Jurgen wrinkled up his nose as he entered the asylum. The place stank of piss and feces, poorly disguised by the smell of disinfectant.
He had to ask a nurse for directions, as this was the first time he’d been to visit Otto since they put him there eleven years earlier. The woman, perched behind a desk, wore a bored expression on her face as she read a magazine, and her feet dangled free of her white clogs. On seeing the brand-new Obersturmfuhrer appear before her, the nurse stood up and raised her right arm so quickly that the cigarette she had been smoking fell from her lips. She insisted on accompanying him in person.
“Aren’t you afraid one of them will escape?” asked Jurgen as they walked down the corridors, gesturing toward the old men wandering aimlessly near the entrance.
“It does happen sometimes, mainly when I’ve gone to the bathroom. It doesn’t matter, though, because the man from the kiosk on the corner usually brings them back.”
The nurse left him at the door to the baron’s room.
“He’s in here, sir, all settled in and comfy. He even has a window. Heil Hitler!” she added, just before leaving.
Jurgen returned the salute reluctantly, pleased to see her go. He wanted to savor this moment by himself.
The door to the room was open, and Otto was slumped in a wheelchair next to the window, asleep. A thread of drool dripped onto his chest, trailing across his dressing gown and the old monocle on its gold chain, the glass of which was now cracked. Jurgen remembered how different his father had looked the day after the attempted coup d’etat-how furious he had been that it had failed, even though he’d not contributed anything to it himself.
Jurgen had briefly been detained and interrogated, though long before it was all over he’d had the good sense to change his blood-soaked brown shirt for a clean one, and he wasn’t carrying a firearm. There were no repercussions for him, nor for anyone else. Even Hitler spent only nine months in prison.
Jurgen had returned home, as the SA barracks had been shut down and the organization dissolved. He had spent several days locked in his room, ignoring his mother’s attempts to find out what had happened with Ilse Reiner, and calculating how best to make use of the letter he had stolen from Paul’s mother.
My brother’s mother, he repeated to himself, confused.
Finally he had ordered Photostat copies of the letter, and one morning after breakfast he presented one to his mother and one to his father.
“What the hell is this?” said the baron, receiving the sheets of paper.
“You know perfectly well, Otto.”
“Jurgen! Show more respect!” said his mother, horrified.
“After what I’ve read here, there’s no reason why I should.”
“Where is the original?” asked Otto, his voice hoarse.
“Somewhere safe.”
“Bring it here!”
“I have no intention of doing that. These are just a few of the copies. I’ve sent the others to the newspapers and police headquarters.”
“You’ve done what?” shouted Otto, coming around the table. He tried to raise his fist to strike Jurgen, but his body didn’t seem to respond. Jurgen and his mother watched, dumbstruck, as the baron lowered his arm and tried to raise it again without any success.
“I can’t see. Why can’t I see?” asked Otto.
He staggered forward, dragging the breakfast tablecloth with him as he fell. Cutlery, plates, and cups tumbled over, scattering their contents, but the baron didn’t seem to notice as he lay motionless on the floor. All that could be heard in the dining room were the screams of the maid, who had just entered holding a tray of freshly made toast.***
As he stood at the door to the room, Jurgen couldn’t suppress a bitter grin as he recalled the ingenuity he’d shown back then. The doctor had explained that the baron had suffered a stroke that had deprived him of the power of speech and the use of his legs.
“With the excesses this man has indulged in during his life, I’m not surprised. I don’t expect he’ll last more than six months,” the doctor had said while putting away his instruments in a leather bag. Which was lucky, because Otto was spared seeing the cruel smile that had flashed across his son’s face when he heard the diagnosis.
And here you are, eleven years later.
He went in now without making a sound and brought a chair over to sit opposite the invalid. The light from the window may have looked like an idyllic sunbeam, but it was nothing more than the sun’s reflection on the bare white wall of the building opposite, the only view from the baron’s room.
Bored of waiting for him to wake up, Jurgen cleared his throat several times. The baron blinked and finally lifted his head. He stared at Jurgen, but if he felt any surprise or fear, his eyes didn’t show it. Jurgen contained his disappointment.
“You know, Otto? For a long time I tried very hard to win your approval. Of course, that didn’t matter to you in the slightest. You cared only about Eduard.”
He paused slightly, waiting for some reaction, some movement, anything. All he received was the same stare as before, alert but frozen.
“It was a huge relief to learn you weren’t my father. I was suddenly free to hate the disgusting cuckold swine who had ignored me all my life.”
The insults didn’t produce the slightest effect, either.
“Then you had the stroke and finally left me and my mother in peace. But of course, like everything you’ve done in your life, you didn’t finish it. I’ve given you too much leeway, waiting for you to correct this mistake, and I’ve been thinking for some time about how to get rid of you. And now, how convenient… someone appears who could save me the trouble.”
He took the newspaper he had been carrying under his arm and held it in front of the old man’s face, close enough so that he could read it. Meanwhile he recited the contents of the article from memory. He had read it over and over the night before, anticipating the moment when the old man would see it.