his instinct and adrenaline to take over, and his body became a savage, brutal machine.

When he took the woman’s right arm and held it down on the bedside table, he felt barely any emotion. But then a sadness bit into him like the sharp teeth of a saw, scraping the pit of his stomach and showing as little mercy as he himself showed when he put the knife to his aunt’s fingers and removed her index finger in two messy cuts.

Ilse screamed in pain, but Jurgen was ready and covered her mouth with his hand. He wondered where the excitement was that violence usually brought, which was what had first attracted him to the SA.

Could it be the lack of challenge? Because this scared old crow was no challenge at all.

The screams stifled under Jurgen’s palm had dissolved into inaudible sobbing. He fixed his gaze on the woman’s tearful eyes, trying to take the same pleasure from this situation that he’d felt knocking out the teeth of the young Communist a few weeks earlier. But no. He gave a resigned sigh.

“Now will you cooperate? This isn’t much fun for either of us.”

Ilse nodded hard.

“I’m glad to hear it. Give me what I’ve asked you for,” he said, releasing her.

She moved away from Jurgen and, with hesitant steps, walked toward the wardrobe. The mutilated hand that she held against her chest left a growing stain on her cream-colored dress. She searched among her clothes with her other hand till she found a small white envelope.

“This is my letter,” she said, holding it out to Jurgen.

The young man took the envelope, the surface of which bore a bloody smudge. His cousin’s name was written on the other side. He tore open one end of the envelope and removed five sheets filled with tight, round handwriting.

Jurgen glanced over the first lines but then was drawn in by what he read. Halfway through the text his eye bulged and his breathing became agitated. He threw Ilse a suspicious look, unable to believe what he was seeing.

“It’s a lie! A filthy lie!” he cried, stepping toward his aunt and holding the knife to her throat.

“It isn’t, Jurgen. I’m sorry you had to find out like this,” she said.

“You’re sorry? You feel sorry for me, do you? I’ve just cut off your finger, you old hag! What’s to stop me slitting your throat, eh? Tell me it’s a lie,” hissed Jurgen in a cold whisper that made Ilse’s hair stand on end.

“I’ve been a victim of this particular truth for many years. It’s part of what has made you into the monster you are.”

“Does he know?”

This last question was too much for Ilse. She staggered, dizzy with the emotion and loss of blood, and Jurgen had to catch her.

“Don’t you dare faint now, useless old woman!”

There was a washbasin close by. Jurgen threw his aunt onto the bed and tipped some water over her face.

“Enough,” she said weakly.

“Answer me. Does Paul know?”

“No.”

Jurgen allowed her a few moments to recover. A tide of conflicting feelings passed through his head as he reread the letter, this time to the end.

When he finished, he folded the pages up carefully and put them in a pocket. Now he understood why his father had been so insistent about wanting these papers, and why his mother had asked him to bring them to her first.

They wanted to use me. They think I’m an idiot. No one is going to have this letter but me… and I’ll use it at just the right moment. Yes, that’s it. When they least expect it…

But there was something else he needed. He walked slowly toward the bed and leaned over the mattress.

“I want Hans’s letter.”

“I haven’t got it. I swear to God. Your father’s always been looking for it, but I don’t have it. I’m not even sure that it exists,” Ilse stammered, clinging to her mutilated hand.

“I don’t believe you,” lied Jurgen. Ilse didn’t seem capable of hiding anything at that moment, but all the same he wanted to see what reaction his disbelief would provoke. Again he held the knife to her face.