Brother.
Sitting on the curb, close to where the landlady had sat an hour earlier, Paul tried to digest that word. In less than thirty minutes his life had been turned upside-down twice-first with the death of his mother, and then with the revelation she’d made with her final breath.
When Ilse died, Paul had embraced her and was tempted to allow himself to die too. To stay where he was until the flames consumed the ground beneath him.
That’s life. Running across a roof that’s condemned to collapse, thought Paul, drowning in a pain that was as bitter, dark, and thick as oil.
Was it fear that had kept him on the roof in the moments after his mother’s death? Perhaps he had been afraid of facing the world alone. Perhaps if her last words had been “I love you so much,” Paul would have let himself die. But Ilse’s words had given a completely different meaning to the questions that had tormented Paul all his life.
Was it hatred, the thirst for vengeance, or the need to know, that had finally made him act? Perhaps a mixture of all three. What is beyond doubt is that Paul gave his mother a final kiss on the forehead, then sprinted to the opposite end of the roof.
He nearly fell over the edge but managed to stop himself in time. The children next door sometimes played on the building, and Paul wondered how they got back across. He deduced that they probably left a plank of wood lying around somewhere. Paul had no time to look for it amid the smoke, so he took off his overcoat and jacket, reducing his weight for the jump. If he missed, or if the opposite bit of roof collapsed under his weight, he would drop five floors. Without thinking too much, he had taken a running jump, blindly confident that he would make it.
Now that he was back at ground level, Paul tried to assemble the puzzle in which Jurgen-my brother!-had become the most complex piece of all. Could Jurgen really be Ilse’s son? Paul didn’t think it possible, as only eight months separated their birth dates. Physically it was possible, but Paul was more inclined to believe that Jurgen was Hans and Brunhilda’s son. Eduard, with his darker, rounder complexion, had looked nothing like Jurgen, nor were they alike in temperament. However, Jurgen did resemble Paul. They both had blue eyes and pronounced cheekbones, though Jurgen’s hair was darker.
How could my father have slept with Brunhilda? And why did my mother hide it from me all this time? I always knew she wanted to protect me, but why not tell me this? And how am I supposed to find out the truth without approaching the Schroeders?
The landlady interrupted Paul’s thoughts. She was still sobbing.
“Herr Reiner, the firemen say the fire’s under control, but it’ll be necessary to demolish the building, as it’s no longer safe. They’ve asked me to tell the tenants that they can take turns to go in and fetch some clothes, as you’ll all have to spend the night elsewhere.”
Like a robot, Paul joined the dozen people who were going to recover some of their things. He stepped over the hoses that were still pumping arcs of water, walked along the sodden corridors and stairways accompanied by a fireman, and finally reached his room, where he picked out clothes at random and put them into a small bag.
“That’s enough,” urged the fireman, who had been waiting uneasily in the doorway. “We have to go.”
Still dazed, Paul followed him. But a few meters later, a faint idea flickered in his brain, like the edge of a gold coin in a bucket of sand. He turned and ran.
“Hey, listen! We’ve got to get out!”
Paul ignored the man. He ran into his room and dove under his bed. In the narrow space he struggled to move aside a pile of books he’d put there to hide what was behind.
“I told you to get out! Look, it isn’t safe here,” said the fireman, pulling on Paul’s legs till his body appeared.
Paul didn’t mind. He had what he’d come to get.
A black mahogany box, smooth and plain.
It was nine thirty at night.
Paul took his small bag and ran across town.
If he hadn’t been in such a state, he would undoubtedly have noticed that something was going on in Munich, something greater even than his own tragedy. There were more people around than usual for that time of night. The bars and taverns were heaving, and angry voices emerged from inside. Anxious men huddled in groups on street corners, and there wasn’t a single policeman in sight.
But Paul paid no attention to what was going on around him; he just wanted to cover the distance that separated him from his goal in as little time as possible. Right now it was the only clue he had. He cursed himself bitterly for not having seen it, for not having worked it out sooner.
Metzger’s pawnshop was closed. The doors were thick and solid, so Paul didn’t waste any time knocking. Nor in calling out, even though he assumed-correctly-that an avaricious old man like the pawnbroker would live on the premises, perhaps in a rickety old bed in the back of the shop.
