Juan Gomez-Jurado - The Traitor's emblem

Paul banged his forehead against the black dial of the telephone in frustration. He had no option but to give in.

“Little Brother… You haven’t hung up, have you?”

“No, Jurgen. I’m still here.”

“Well, then?”

“You win.”

Jurgen gave a triumphant laugh.

“You’ll see a black Mercedes parked outside your boardinghouse. Tell the driver I sent for you. He has instructions to give you the keys and tell you where I am. Come alone, no guns.”

“Okay. And, Jurgen…”

“Yes, Little Brother?”

“You might find I’m not so easy to kill.”

The line went dead. Paul ran to the door, almost knocking over his landlady. The limousine was waiting outside, completely out of place in this area. A liveried chauffeur got out as he approached.

“I’m Paul Reiner. Jurgen von Schroeder sent for me.”

The man opened the door.

“Go ahead, sir. The keys are in the ignition.”

“Where am I meant to go?”

“Herr Baron didn’t give me an actual address, sir. He said only that you should go to the place where, thanks to you, he had to start wearing an eye patch. He said you would understand.”

Where the hero triumphs when he accepts his own death

The secret handshake of the Master Mason is the most complex of the three degrees. Commonly known as “the lion’s claw,” the thumb and little finger are used as a grip, while the other three press against the inside of the brother Mason’s wrist. Historically this was done with the body in a particular position, known as the five points of friendship-foot to foot, knee to knee, chest to chest, a hand on the other’s back and cheeks touching. This practice was abandoned in the twentieth century. The secret name of this handshake is MAHABONE, and the special way of spelling it out is by dividing it into three syllables: MA-HA-BONE.

The wheels squealed slightly as the car came to a stop. Paul studied the alley through the windshield. A light rain had started to fall. In the darkness it would barely have been possible to see, were it not for the yellow cone of light projected by a solitary streetlamp.

After a couple of minutes Paul finally emerged from the car. It had been fourteen years since he’d set foot in that alley by the bank of the Isar. It smelled as bad as ever, of wet peat, rotting fish, and damp. At this time of night the only sound was that of his own footsteps echoing on the pavement.

He reached the stable door. It seemed nothing had changed. The peeling dark green stains that spattered the wood were perhaps a little larger than in the days when Paul used to cross the threshold each morning. The hinges still gave the same high-pitched screech as they opened, and the door still got stuck halfway and required a shove to open it completely.

Paul went in. A bare bulb hung from the ceiling. The stalls, the earth floor, and the coal man’s cart…

… and on it, Jurgen, with a pistol in his hand.

“Hello, Little Brother. Close the door and put your hands up.”

Jurgen was wearing only the black trousers and boots of his uniform. From the waist up he was naked, apart from his eye patch.

“We said no firearms,” Paul replied, raising his arms cautiously.

“Lift up your shirt,” said Jurgen, gesturing with the gun while Paul obeyed his orders. “Slowly. That’s it-very good. Now turn around. Good. Looks like you’ve played by the rules, Paul. So I shall play by them too.”

He removed the magazine from the gun and set it on the wood that separated the horses’ stalls. It must have had a bullet left in the chamber, however, and the barrel was still pointing at Paul.

“Is this place as you remember it? I do hope so. Your friend the coal man’s business went bust five years ago, so I was able to get my hands on these stables for a pittance. I hoped you’d come back one day.”

“Where’s Alys, Jurgen?”

His brother licked his lips before replying.

“Ah, the Jewish whore. Have you heard of Dachau, Brother?”

Paul nodded slowly. People didn’t talk about the Dachau camp much, but everything they did say was bad.

“I’m sure she’ll be very comfortable there. At least, she seemed happy enough when my friend Eichmann took her there this afternoon.”

“You’re a disgusting swine, Jurgen.”

“What can I say? You don’t know how to protect your women, Brother.”

Paul staggered as though he’d been struck. Now he understood the truth.

“You killed her, didn’t you? You killed my mother.”

“Fuck, it’s taken you a long time to figure that out,” Jurgen sneered.

“I was with her before she died. She… she told me it wasn’t you.”

“What do you expect? She lied to protect you with her final breath. But there are no lies in here, Paul,” said Jurgen, holding up Ilse Reiner’s letter. “You have the whole story here, from beginning to end.”

“Are you going to give it to me?” said Paul, looking anxiously at the sheets of paper.

“No. I’ve told you already, there’s absolutely no possibility of you winning. I’m going to kill you myself, Little Brother. But if by any chance a thunderbolt from heaven strikes me down… well, here it is.”

Jurgen leaned over and impaled the letter onto a loose nail sticking out of the wall.

“Take off your jacket and shirt, Paul.”

Paul obeyed, throwing the pieces of clothing on the floor. His bare torso was no longer than that of a skinny adolescent. Powerful muscles bulged under his dark skin, which was crisscrossed with little scars.

“Satisfied?”

“Well, well… Looks like someone’s been taking his vitamins,” said Jurgen. “I wonder if I shouldn’t just shoot you and save myself the trouble.”

“So do it, Jurgen. You’ve always been a coward.”

“Don’t even think of calling me that, Little Brother.”

“Six against one? Knives against bare hands? What would you call that, Big Brother?”

With a gesture of rage, Jurgen hurled the gun down and picked up a hunting knife from the driver’s seat of the cart.

“Yours is over there, Paul,” he said, gesturing toward the other end. “Let’s get this over with.”

Paul approached the cart. Fourteen years earlier he had been the one standing up there, defending himself against a band of thugs.

It was my boat. My father’s boat, attacked by pirates. Now the roles have changed so much, I don’t know who’s the good guy and who’s the bad guy.

He approached the back of the cart. There he found another knife, with a red handle, identical to the one held by his brother. He took it in his right hand, pointing the blade up, just as the Herero had taught him. Jurgen’s was pointing downward, which would hinder his arm movements.

I may be stronger now, but he’s a lot stronger than I am: I will have to tire him out, not let him push me to the ground or back me up against the sides of the cart. Use his blind right side.

“Who’s a chicken now, Brother?” said Jurgen, beckoning to him.

Paul rested his free hand on the side of the cart, then hoisted himself up. Now they were standing face-to-face for the first time since Jurgen had been left blind in one eye.

“There’s no need for us to do this, Jurgen. We could-”

His brother didn’t hear him. Raising the knife, Jurgen tried to slash at Paul’s face, missing by millimeters as Paul ducked to the right. He almost fell off the cart, and had to break his fall by grabbing on to one of the sides. He kicked out, hitting his brother’s ankle. Jurgen tottered backward, giving Paul time to straighten up.

The two men were now facing each other, standing two steps apart. Paul put his weight on his left leg, a gesture Jurgen took to mean he was going to jab toward the other side. Trying to preempt this, Jurgen attacked on the left, just as Paul had hoped. As Jurgen’s arm surged forward, Paul ducked down and slashed upward-not with too much force but just enough to slice him with the edge of the blade. Jurgen screamed but instead of pulling back, as Paul had expected, he punched Paul twice in the side.