Paul had absolutely no idea something was wrong until it was too late.
His day began as usual, with a trolley journey from the boardinghouse to Klaus Graf’s stables on the banks of the Isar. Every day when he arrived it was still dark, and he sometimes had to wake Hulbert. He and the mute had hit it off after their initial distrust, and Paul really valued those moments before dawn when they harnessed the horses to the carts and headed for the coal stores. There they’d put the cart in the loading bay, where a wide metal pipe would fill the cart in under ten minutes. An employee would take note of how many times the Graf men came in to load up each day, so the total could be settled on a weekly basis. Then Paul and Hulbert would head off toward their first appointment. Klaus would be there, waiting for them, puffing impatiently on his pipe. A simple, exhausting routine.
That day Paul reached the stables and pushed open the door as he did every morning. It was never locked, because there was nothing inside worth stealing, apart from the harnesses. Hulbert slept only half a meter from the horses, in a room with a rickety old bed to the right of the animals’ stalls.
“Wake up, Hulbert! There’s more snow than usual today. We’ll have to head out a little early if we want to get to Moosach in time.”
There was no sign of his mute companion, but that was normal. It always took him a while to appear.
Suddenly Paul heard the horses stamping nervously in their stalls and something turned over in his guts, a feeling he’d not experienced in a long time. His lungs felt leaden and there was an acidic taste in his mouth.
Jurgen.
He took a step toward the door but then stopped. There they were, appearing from every cranny, and he cursed himself for not having seen them earlier. From inside the cupboard where the shovels were kept, from the horses’ stalls, and from underneath the carts. There were seven of them-the same seven who’d pursued him at Jurgen’s birthday party. It seemed like an eternity ago. Their faces were broader, harder, and they no longer wore their school jackets but thick sweaters and boots. Clothes better suited to the task.
“You won’t be sliding across the marble this time, Cousin,” said Jurgen, gesturing contemptuously at the earth floor.
“Hulbert!” Paul cried desperately.
“Your retarded friend is tied up in his bed. We didn’t have to gag him, of course…” said one of the thugs. The others seemed to find this very funny.
Paul leapt up onto one of the carts as the boys closed in on him. One of them tried to grab his ankle, but Paul lifted his foot just in time and brought it down on the boy’s fingers. There was a crunching sound.
“He’s broken them! The absolute son of a bitch!”
“Shut up! Half an hour from now, this little piece of shit will wish he was in your place,” said Jurgen.
Some of the boys went around to the back of the cart. Out of the corner of his eye Paul saw another grab hold of the driver’s seat, meaning to climb on. He sensed the glint of a penknife blade.
He had a sudden flashback to one of the many scenarios he’d invented around the sinking of his father’s boat: his father surrounded by enemies on all sides who were attempting to board. He told himself that this cart was his boat.
I’m not going to let them board.
He looked around, desperately seeking something he could use as a weapon, but the only things on hand were the leftover bits of coal scattered around the cart. The pieces were so small, he’d have to throw forty or fifty before he’d cause any harm. With his broken arm, the only advantage Paul had was the height of the cart, which put him just at the right level to kick any attackers in the face.
Another boy attempted to sneak around onto the back of the cart, but Paul sensed the trick. The one by the driver’s seat took advantage of the momentary distraction and pulled himself up, no doubt preparing to jump onto Paul’s back. Moving quickly, Paul unscrewed the lid of his Thermos and threw the hot coffee into the face of the boy. It wasn’t boiling, as it had been an hour before when he’d prepared it on the stove in his bedroom, but it was hot enough to make the lad clasp his hands to his face, scalded. Paul charged at him and pushed him off the cart. The boy fell on his back, groaning.
“Shit, what are we waiting for? Everyone, get him!” Jurgen called.
Paul saw the gleam of a penknife once more. He spun around, fists in the air, wanting to show them he wasn’t afraid, but everyone in the filthy stables knew it was a lie.
Ten hands seized the cart in ten places. Paul stamped his foot down left and right, but in seconds they were all around him. One of the thugs grabbed his left arm, and Paul, trying to get free, felt the fist of another in the face. There was a crunch and an explosion of pain as his nose was broken.
For a moment all he saw was a pulsating red light. He kicked out, missing his cousin Jurgen by miles.
