Juan Gomez-Jurado - The Traitor's emblem

“Today? Will you let me take the Kodak?”

“If you promise to be careful,” said Alys, resigned.

“Of course I will! The park, the park!”

“But first go to your room and change.”

Julian raced out; Manfred remained, watching his sister in silence. Under the red light that obscured her expression, he couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Alys, meanwhile, had taken Paul’s piece of paper out of her pocket and was staring at it as though the half dozen words might transform themselves into the man himself.

“He gave you his address?” asked Manfred, reading over her shoulder. “To cap it all, it’s a boardinghouse. Please…”

“He might mean well, Manfred,” she said defensively.

“I don’t understand you, Sis. You haven’t heard a word from him in years, for all you knew he was dead, or worse. And now suddenly he shows up…”

“You know how I feel about him.”

“You should have thought about that earlier.”

Her face contorted.

Thanks for that, Manfred. As though I haven’t regretted it enough.

“I’m sorry,” said Manfred, seeing he had upset her. He stroked her shoulder affectionately. “I didn’t mean it. You’re free to do whatever you want. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I’ve got to try.”

They were both silent for a few moments. They could hear the sounds of things being tossed onto the floor in the boy’s room.

“Have you thought about how you’re going to tell Julian?”

“I have no idea. Little by little, I guess.”

“How so, ‘little by little,’ Alys? Will you show him a leg first and say, ‘This is your father’s leg’? And the next day an arm? Look, you’ve got to do it all at once; you’ll have to admit you’ve been lying to him all his life. No one’s saying it won’t be hard.”

“I know,” she said pensively.

Another noise thundered through the wall, louder than the previous one.

“I’m ready!” shouted Julian from the other side of the door.

“You two had best go on ahead,” said Alys. “I’ll make some sandwiches and we’ll meet in half an hour by the fountain.”

When they had left, Alys tried to put her thoughts, and the battlefield of Julian’s bedroom, into some sort of order. She gave up when she realized she was matching up different-colored socks.

She went over to the little kitchen and put some fruit, cheese, jam sandwiches, and a bottle of juice into a basket. She was trying to decide whether to take one beer or two, when she heard the doorbell.

They must have forgotten something, she thought. It’s better this way: we can all go together.

She opened the front door.

“You really are so forget-”

The last word came out as a gasp. Anyone would have reacted the same way to the sight of an SS uniform.

But there was another dimension to Alys’s alarm: she recognized the person wearing it.

“So, did you miss me, my Jewish whore?” said Jurgen with a smile.

Alys opened her eyes just in time to see Jurgen draw back his fist, ready to pummel her. She had no time to duck or dash behind the door. The punch landed squarely on her temple and she tumbled to the ground. She tried to stand up and kick Jurgen in the knee, but she couldn’t hold him off for long. He yanked her head back by the hair and snarled, “It would be so easy to kill you.”

“So do it, you son of a bitch!” Alys sobbed, struggling to free herself and leaving a chunk of her hair in his hand. Jurgen punched her in the mouth and stomach, and Alys fell to the ground, gasping for breath.

“Everything in due time, darling,” he said, unhitching her skirt.

When he heard the knock at his door, Paul had a half-eaten apple in one hand and a newspaper in the other. He hadn’t touched the food his landlady had brought him, as the emotion of his meeting with Alys had unsettled his stomach. He was forcing himself to chew the fruit to calm his nerves.

On hearing the sound, Paul stood up, dropped the newspaper, and took the gun from under his pillow. Holding it behind his back, he opened the door. It was his landlady again.

“Herr Reiner, there are two people here who want to see you,” she said with a concerned expression.

She stepped aside. In the middle of the corridor stood Manfred Tannenbaum, holding the hand of a frightened boy who clung to a worn soccer ball as though it were a life preserver. Paul stared at the child, and his heart somersaulted. The dark-blond hair, the pronounced features, the dimple in his chin and blue eyes… The way he looked at Paul, afraid but not avoiding his eyes…

“Is this…?” he stammered, seeking confirmation he didn’t need, as his heart told him everything.

The other man nodded, and for the third time in Paul’s life everything he thought he knew imploded in an instant.

“Oh, God-what have I done?”

He quickly ushered them inside.

Manfred, wanting to be alone with Paul, told Julian, “Go and wash your face and hands-go on.”

“What happened?” asked Paul. “Where is Alys?”

“We were going on a picnic. Julian and I went ahead to wait for his mother, but she didn’t show up, so we returned home. Just as we were coming around the corner, a neighbor told us that a man in an SS uniform had taken Alys away. We didn’t dare go back, in case they were waiting for us, and I thought this was the best place for us to go.”

Trying to remain calm in front of Julian, Paul went over to the cupboard and from the bottom of a suitcase took a little gold-topped bottle. With a twist of his wrist he broke the seal and held it out to Manfred, who took a long swig and started to cough.

“Not so fast or you’ll be singing before too long…”

“Damn, that burns. What the hell is it?”

“It’s called Krugsle. It’s distilled by the German colonists in Windhoek. The bottle was a present from a friend. I was saving it for a special occasion.”

“Thank you,” said Manfred, handing it back. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way, but…”

Julian came back from the bathroom and sat on a chair.

“Are you my father?” the boy asked Paul.

Paul and Manfred were aghast.

“Why do you say that, Julian?”

Without replying to his uncle, the boy grabbed Paul’s arm, forcing him to crouch down so they were face-to-face. He ran his fingertips around his father’s features, exploring them as though merely looking were not enough. Paul closed his eyes, trying to hold back tears.

“I look like you,” said Julian at last.

“Yes, son. You do. Very much so.”

“Could I have something to eat? I’m hungry,” said the boy, pointing to the tray.

“Of course,” said Paul, suppressing the need to hug him. He didn’t dare get too close, because he understood that the boy must also be in shock.

“I need to talk to Herr Reiner alone outside. You stay here and eat,” Manfred said.

The boy folded his arms. “Don’t go anywhere. The Nazis have taken Mama away, and I want to know what you’re talking about.”

“Julian…”

Paul placed his hand on Manfred’s shoulder and gave him a questioning look. Manfred shrugged.

“Very well, then.”

Paul turned toward the boy and tried to force a smile. To be sitting there looking at the small version of his own face was a painful reminder of his last night in Munich, back in 1923. Of the terrible, selfish decision he had taken, leaving Alys without at least trying to understand why she had told him to leave her, leaving without putting up a fight. Now the pieces were falling into place, and Paul understood the serious mistake he had made.

I’ve lived my whole life without a father. Blaming him and those who killed him for his absence. I swore a thousand times that if I had a child I would never, never let him grow up without me.