Paul put his bag down by the door and looked around him for something solid. There were no loose paving stones, but he found a dustbin lid the size of a small tray. He picked it up and threw it at the shop window, which shattered into a thousand pieces. Paul’s heart was jumping out of his chest and pounding in his ears, but he ignored that too. If anyone called the police, they might arrive before he got what he’d come for; but then again, they might not.
I hope not, thought Paul. Otherwise I’ll run off, and the next place I’ll be going for answers will be the Schroeder mansion. Even if my uncle’s friends send me to prison for the rest of my life.
Paul leapt inside. His shoes crunched on the blanket of glass shards, a mixture of the bits of broken window, and a Bohemian crystal dinner service that had also been smashed by his projectile.
It was pitch-black inside the shop. The only light came from the back room, where he could hear loud shouts.
“Who’s there? I’m calling the police!”
“Go ahead!” Paul shouted back.
A rectangle of light appeared on the floor, throwing into relief the ghostly shapes of the pawnshop wares. Paul stood there in the middle of them, waiting for Metzger to emerge.
“Get out of here, damned Nazis!” shouted the pawnbroker, appearing in the doorway, his eyes still half closed from sleep.
“I’m not a Nazi, Herr Metzger.”
“Who the hell are you?” Metzger came into the shop and switched on the light, checking that the intruder was alone. “There’s nothing of any value here!”
“Perhaps not, but there’s something I need.”
The old man’s eyes came into focus at that moment and he recognized Paul.
“What are you… Oh.”
“I see you remember me.”
“You were here recently,” said Metzger.
“Do you always remember all your customers?”
“What the devil do you want? You’ll have to pay me for that window!”
“Don’t try to change the subject. I want to know who pawned that pistol I retrieved.”
“I don’t remember.”
Paul didn’t reply. He simply took the weapon from his trouser pocket and pointed it at the old man. Metzger retreated, holding his hands out in front of his body like a shield.
“Don’t shoot! I swear to you, I don’t remember! It’s been almost two decades!”
“Let’s suppose I believe you. What about your records?”
“Put the gun down, please… I can’t show you my records: that information is confidential. Please, son, be reasonable…”
Paul took six steps toward him and raised the gun to shoulder height. The barrel was now only two centimeters from the forehead of the pawnbroker, who was drenched in sweat.
“Herr Metzger, let me explain. Either you show me the records, or I’ll shoot you. It’s a simple choice.”
“Very well! Very well!”
His hands still raised, the old man led the way to the back room. They crossed a large storeroom that was filled with spiderwebs and was even dustier than the shop itself. Cardboard boxes were stacked from floor to ceiling on rusty metal shelves, and the stink of mold and damp was unbearable. But there was something else to that smell, something indefinable and rotten.
“How can you stand this smell, Metzger?”
“Smell? I can’t smell anything,” said the old man without turning around.
Paul guessed that the pawnbroker had gotten used to the stench, having spent countless years among other people’s things. The man had clearly never enjoyed a life of his own, and Paul couldn’t help feeling some pity for him. He had to banish such thoughts from his head in order to continue gripping his father’s pistol with the same sense of purpose.
At the back of the storeroom there was a metal door. Metzger removed some keys from his pocket and opened it. He gestured for Paul to pass.
“You first,” Paul replied.
The old man looked at him curiously, his pupils steady. In his mind Paul imagined him as a dragon protecting his cave of treasure, and he told himself to be more alert than ever. The miser was as dangerous as a cornered rat, and at any moment he could turn and bite.
“Swear you won’t steal anything from me.”
“What would be the point of that? Remember, I’m the one holding the weapon.”
“Swear it,” the man insisted.
“I swear I won’t steal anything from you, Metzger. Tell me what I need to know and I’ll leave you in peace.”
To the right was a wooden bookcase filled with books in black bindings; to the left, an enormous safe. The pawnbroker immediately positioned himself in front of it, protecting it with his body.
“There you have it,” he said, gesturing Paul toward the bookcase.
