“You called for me, Father?”
Otto glanced at Jurgen with misgiving. It had been weeks since he’d last seen him, and he still found it hard to identify the uniformed figure standing in his dining room as his son. He was suddenly aware of how Jurgen’s shoulders filled the brown shirt, how the red armband with the twisted cross framed his thick biceps, how the black boots increased the young man’s stature to the point where he had to duck slightly to go under the door frame. He felt a hint of pride, but at the same time he was overwhelmed by a wave of self-pity. He couldn’t help but draw comparisons to himself: Otto was fifty-two, and he felt old and tired.
“You haven’t been home for a long time, Jurgen.”
“I’ve had important things to do.”
The baron didn’t reply. Though he did understand the Nazis’ ideals, he had never really believed in them. Like the great majority of Munich’s high society, he considered them to be a party with little promise, condemned to become extinct. If they’d come so far, it was only because they were benefiting from a social situation that was so dramatic, the underprivileged would believe any extremist prepared to make them wild promises. But at that moment he did not have time for subtleties.
“So much so that you neglect your mother? She’s been worried about you. Might we know where you’ve been sleeping?”
“In SA quarters.”
“This year you were meant to have begun your university studies, two years late!” said Otto, shaking his head. “It’s already November, and you still haven’t shown up for a single class.”
“I’m in a position of responsibility.”
Otto watched as the pieces of the image he’d preserved of this ill-mannered adolescent-who not long ago would have hurled a cup onto the floor because the tea was too sweet for him-finally disintegrated. He wondered what the best way of approaching him would be. A lot was riding on Jurgen’s doing as he was told.
He’d lain awake for several nights, tossing and turning on his mattress, before deciding to call on his son.
“A position of responsibility, you say?”
“I protect the most important man in Germany.”
“‘The most important man in Germany,’” mimicked his father. “You, the future Baron von Schroeder, hired thug to an obscure Austrian corporal with delusions of grandeur. You must be proud.”
Jurgen flinched as though he’d just been struck.
“You don’t understand…”
“Enough! I want you to do something important. You’re the only person I can trust to do it.”
Jurgen was confused by the change of tack. His reply died on his lips as his curiosity took over.
“What is it?”
“I’ve found your aunt and your cousin.”
Jurgen didn’t respond. He sat down next to his father and took the patch from his eye, revealing the unnatural void beneath the wrinkled skin of his eyelid. He stroked the skin slowly.
“Where?” he asked, his voice cold and distant.
“In a boardinghouse in Schwabing. But I forbid you even to think about revenge. We have something much more important to deal with. I want you to go to your aunt’s room, search it from top to bottom, and bring me any papers you find. Especially any that are handwritten. Letters, notes-anything.”
“Why?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“You can’t tell me? You bring me here, you ask for my help after you’ve denied me the chance to go after the person who did this to me-the same person who gave my sick brother a pistol so he could blow his brains out. You forbid me all this, and then you expect me to obey you without any explanation?” Jurgen was shouting now.
“You’ll do what I tell you to do, unless you want me to cut you off!”
“Go ahead, Father. I’ve never much cared for debts. There’s only one thing left of value, and you can’t take that away from me. I’ll inherit your title whether you like it or not.” Jurgen went out of the dining room, slamming the door shut behind him. He was about to go out into the street, when a voice stopped him.
“Son, wait.”
He turned. Brunhilda was coming down the stairs.
“Mother.”
She went up to him and kissed his cheek. She had to stand on tiptoe to do it. She straightened his black tie and with her fingertips she caressed the place where his right eye had once been. Jurgen drew back and pulled down the patch.
“You have to do as your father asks.”
“I…”
“You have to do what you’re told, Jurgen. He’ll be proud of you if you do. And so will I.”
Brunhilda kept talking for some time. Her voice was sweet and to Jurgen it conjured up images and feelings he hadn’t experienced for a long time. He had always been her favorite. She had always treated him differently, never denied him anything. He wanted to curl up in her lap, as he did when he was a child and summer seemed never-ending.
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow’s the eighth of November, Mother. I can’t-”
“It has to be tomorrow afternoon. Your father’s been watching the boardinghouse, and Paul’s never there at that time.”
“But I already have plans!”
“Are they more important than your own family, Jurgen?”
Brunhilda brought her hand to his face once more. This time Jurgen didn’t recoil.
“I suppose I could do it, if I’m quick.”
“Good boy. And when you’ve got the papers,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper, “bring them to me first. Don’t say a word to your father.”