Juan Gomez-Jurado - The Traitor's emblem

Visiting a different lodge each week, Jurgen had managed to obtain the names of more than three thousand members. Heydrich was ecstatic at the progress, and Eichmann, too, as he saw his dream of escaping his grim employment in Dachau becoming closer to a reality. He hadn’t minded typing up note cards for Heydrich in his free time, or even the occasional weekend trip with Jurgen to cities nearby, such as Augsburg, Ingolstadt, and Stuttgart. But the obsession that had awoken in Jurgen over the last few days worried him a great deal. The man thought of almost nothing but this Paul Reiner. He hadn’t even explained what part Reiner played in the mission Heydrich had charged them with; he’d said only that he wanted to find him.

“I was right,” repeated Jurgen, more to himself than to his nervous companion. “She’s the key.”

He adjusted the lenses of the binoculars. Using them wasn’t easy for Jurgen, having only one eye, and he had to lower them every once in a while. He shifted a little and the image of Alys appeared in his field of vision. She was very beautiful, more mature than the last time he’d seen her. He looked at the way her black short-sleeved blouse emphasized her breasts, and adjusted the binoculars to get a better look.

If only my father hadn’t turned her down. What a terrible humiliation it would have been for this little tart to have to marry me and do anything I wanted, Jurgen fantasized. He had an erection and had to put his hand in his pocket to arrange himself discreetly so that Eichmann wouldn’t notice.

On second thought, it’s better like this. Marrying a Jew would have been fatal to my career in the SS. And this way I can kill two birds with one stone: luring Paul in and having her. The whore will learn soon enough.

“Shall we continue as planned, sir?” said Eichmann.

“Yes, Adolf. Follow him. I want to know where he’s lodging.”

“And then? We turn him in to the Gestapo?”

With Alys’s father it had been so very easy. One call to an Obersturmfuhrer he knew, ten minutes’ conversation, and four men had removed the insolent Jew from his Prinzregentenplatz apartment, giving no explanation. The plan had worked out perfectly. Now Paul had come to the funeral, just as Jurgen was sure he would.

It would be so simple to do it all again: find out where he slept, send over a patrol, then head to the cellars of the Wittelsbach Palace, the Gestapo’s headquarters in Munich. To go into the padded cell-padded not to stop people hurting themselves, but to muffle the screams-sit down in front of him and watch him die. Perhaps he could even bring the Jew and rape her right in front of Paul, enjoy her while Paul struggled desperately to free himself from his bonds.

But he had to think of his career. He didn’t want people talking about his cruelty, especially now that he was becoming better known.

On the back of his title, and his achievements, he was so close to promotion and a ticket to Berlin to work side by side with Heydrich.

And then there was also his desire to confront Paul man-to-man. Pay the little shit back for all the pain he’d caused without hiding behind the machinery of the state.

There has to be a better way.

Suddenly he knew what he wanted to do, and his lips twisted into a cruel smile.

“Excuse me, sir,” Eichmann insisted, thinking he hadn’t heard. “I was asking if we will be turning Reiner in?”

“No, Adolf. This will require a more personal touch.”

“I’m home!”

Returning from the cemetery, Alys walked into the small apartment and readied herself for the usual wild charge from Julian. But this time he didn’t appear.

“Hello?” she called, puzzled.

“We’re in the studio, Mama!”

Alys made her way down the narrow corridor. There were only three bedrooms. Hers, the smallest, was as bare as a wardrobe. Manfred’s was almost exactly the same size, except that her brother’s was always piled high with technical manuals, strange books in English, and a stack of notes from the engineering course he had completed the previous year. Manfred had lived with them since he started university, when the arguments with his father had intensified. It was supposedly a temporary arrangement, but they’d lived together for so long now that Alys couldn’t imagine juggling her career as a photographer and looking after Julian without the help he gave her. Nor did he have much opportunity for advancement, because in spite of his excellent degree, job interviews always ended with the same phrase: “It’s such a shame you’re a Jew.” The only money coming into the household was what Alys made selling photos, and it was getting harder to pay the rent.

The “studio” was what in normal homes would have been the living room. Alys’s developing equipment had taken it over completely. The window had been covered in black sheets, and the only lightbulb was red.

Alys knocked on the door.

“Come in, Mama! We’re just finishing!”

The table was covered in developing trays. Half a dozen lines of pegs ran from wall to wall, clasping photos left out to dry. Alys ran over to kiss Julian and Manfred.

“Are you all right?” her brother asked.

She made a gesture to say that they would talk later. She hadn’t told Julian where they were going when they left him with a neighbor. The boy had never been allowed to get to know his grandfather in life, nor would his death provide the boy with an inheritance. In fact the entirety of Josef’s estate-much depleted in recent years, since his business had lost momentum-had gone to a cultural foundation.

The last wishes of a man who once said he was doing it all for his family, thought Alys as she listened to her father’s lawyer. Well, I have no intention of telling Julian about his grandfather’s death. At least we’ll spare him that unpleasantness.

“What’s that? I don’t remember taking those photos.”

“Looks like Julian’s been using your old Kodak, Sis.”

“Really? Last I remember, the shutter was jammed.”

“Uncle Manfred fixed it for me,” replied Julian with a guilty smile.

“Tattletale!” said Manfred, giving him a playful shove. “Well, it was that or let him loose on your Leica.”

“I’d have skinned you alive, Manfred,” said Alys, feigning annoyance. No photographer likes a child’s sticky little fingers anywhere near his or her camera, but both she and her brother couldn’t refuse Julian a thing. Ever since he had learned to speak he’d always gotten his way, but he was still the most sensitive and affectionate of the three.

Alys approached the photos and checked whether the earliest ones were ready to handle. She took one and held it up. It was a close-up of Manfred’s desk lamp, with a pile of books next to it. The photo was exceptionally accomplished, with the cone of light half illuminating the titles and excellent contrast. It was slightly out of focus, no doubt the product of Julian’s hands pressing the shutter release. A beginner’s mistake.

And he’s only ten. When he grows up he’ll be a great photographer, she thought proudly.

She glanced over at her son, who was watching her intently, desperate to hear her opinion. Alys pretended not to notice.

“What do you think, Mama?”

“About what?”

“About the photo.”

“It’s a little shaky. But you chose the aperture and depth very well. Next time you want to do a still life without much light, use the tripod.”

“Yes, Mama,” said Julian, grinning from ear to ear.

Ever since Julian’s birth, her nature had sweetened considerably. She ruffled his blond hair, which always made him laugh.

“So, Julian, what would you say to a picnic in the park with Uncle Manfred?”