“You find it for me.”
“No,” the old man replied, his voice tense. He wasn’t prepared to move from his corner.
He’s getting bolder. If I push him too much, he might jump on me. Damn it, why didn’t I load the gun? I would have used it to overpower him.
“At least tell me which volume to look in.”
“It’s on the shelf, level with your head, the fourth from the left.”
Without taking his eyes off Metzger, Paul found the book. He removed it carefully and held it out to the pawnbroker.
“Find the reference.”
“I don’t remember the number.”
“Nine one two three one. Be quick.”
Reluctantly, the old man took the book and gently turned the pages. Paul glanced around the storeroom, afraid that at any moment a group of policemen would turn up to arrest him. He’d already stayed too long.
“Here it is,” said the old man, handing back the book, open at one of the early pages.
There was no record of the date, only a curt 1905 / Week 16. Paul found the number at the bottom of the page.
“There’s just a name. Clovis Nagel. The address isn’t there.”
“The customer preferred not to give any more details.”
“Is that legal, Metzger?”
“The law on the matter is confused.”
It wasn’t the only entry on which Nagel’s name appeared. He was listed in the “Depositing Customer” column for another ten items.
“I want to see the other items he pawned.”
Relieved to be getting the intruder away from his safe, the pawnbroker led Paul to one of the bookshelves in the outer storeroom. He took down a cardboard box and showed the contents to Paul.
“Here they are.”
A couple of cheap watches, a gold ring, a silver bracelet… Paul examined the trinkets but could not understand what linked Nagel’s objects. He was beginning to despair; after all the efforts he had made, he now had even more questions than before.
Why would one man pawn so many objects on the same day? He must have been running away from someone-probably from my father. But if I want to find out any more, I’ll have to find this man, and a name alone doesn’t help much.
“I want to know where to find Nagel.”
“You’ve already seen, son. I don’t have an address…”
Paul raised his right hand and struck the old man. Metzger fell to the floor and brought his hands to his face. A trickle of blood appeared between his fingers.
“No, please, no-don’t hit me again!”
Paul had to stop himself from striking the man once more. His whole body was filled with a foul energy, an indistinct hatred, that had built up over many years and had suddenly found a target in the pathetic bleeding figure at his feet.
What am I doing?
Suddenly he felt sick at what he’d done. This had to be brought to an end as soon as possible.
“Talk, Metzger. I know you’re hiding something from me.”
“I don’t remember him too well. He was a soldier, I could tell from the way he talked. Perhaps a sailor. He said he was going back to SouthWest Africa and that he wouldn’t be needing any of those things there.”
“What was he like?”
“Rather short, fine features. I don’t remember much… Please, don’t hit me again!”
Short, fine-featured… Eduard described the man who was in the room with my father and my uncle as short, with delicate features like a girl’s. It could have been Clovis Nagel. And if my father discovered him stealing things on the boat? Perhaps he was a spy. Or had my father asked him to pawn the gun in his name? He knew, of course, that he was in danger.
Feeling as though his head were about to explode, Paul walked out of the storeroom leaving Metzger sniveling on the floor. He jumped up onto the front window ledge but suddenly remembered that he’d left his bag beside the door. Fortunately it was still there.
But everything else around him had changed.
Dozens of people filled the streets, in spite of the lateness of the hour. They huddled on the pavement, some moving from one huddle to another, conveying information like bees pollinating flowers. Paul approached the closest group.
“They say the Nazis set fire to a building in Schwabing…”
“No, it was the Communists…”
“They’re setting up checkpoints…”
Troubled, Paul took one of the men by the arm and drew him aside.
“What’s going on?”
The man took a cigarette from his mouth and gave him a crooked smile. He was delighted to find willing ears for the bad news he wanted to pass on.
“Haven’t you heard? Hitler and his Nazis are staging a coup d’etat. It’s time for the revolution. At last there will be some changes.”
“You say it’s a coup d’etat?”
“They’ve forced their way into the Burgerbraukeller with hundreds of men and they’re keeping everyone locked inside, starting with the state commissioner of Bavaria.”
Paul’s heart gave a somersault.
“Alys!”