The Traitor's Emblem (35 page)

“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 Führer 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 Obersturmführer,” 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, ‘Jürgen, 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.”

“Sir, I’m sorry, but—”

“Herr Faber, do you know who I am?”

“No, sir.”

“I’m Baron von Schroeder.”

At that, the little man’s face changed.

“Why didn’t you say so before, sir? I’m a good friend of Adolf Eichmann’s. He’s told me a lot about you”—he lowered his voice—“and I know the two of you are working on a special job for Herr Heydrich. Anyway, don’t you worry, I’ll sort this out.”

He got up, walked over to the common room, and summoned one of the soldiers, who was clearly annoyed at having his card game interrupted. After a few moments the man disappeared through a door that was out of Paul’s sight.

In the meantime Faber returned. He took a purple form out from under the counter and started to fill it in.

“May I have your ID? I need to take down your SS number.”

Paul held out the leather wallet.

“It’s all here. Make it quick.”

Faber removed the identity card and looked at the photo for a few moments. Paul watched him closely. He saw a shadow of doubt cross the official’s face as he looked up at him and then back down at the photo. He had to do something. Distract him, give him the coup de grâce to remove any doubt.

“What’s the matter, you can’t find it? Need me to cast my eye over it?”

When the official looked at him, confused, Paul lifted the patch for a moment and gave an unpleasant laugh.

“N-no, sir. I’m just making a note of it now.”

He returned the leather wallet to Paul.

“Sir, I hope you don’t mind me mentioning this, but . . . there’s blood in your socket.”

“Oh, thank you, Herr Faber. The doctor is draining the tissue that has formed over the years. He says he can put in a glass eye. In the meantime I’m at the mercy of his instruments. Anyway . . .”

“It’s all set, sir. Look, they’re bringing her over now.”

A door opened behind Paul, and he heard footsteps. Paul didn’t turn to look at Alys just yet, for fear that his face would betray even the slightest emotion or, worse, that she would recognize him. It was only when she was standing next to him that he dared to give her a quick sideways glance.

Alys, dressed in a sort of coarse gray smock, had her head bowed, her eyes on the floor. She was barefoot, and her hands were cuffed.

Don’t think about how she is, thought Paul. Just think about how to get her out of here alive.

“Well, if that is all . . .”

“Yes, sir. Sign here and here, please.”

The fake baron took the pen and was careful to make his scribble illegible. Then he took Alys by the arm and turned, dragging her along with him.

“Just one last thing, sir?”

Paul turned again.

“What the hell is it now?” he shouted, exasperated.

“I’ll have to call Herr Eichmann to authorize the prisoner’s departure, since he was the one who signed her in.”

Terrified, Paul tried to find something to say.

“You think it’s necessary to wake our friend Adolf for such a trivial matter?”

“It won’t take a minute, sir,” said the official. He was already holding the telephone.

60

We’re done for, thought Paul.

A bead of sweat formed on his forehead, ran down over his eyebrows, and slipped into the socket of his good eye. Paul blinked discreetly, but more drops were already forming. It was very hot in the guardroom, especially where Paul was standing, directly below the bulb that lit the entrance. Jürgen’s cap, which was tight on him, was not helping.

They mustn’t see that I’m nervous.

“Herr Eichmann?”

Faber’s strident voice echoed around the room. He was one of those people who spoke louder when he was on the telephone to make it easier for the cables to carry his voice.

“I’m sorry to trouble you at this time. I have Baron von Schroeder here; he’s come to collect the prisoner who . . .”

The pauses in the conversation were a relief to Paul’s ears but a torture for his nerves, and he would have given anything to hear the other side. “Right. Yes, indeed. Yes, I understand.”

At that moment the official looked up at Paul, his face very solemn. Paul held his gaze as a new drop of sweat traced the path of the first.

“Yes, sir. Understood. I’ll do that.”

He hung up slowly.

“Herr Baron?”

“What’s going on?”

“Would you mind waiting here for a moment? I’ll be right back.”

“Very well, but make it quick!”

Faber went back out the door that led to the common room. Through the glass Paul saw him approach one of the soldiers, who in turn went over to his colleagues.

They’ve found us out. They’ve found Jürgen’s body and now they’re going to arrest us. The only reason they haven’t attacked yet is because they want to take us alive. Well, that’s not going to happen.

Paul was completely terrified. Paradoxically the pain in his head had lessened, doubtless because of the rivers of adrenaline racing through his veins. More than anything, he was conscious of the touch of his hand against Alys’s skin. She hadn’t looked up since she came in. At the far end of the room, the soldier who had brought her was waiting, impatiently tapping the floor.

If they come for us, the last thing I’ll do will be to kiss her.

The official came back in, now accompanied by two other soldiers. Paul turned to face them, forcing Alys to do the same.

“Herr Baron?”

“Yes?”

“I’ve spoken to Herr Eichmann and he’s given me some surprising news. I had to share it with the other soldiers. These men want to talk to you.”

The two who had come from the common room stepped forward.

“Please, allow me to shake your hand, sir, on behalf of the whole company.”

“Permission granted, Corporal,” Paul managed to say, astonished.

“It’s an honor to meet an authentic Old Fighter, sir,” said the soldier, pointing to the small medal on Paul’s chest. An eagle in flight, its wings spread, holding a laurel wreath. The Blood Order.

Paul, who hadn’t the vaguest idea what the medal signified, merely nodded and shook hands with the soldiers and the official.

“Was that when you lost your eye, sir?” Faber asked him with a smile.

An alarm bell rang in Paul’s head. This could be a trap. But he had no idea what the soldier was getting at, nor how to reply.

What the hell would Jürgen tell people? Would he say it was an accident during a silly fight in his youth, or would he pretend his injury was something it wasn’t?

The soldiers and the official watched him, hanging on his words.

“My whole life has been dedicated to the Führer, gentlemen. And my body too.”

“So you were injured during the coup of ’23?” Faber pressed him.

He knew Jürgen had lost his eye before that, and he wouldn’t have dared tell such an obvious lie. So the answer was no. But what explanation would he have given?

“I fear not, gentlemen. It was a hunting accident.”

The soldiers seemed a little disappointed, but the official was still smiling.

So perhaps it wasn’t a trap after all, thought Paul, relieved.

“So, are we done with the social niceties, Herr Faber?”

“Actually no, sir. Herr Eichmann told me to give you this,” he said, holding out a small box. “It’s the news I was talking about.”

Paul took the box from the official’s hand and opened it. Inside was a typed sheet and something wrapped in brown paper.

My dear friend,

Congratulations on your excellent performance. I feel you have more than completed the task I charged you with. Very shortly, we will begin to act on the evidence you have gathered. I also have the honor of conveying to you the personal gratitude of the Führer. He asked me about you, and when I told him you already wore the Blood Order and the party’s gold insignia on your chest, he wondered what special honor we could grant you. We talked for a few minutes and then the Führer came up with this brilliant joke. He’s a man with a fine sense of humor, so much so he had this made by his personal jeweler.

Come to Berlin as soon as you can. I have great plans for you.

Cordially yours,       

Reinhard Heydrich

Understanding nothing of what he had just read, Paul unwrapped the object. It was a gold emblem of a two-headed eagle on a Teutonic cross diamond. The proportions weren’t right, and the materials a deliberate and insulting parody, but all the same Paul recognized the symbol immediately.

It was the emblem of a thirty-second-degree Mason.