Juan Gomez-Jurado - The Traitor's emblem

When she was sure that the new arrivals were out of earshot, the countess turned toward Otto and said in a steely tone that very few ladies of Munich’s high society would have deemed acceptable:

“You’ve done a deal on our daughter’s wedding without even telling me, Otto? Over my dead body.”

The baron didn’t blink. A quarter of a century of marriage had taught him how his wife would react when she felt undermined. But on this occasion she would have to yield, because there was much more at stake than her foolish pride.

“Brunhilda, dear, don’t tell me you didn’t see this Jew coming from the very beginning. With his supposedly elegant suits, going to the same church as us every Sunday, pretending that he doesn’t hear every time he’s called ‘the convert,’ sidling up toward our seats.. .”

“Of course I’ve noticed. I’m not stupid.”

“Of course you aren’t, Baroness. You’re perfectly capable of putting two and two together. And we don’t have a penny to our name. The bank accounts are completely empty.”

The color drained from Brunhilda’s cheeks. She had to reach out to the alabaster wall moldings to stop herself falling.

“Damn you, Otto.”

“That red dress you’re wearing… The dressmaker insisted on being paid for it in cash. The word is out, and when rumors start, there’s no stopping them until you find yourself in the gutter.”

“You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t noticed the way they look at us, the way they take little nibbles from their cakes and smirk at each other when they realize they aren’t from Casa Popp? I can hear what those old ladies are muttering about as clearly as if they were shouting in my ear, Otto. But to go from that to allowing my son, my Jurgen, to marry a dirty Jew…”

“There’s no other solution. All we have left is the house and our land, which I put in Eduard’s name the day he was born. If I can’t get Tannenbaum to lend me the capital to set up a factory on that land, we might as well give up. One morning the police will come for me, and then I’ll have to act like a good Christian gentleman and blow my brains out. And you’ll end up like your sister, doing someone else’s sewing. Is that what you want?”

Brunhilda removed her hand from the wall. She took advantage of the pause necessitated by the arrival of new guests to gather her rage and then hurl it at Otto like a stone.

“You and your gambling are what got us into this mess, what devastated the family fortune. Sort it out, Otto, the same way you sorted things out with Hans fourteen years ago.”

The baron took a step back, shocked.

“Don’t you dare mention that name again!”

“You were the one who dared to do something back then. And what good did it do us? I’ve had to put up with my sister living in this house for fourteen years.”

“I still haven’t found the letter. And the boy’s growing up. Perhaps now…”

Brunhilda leaned in toward him. Otto was almost a head taller, but he still looked small standing next to his wife.

“There’s a limit to my patience.”

With an elegant wave, Brunhilda dived into the throng of guests, leaving the baron with a smile frozen on his face, struggling not to scream.***

On the other side of the room, Jurgen von Schroeder set aside his third glass of champagne to open the present one of his friends was holding out to him.

“I didn’t want to put it with the others,” the boy said, pointing behind him to a table stacked with brightly colored packages. “This one’s special.”

“What do you say, lads? Shall I open Krohn’s present first?”

Half a dozen adolescents huddled around him, all of them dressed in the stylish blue blazers that bore the crest of Metzingen Academy. They all came from good German families, and were all uglier than Jurgen and shorter than Jurgen and laughed at every single joke Jurgen made. The baron’s young son had a gift for surrounding himself with people who wouldn’t overshadow him, and in front of whom he could show off.

“Open it, but only if you then open mine too!”

“And mine!” chorused the others.

They’re fighting for me to open their presents, thought Jurgen. They worship me.

“Now, don’t worry,” he said, raising his hands in what he thought was a gesture of impartiality. “We’ll depart from tradition and I’ll open your presents first, then those from the rest of the guests after the toasts.”

“Excellent idea, Jurgen!”

“Well, then, whatever could this be, Krohn?” he continued, opening the small box and lifting its contents to eye level.

In his fingers Jurgen held a gold chain with a strange cross, the bent arms of which formed a pattern that was almost a square. He stared at it, mesmerized.

“It’s a swastika. An anti-Semitic symbol. My father says they’re in fashion.”

“You’re mistaken, my friend,” said Jurgen, putting it around his neck. “Now they are. Here’s hoping we’ll be seeing a lot of these.”

“Definitely!”

“Here, Jurgen, open mine. Though best not show this one off in public…”

Jurgen unwrapped a parcel about the size of a packet of tobacco, and found himself looking at a small leather box. He opened it with a flourish. His chorus of admirers laughed nervously when they saw what was inside: a sort of cylindrical hood of vulcanized rubber.

“Hey, hey… that looks big!”

“I’ve never seen one before!”

“A present of the most personal kind, eh, Jurgen?”

“Is that some kind of proposal?”

For a few moments Jurgen felt he was losing control over them, that they had suddenly begun to laugh at him. It’s not fair. It’s not fair at all, and I won’t allow it. He felt the rage growing inside him, and turned to the one who’d made the last comment. He put the sole of his right foot on top of the other’s left and leaned his full weight on it. His victim turned white but gritted his teeth.

“I’m sure you’d like to apologize for that unfortunate joke?”

“Of course, Jurgen… I’m sorry… I wouldn’t think of questioning your manhood.”

“Just as I thought,” Jurgen said, slowly lifting his foot. The huddle of boys had fallen quiet, a silence accentuated by the noise of the party. “Well, I don’t want you to think I have no sense of humor. Actually, this… thing will be extremely useful to me,” he said with a wink. “With her, for example.”

He was pointing at a tall, dark-haired girl with dreamy eyes who was holding a glass of punch in the middle of the crowd.

“Nice tits,” whispered one of his acolytes.

“Any of you want to bet I can premiere this thing and get back in time for the toasts?”

“I’ll bet fifty marks on Jurgen,” the one with the trodden foot felt compelled to say.

“I’ll take the bet,” said another behind him.

“Well, gents, you just wait here and watch; you might learn something.”

Jurgen swallowed softly, hoping the others wouldn’t notice. He hated talking to girls, as they always made him feel awkward and inferior. Although he was good-looking, his only contact with the opposite sex had been in a brothel in Schwabing, where he’d experienced more shame than excitement. He’d been taken there by his father a few months before, dressed in a discreet black overcoat and hat. While he did his business, his father waited downstairs, drinking cognac. When it was over, he gave his son a slap on the back and told him that he was now a man. This was the beginning and the end of Jurgen von Schroeder’s education on the subject of women and love.

I’ll show them how a real man behaves, the boy thought, feeling his companions’ eyes on the back of his neck.

“Hello, Fraulein. Are you enjoying yourself?”