Juan Gomez-Jurado - The Traitor's emblem

Julian nodded, his lips quivering.

“Brave boy,” said Paul, giving him a hug.

“And what if you don’t come back?”

“Don’t even think about that, Julian. We will.”

With Julian installed in his hiding place, Paul and Manfred got back in the car.

“Why didn’t you tell him what to do if we don’t come back?” asked Manfred.

“Because he’s an intelligent child. He’ll look in the suitcase; he’ll take the money and leave the rest. Anyway, I don’t have anyone to send him to. How does the wound look?” he said, turning on the reading light and pulling away the gauze from his eye.

“It’s swollen, but not too badly. The lid isn’t too red. Does it hurt?”

“Like hell.”

Paul looked at himself in the rearview mirror. Where previously there had been an eyeball, there was now a patch of wrinkled skin. A little thread of blood trickled from the corner of his eye like a scarlet tear.

“It’s got to look old, for fuck’s sake.”

“They might not ask you to take the patch off.”

“Thanks.”

He took the patch from his pocket and put it on, throwing the pieces of gauze out of the window into a ditch. When he looked at himself in the mirror again, a shiver went down his spine.

The person looking back at him was Jurgen.

He glanced at the Nazi armband on his left arm.

I once thought I’d rather die than wear this symbol, thought Paul. Today Paul Reiner is dead. I am now Jurgen von Schroeder.

He got out of the passenger seat and moved into the back, trying to remember what his brother was like, his contemptuous air, his arrogant manner. The way he projected his voice as though it were an extension of himself, trying to make everyone else feel inferior.

I can do it, said Paul to himself. We shall see…

“Start her up, Manfred. We mustn’t waste any more time.”

Arbeit Macht Frei

Those were the words written in iron letters above the gate of the camp. The words, however, were no more than bars in another form. None of the people in there would earn their freedom through work.

When the Mercedes stopped at the entrance, a sleepy guard in a black uniform came out of a sentry box, briefly shone his flashlight into the car, and gestured for them to pass. The gates opened at once.

“That was simple,” whispered Manfred.

“Ever known a prison that was hard to get into? The difficult part tends to be getting out,” Paul replied.

The gate was fully open, but the car didn’t move.

“What the hell’s wrong with you? Don’t just stop here.”

“I don’t know where to go, Paul,” replied Manfred, his hands clenched on the steering wheel.

“Shit.”

Paul opened his window and gestured to the guard to approach. He ran over to the car.

“Yes, sir?”

“Corporal, I have a splitting headache. Please explain to my idiot driver how to get to whoever is in charge here. I’m bringing orders from Munich.”

“At the moment the only people are in the guardhouse, sir.”

“Well, then, go on, Corporal, tell him.”

The guard gave instructions to Manfred, who didn’t have to fake his expression of displeasure. “You didn’t overdo things a little?” asked Manfred.

“If you’d ever seen my brother talking to the staff… this would be him on one of his good days.”

Manfred drove the car around a fenced-off area, where a strange and acrid odor seeped into the car, despite the windows being rolled up. On the other side they could see the dark outlines of countless barracks. The only movement came from a group of prisoners running near a lit streetlamp. They were dressed in striped jumpsuits with a single yellow star sewn onto the chest. Each of the men had his right foot tied to the ankle of the one behind him. When one fell, at least four or five would go down with him.

“Move it, you dogs! You’ll keep going till you’ve done ten straight laps without stumbling!” shouted a guard waving a stick he used to beat the prisoners who fell. Those who did quickly jumped to their feet with their faces muddied and terrified.

“My God, I can’t believe Alys is in this hell,” Paul muttered. “We’d better not fail, or we’ll end up right alongside her as guests of honor. That is, if we’re not shot to death.”

The car stopped in front of a low white building whose floodlit door was guarded by two soldiers. Paul had his hand on the door handle when Manfred stopped him.

“What are you doing?” he whispered. “I have to open the door for you!”

Paul caught himself just in time. His headache and sense of disorientation had grown worse in the past few minutes, and he was struggling to get his thoughts in order. He felt a stab of fear at what he was about to do. For a moment he was tempted to tell Manfred to turn around and get away from that place as quickly as possible.

I can’t do that to Alys. Or to Julian, or to myself. I have to go in… whatever happens.

The car door was opened. Paul put one foot on the cement and stuck out his head and the two soldiers instantly stood to attention and raised their arms. Paul got out of the Mercedes and returned the salute.

“At ease,” he said as he went through the door.

The guard house consisted of a small office-like room with three or four neat desks, each one with a tiny Nazi flag next to the pencil holder, and a portrait of the Fuhrer as the only decoration on the walls. Close to the door was a long table, like a counter, manned by a single, sour-faced official. He straightened up when he saw Paul come in.

“Heil Hitler!”

“Heil Hitler!” replied Paul, studying the room carefully. At the back there was a window overlooking what seemed to be a sort of common room. Through the glass he could see about ten soldiers playing cards amid a cloud of smoke.

“Good evening, Herr Obersturmfuhrer,” said the official. “What can I do for you at this time of night?”

“I’m here on urgent business. I have to take a female prisoner back with me to Munich for… for interrogation.”

“Certainly, sir. And the name?”

“Alys Tannenbaum.”

“Ah, the one they brought in yesterday. We don’t have many women here-no more than fifty, you know. It’s a shame she’s being taken away. She’s one of the few who’s… not bad,” he said with a lascivious smile.

“You mean for a Jew?”

The man behind the counter gulped at the threat in Paul’s voice.

“Of course, sir, not bad for a Jew.”

“Of course. Well, then, what are you waiting for? Fetch her!”

“Straightaway, sir. Can I see the transfer order, sir?”

Paul, whose arms were crossed behind his back, clenched his fists tightly. He had prepared his answer to this question. If his little speech worked, they would get Alys out, jump into the car, and leave the place, as free as the wind. If not, there would be a telephone call, possibly more than one. In less than half an hour he and Manfred would be the camp’s guests of honor.

“Now, listen carefully, Herr…”

“Faber, sir. Gustav Faber.”

“Listen, Herr Faber. Two hours ago I was in bed with this delightful girl from Frankfurt I’d been chasing for days. Days! Suddenly the telephone rang, and you know who it was?”

“No, sir.”

Paul leaned over the counter and lowered his voice discreetly.

“It was Reinhard Heydrich, the great man himself. He said to me, ‘Jurgen, my good man, bring me that Jewish girl we sent to Dachau yesterday, because it turns out we didn’t get enough out of her.’ And I said to him, ‘Can’t someone else go?’ And he said to me, ‘No, because I want you to work on her on the way. Frighten her with that special method of yours.’ So I got into my car and here I am. Anything to do a favor for a friend. But that doesn’t mean I’m not in a foul mood. So get the Jewish whore out here once and for all, so I can get back to my little friend before she’s fallen asleep.”