Juan Gomez-Jurado - The Traitor's emblem

Ilse tried to push his hand away but, with her strength almost gone, it was like a child pushing at a ton of granite.

“Leave me alone. For God’s sake, haven’t you done enough to me?”

Jurgen glanced around. Moving away from the bed, he seized the oil lamp from the nearby table and threw it against the wardrobe. The glass shattered, spilling burning kerosene everywhere.

He returned to the bed and, looking Ilse right in the eye, placed the tip of the knife against her belly. He inhaled.

Then he buried the blade up to the hilt.

“I have now.”

After the argument with Alys, Paul was in a foul mood. He chose to ignore the cold and walked home, a decision that would become the biggest regret of his life.

It took Paul almost an hour to walk the seven kilometers that separated the beer hall from the boardinghouse. He barely paid any attention to his surroundings, his head lost in his recollections of the conversation with Alys, imagining things he could have said that would have changed the outcome. One moment he wished he’d been conciliatory, the next he wished he’d replied in a way that wounded her, so that she would know how he felt. Lost in the interminable spiral of love, he didn’t notice what was happening till he was just a few steps from the gate.

Then he smelled the smoke and saw people running. A fire engine was parked in front of the building.

Paul looked up. There was a fire on the third floor.

“Oh, Holy God-Mama!”

On the other side of the road a crowd was forming, a mixture of curious bystanders and people from the boardinghouse. Paul ran toward them, searching for familiar faces and shouting Ilse’s name. Finally he found the landlady, who was sitting on the curb, her face smeared with soot that was furrowed with tears. Paul shook her.

“My mother! Where is she?”

The landlady started to cry again, unable to look him in the eye.

“No one’s escaped from the third floor. Oh, if my father, may he rest in peace, could see what’s become of his building!”

“And the firemen?”

“They’ve not gone in yet, but there’s nothing they can do. The fire’s blocked the stairways.”

“And from the other roof? The one at number twenty-two?”

“Perhaps,” said the landlady, wringing her calloused hands in distress. “You can jump from there…”

Paul didn’t hear the end of her sentence because he was already running toward the neighbors’ door. An unfriendly policeman was there, questioning one of the boardinghouse tenants. He frowned when he saw Paul charging toward him.

“And where do you think you’re going? We’re clearing-Hey!”

Paul shoved the policeman aside, knocking him to the ground.

The building had five floors, one more than the boardinghouse. Each was a private dwelling, though they must all have been empty at the time. Paul groped his way up the stairs, as the building’s electricity had clearly been cut off.

On the top floor he had to stop because he couldn’t find the way onto the roof. Then he understood that he’d have to reach up to a trapdoor in the middle of the ceiling. He jumped, trying to grip the handle, but he was still short by a couple of feet. Desperately he looked around for something that might help him, but there was nothing he could use.

I have no choice but to force the door of one of the apartments.

He threw himself against the nearest door, ramming it with his shoulder, but he achieved nothing except a sharp pain running down his arm. So he started kicking at the level of the lock and succeeded in opening the door after half a dozen blows. He grabbed the first thing he could find in the dark entrance hall, which turned out to be a chair. Standing on that, he was able to reach the trapdoor and lower the wooden ladder that led to the flat roof.

Outside, the air was unbreathable. The wind was blowing the smoke in his direction, and Paul had to cover his mouth with his handkerchief. He almost fell down the space between the two buildings, a gap of a little more than a meter. He could barely see the neighboring roof.

Where the hell do I jump?

He took his keys from his pocket and threw them ahead of him. There was a sound Paul identified as the impact with stone or wood, and he jumped in that direction.

For a brief moment he felt his body floating in the smoke. Then he fell onto his hands and knees, scraping his palms. At last he’d reached the boardinghouse.

Hang on, Mama. I’m here now.

He had to walk with his hands stretched out in front of him until he had cleared the smoky area, which was at the front of the building, closest to the street. Even through his shoes he could feel the roof’s intense heat. Toward the back there was an awning, a legless rocking chair, and the thing Paul was searching for desperately.

Access to the next floor down!

He ran toward the door, afraid that it would be locked. His strength was beginning to fail, and his legs felt heavy.

Please, God, don’t let the fire have reached her room. Please. Mama, tell me you were smart enough to turn on the tap and to stuff something wet into the cracks around the door.

The door to the stairs was open. There was smoke in the stairwell, but it was bearable. Paul rushed down as fast as he could, but on the penultimate step he tripped over something. He quickly stood back up and knew he’d only have to make it to the end of the corridor and turn right, and then he’d be at the entrance to his mother’s room.

He tried to move forward, but it was impossible. The smoke was a dirty orange color, there was no air, and the heat of the fire was so intense that he couldn’t take another step.

“Mama!” he said, wanting to cry out, but the only thing that came from his mouth was a dry, painful croak.

The patterned wallpaper began to burn beside him, and Paul realized he would soon be surrounded by the fire if he didn’t get out quickly. He doubled back as the flames lit up the stairwell. Paul could now see what he’d tripped over, what those dark stains were on the rug.

There on the floor, lying by the bottom step, was his mother. And she was hurt.

“Mama! No!”

He crouched down beside her, searching for a pulse. Ilse seemed to respond.

“Paul,” she whispered.

“You’ve got to hang on, Mama! I’ll get you out of here!”

The young man lifted her small body and ran up the stairs. Stepping outside, he moved as far from the staircase as he could, but the smoke had spread everywhere.

Paul stopped. He couldn’t get through the curtain of smoke with his mother in that state, still less jump blindly between two buildings with her in his arms. Nor could they stay where they were. Whole sections of the roof had now fallen in, and sharp red spears were licking at the gaps. The roof would collapse in a matter of minutes.

“You’ve got to hang on, Mama. I’ll get you out of here. I’ll take you to the hospital and you’ll soon get better. I swear. So you’ve got to hang on.”

“The ground…” said Ilse, coughing slightly. “Put me down.”

Paul knelt and rested her legs on the ground. It was the first time he’d been able to see the state his mother was in. Her dress covered in blood. The finger hacked off her right hand.

“Who did this to you?” he said with a grimace.

The woman could barely speak. Her face was pale, and her lips trembled. She’d dragged herself out of the bedroom in order to escape the flames, leaving a red streak behind her. The injury, which had forced her to crawl on all fours, had paradoxically kept her alive longer, as in that position her lungs had taken in less smoke. But by now Ilse Reiner barely had a breath of life left in her.

“Who, Mama?” Paul repeated. “Was it Jurgen?”