Juan Gomez-Jurado - The Traitor's emblem

They both backed off momentarily.

“The first blood is mine. Let’s see whose is spilled last,” said Jurgen.

Paul didn’t reply. The punches had robbed him of breath, and he didn’t want his brother to notice. He needed a few seconds to recover, but he wasn’t going to get them. Jurgen rushed toward him, his knife held at shoulder height, in a lethal version of the ridiculous Nazi salute. At the last moment he twisted to the left and traced a short straight slash across Paul’s chest. With no space to retreat, Paul had to jump off the cart, but couldn’t dodge another cut that marked him from his left nipple to his sternum.

As his feet hit the ground he forced himself to ignore the pain and rolled under the cart to avoid an assault from Jurgen, who had already jumped down after him. He emerged on the other side and immediately tried to get back up onto the cart, but Jurgen had anticipated his move and was back up there himself. He was now running toward Paul, ready to skewer him the moment he set foot on the timbers, so Paul had to drop back.

Jurgen made the most of the situation by using the driver’s seat to launch himself at Paul, holding the knife out in front of him. As he tried to dodge the attack, Paul tripped. He fell, and that would have been the end of him but for the fact that the cart’s shafts were in the way and his brother had to crouch down under the thick slabs of wood. Paul made the most of the opportunity by giving Jurgen a kick in the face, catching him full in the mouth.

Paul turned and tried to wriggle away from Jurgen’s reach. Wild with rage, and with blood frothing from his lips, Jurgen managed to grab him by an ankle, but he lost his grip when his brother kicked back and struck his arm.

Panting for breath, Paul managed to get to his feet, almost at the same time as Jurgen. Jurgen bent down, picked up a bucket of wood chips, and hurled it at Paul. The bucket hit him square in the chest.

With a cry of triumph, Jurgen surged at Paul. Still stunned by the blow from the bucket, Paul was knocked over and the two of them tumbled to the floor. Jurgen attempted to slit Paul’s throat with the edge of his blade, but Paul used his own arms as protection. However, he knew he couldn’t last long like this. His brother was more than forty pounds heavier than he was, and besides, he was the one on top. Sooner or later Paul’s arms would give way and the steel would slit his jugular.

“You’re done for, Little Brother,” screamed Jurgen, spattering Paul’s face with blood.

“The hell I am.”

Summoning all his strength, Paul brought his knee up hard against Jurgen’s side, and Jurgen toppled over. Immediately he threw himself back on top of Paul. His left hand gripped Paul by the neck, and his right tried to free itself from Paul’s grip as he tried to keep the knife away from his throat.

Too late, he noticed that he had lost sight of the hand in which Paul was holding his own knife. He glanced down and saw the tip of Paul’s blade grazing his abdomen. He looked up again, fear etched on his face.

“You can’t kill me. If you kill me, Alys dies.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Big Brother. If you die, Alys will live.”

Hearing that, Jurgen desperately tried to free his right hand. He succeeded and raised his knife to plunge it into Paul’s throat, but the movement seemed to happen in slow motion, and by the time Jurgen’s arm came down, there was no strength left in it.

Paul’s knife was buried up to the hilt in his belly.

Jurgen collapsed. Utterly exhausted, Paul lay spread out beside him, on his back. The two young men’s labored breathing mingled then faded. After a minute Paul was better; Jurgen was dead.

With great difficulty Paul managed to get to his feet. He had several broken ribs, superficial cuts all over his body, and a much uglier one across his chest. He had to find help as soon as possible.

He climbed over Jurgen’s body to reach his clothes. He tore his shirtsleeves and improvised some bandages to bind the wounds on his forearms. They were immediately soaked with blood, but that was the least of his worries. Fortunately his jacket was dark, which would help to hide the damage.

Paul went out into the alley. As he opened the door, he didn’t notice a figure slipping off into the shadows to the right. Paul walked straight past, oblivious to the presence of the person watching him, so close he could have touched him if he’d stretched out an arm.

He reached the car. As he sat behind the wheel he felt an intense pain in his chest, as though a giant hand were crushing it.

I hope my lung isn’t punctured.

He started the engine, trying to forget about the pain. He didn’t have far to go. On the way, he’d noticed a cheap hotel, probably the place his brother had called from. It was little more than six hundred yards from the stables.

The employee behind the counter paled when Paul came in.

I can’t look too good if someone’s afraid of me in a dump like this.

“Do you have a telephone?”

“On that wall over there, sir.”

The telephone was old, but it worked. The landlady of the boardinghouse answered on the sixth ring and seemed to be wide-awake in spite of the unreasonable hour. She usually stayed up late, listening to music and serials on her wireless.

“Yes?”

“Frau Frink, this is Herr Reiner. I’d like to speak to Herr Tannenbaum.”

“Herr Reiner! I was very worried about you: I was wondering what you were doing out at this time. And with those people still in your room…”

“I’m fine, Frau Frink. Could I-”

“Yes, yes, of course. Herr Tannenbaum. Right away.”

The wait seemed to go on forever. Paul turned toward the counter and noticed the receptionist studying him attentively over the top of the Volkischer Beobachter.

Just what I need: a Nazi sympathizer.

Paul lowered his gaze and realized that blood was still dripping from his right arm, trickling down his hands, and forming a strange pattern on the wooden floor. He raised his arm to stop the dripping and tried to wipe the stain with the soles of his shoes.

He turned around. The receptionist hadn’t taken his eyes off him. If he spotted anything suspicious, he would most likely alert the Gestapo the moment Paul stepped out of the hotel. And then it would all be over. Paul would have no way of explaining his injuries, nor the fact that he was driving a car belonging to the baron. The body would be found in a matter of days if Paul didn’t dispose of it immediately, as some tramp would doubtless notice the stench.

Pick up the phone, Manfred. Pick up, for God’s sake.

Finally he heard Alys’s brother’s voice, filled with anxiety.

“Paul, is that you?”

“It’s me.”

“Where the hell have you been? I-”

“Listen carefully, Manfred. If you want to see your sister ever again, you must listen. I need you to help me.”

“Where are you?” asked Manfred, his voice serious.

Paul gave him the address of the warehouse.

“Get a cab to bring you here. But don’t come directly. First stop at a chemist’s and pick up gauze, bandages, alcohol, and thread for stitching up wounds. And anti-inflammatories-that’s very important. And bring my suitcase with all my things. Don’t worry about Frau Frink: I’ve already…”

Here he had to pause. The tiredness and loss of blood were making him feel dizzy. He had to rest against the telephone to stop himself from falling.

“Paul?”

“I’ve paid her two months in advance.”

“Okay, Paul.”

“Hurry, Manfred.”

He hung up and walked toward the door. As he passed the receptionist he gave a quick, spasmodic version of the Nazi salute. The receptionist responded with an enthusiastic “Heil Hitler!” that rattled the pictures on the walls. Walking toward Paul, he opened the front door for him and was surprised to see the luxury Mercedes parked outside.