“Hold on to him, Krohn!”
Paul felt them grab him from behind. He tried wriggling out of their grasp but it was useless. In seconds they had pinned his arms back, leaving his face and chest at his cousin’s mercy. One of his captors held his neck in an iron grip, forcing Paul to look straight at Jurgen.
“Not running anymore, eh?”
Jurgen carefully put his weight on his right leg, then drew his arm back. The blow struck Paul right in the stomach. He felt the air leave his body as though it were a punctured tire.
“Hit me all you want, Jurgen,” Paul wheezed when he managed to get his breath back. “It won’t stop you being a useless pig.”
Another punch, this time in the face, split an eyebrow in two. His cousin shook his hand and massaged his injured knuckles.
“You see? There are seven of you to one of me, someone’s holding me down, and you’re still coming off worse than I am,” said Paul.
Jurgen threw himself forward and grabbed his cousin by the hair so hard that Paul thought he’d pull it out.
“You killed Eduard, you son of a bitch.”
“All I did was help him. Which is more than can be said for the rest of you.”
“So, Cousin, you’re claiming some relationship to the Schroeders all of a sudden? I thought you’d renounced all that. Wasn’t that what you said to the little Jewish slut?”
“Don’t call her that.”
Jurgen came even closer, till Paul could feel his breath on his face. His eyes were locked on Paul’s, savoring the pain he was about to cause with his words.
“Relax, she’s not going to be a slut for much longer. She’s going to become respectable now, a lady. The future Baroness von Schroeder.”
Paul knew at once that it was true, not just his cousin’s usual bragging. Bitter pain rose in his stomach, producing a shapeless, desperate cry. Jurgen laughed out loud, his eyes bulging. At last he let go of Paul’s hair, and Paul’s head dropped down onto his chest.
“Well, then, boys, let’s give him what he deserves.”
At that moment Paul threw his head back with all his might. The boy behind him had slackened his grip after Jurgen’s blows, doubtless believing victory was theirs. The top of Paul’s skull struck the thug’s face and he let Paul go, dropping to his knees. The others hurled themselves at Paul, but they all landed in a tangle on the floor.
Paul flailed, blindly throwing punches. In the middle of the confusion he felt something hard under his fingers and seized it. He tried to get to his feet, and had almost succeeded, when Jurgen noticed and launched himself at his cousin. Reflexively Paul shielded his face, unaware he was still holding the object he’d just picked up.
There was a dreadful scream, then silence.
Paul pulled himself over to the side of the cart. His cousin was on his knees, writhing on the floor. From the socket of his right eye protruded the wooden handle of the penknife. The boy had been lucky: if his friends had had the bright idea of bringing something bigger, Jurgen would be dead.
“Get it out! Get it out!” he screamed.
The others watched him, paralyzed. They didn’t want to be there anymore. For them, it was no longer a game.
“It hurts! Help me, for fuck’s sake!”
Finally one of the thugs managed to get to his feet and approached Jurgen.
“Don’t do it,” said Paul, horrified. “Get him to a hospital and have them remove it.”
The other boy glanced at Paul, his face expressionless. It was almost as though he weren’t there or weren’t in control of his actions. He approached Jurgen and placed his hand on the handle of the penknife. However, as he gripped it, Jurgen gave a sudden jerk in the opposite direction and the blade of the penknife gouged out much of his eyeball.
Jurgen was suddenly silent and brought his hand to the place where the penknife had been a moment earlier.
“I can’t see. Why can’t I see?”
Then he fainted.
The boy who had pulled out the penknife stood looking at him dumbly as the pinkish mass that had been the future baron’s right eye slid down the blade to the ground.
“You’ve got to take him to a hospital!” shouted Paul.
The rest of the gang were getting slowly to their feet, still not quite understanding what had happened to their leader. They had gone to the stable to obtain a simple, crushing victory; instead the unthinkable had happened.
Two of them took Jurgen by the hands and feet and carried him toward the door. The others joined them. Not one of them said a word.
Only the boy with the penknife stayed where he was, looking questioningly at Paul.
“Go on, then, if you dare,” Paul said, praying to heaven that he wouldn’t.
The boy opened his hand, dropped the penknife to the ground, and ran outside. Paul watched him leave; then, finally alone, he started to cry.