The Traitor's Emblem Read Free Page A

Carlos politely refused the offer, and the writer left, offended. He started coming to the bookshop on a daily basis, even though he didn’t live in the city. He pretended to rummage among the books, though in reality he spent most of the time watching Juan Carlos over the thick plastic frames of his glasses. The bookseller began to feel harassed. One winter night, on his way home, he thought he heard footsteps behind him. Juan Carlos hid in a doorway and waited. Moments later the writer appeared, an elusive shadow shivering in a threadbare raincoat. Juan Carlos emerged from the doorway and cornered the man, holding him up against the wall.
    “This has to stop, do you understand?”
    The old man started to cry and fell babbling to the ground, hugging his knees.
    “You don’t understand, I have to have it . . .”
    Juan Carlos softened. He accompanied the old man to a bar and set a glass of brandy in front of him.
    “Right. Now, tell me the truth. It’s very valuable, isn’t it?”
    The writer took his time before replying, studying the bookseller, who was thirty years his junior and six inches taller. Finally he gave up.
    “Its value is incalculable. Though that’s not the reason I want it,” he said with a dismissive gesture.
    “Why, then?”
    “For the glory. The glory of discovery. It would form the basis for my next book.”
    “On the piece?”
    “On its owner. I’ve managed to reconstruct his life after years of research, digging around in fragments of diaries, newspaper archives, private libraries . . . the sewers of history. As few as ten very uncommunicative men in the world know his story. All of them Grand Masters, and I’m the only one with all the pieces. Though no one would believe me if I told them.”
    “Try me.”
    “Only if you’ll promise me one thing. That you’ll let me see it. Touch it. Just once.”
    Juan Carlos sighed.
    “All right. On the condition you have a good story to tell.”
    The old man leaned over the table and began to whisper a story that had, till that moment, been passed from mouth to mouth between men who had sworn never to repeat it. A story of lies, of an impossible love, of a forgotten hero, of the murder of thousands of innocent people at the hands of one man. The story of the traitor’s emblem . . .

T HE P ROFANE

1919–21

Where understanding never goes beyond one’s own self

The symbol of the Profane is a hand held out, open, solitary but capable of grasping hold of knowledge.

1

    There was blood on the steps of the Schroeders’ mansion.
    When he saw it, Paul Reiner shuddered. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen blood, of course. Between early April and May 1919, Munich’s inhabitants had experienced in thirty days all the horror they’d managed to avoid in four years of war. In the uncertain months between the end of the empire and the proclamation of the Weimar Republic, countless groups had attempted to impose their agendas. The Communists had taken the city and declared Bavaria a Soviet republic. Lootings and murders had become widespread as the Freikorps narrowed the gap between Berlin and Munich. The rebels, knowing their days were numbered, tried to get rid of as many political enemies as they could. Mostly civilians, executed in the dead of night.
    Which meant that Paul had already seen traces of blood, but never at the entrance to the house where he lived. And although there wasn’t much, it was coming from beneath the big oak door.
    With any luck Jürgen has fallen on his face and knocked out all his teeth, thought Paul. Maybe that way he’ll give me a few days’ peace. He shook his head sadly. He didn’t have that kind of luck.
    He was only fifteen, but already a bitter shadow had been cast on his heart, like clouds blocking the sluggish mid-May sun. Half an hour earlier, Paul had been lazing around among the bushes of the Englischer Garten, glad to be back at school after the revolution, though not so much for the lessons. Paul was