When he heard the knock at his door, Paul had a half-eaten apple in one hand and a newspaper in the other. He hadn’t touched the food his landlady had brought him, as the emotion of his meeting with Alys had unsettled his stomach. He was forcing himself to chew the fruit to calm his nerves.
On hearing the sound, Paul stood up, dropped the newspaper, and took the gun from under his pillow. Holding it behind his back, he opened the door. It was his landlady again.
“Herr Reiner, there are two people here who want to see you,” she said with a concerned expression.
She stepped aside. In the middle of the corridor stood Manfred Tannenbaum, holding the hand of a frightened boy who clung to a worn soccer ball as though it were a life preserver. Paul stared at the child, and his heart somersaulted. The dark-blond hair, the pronounced features, the dimple in his chin and blue eyes… The way he looked at Paul, afraid but not avoiding his eyes…
“Is this…?” he stammered, seeking confirmation he didn’t need, as his heart told him everything.
The other man nodded, and for the third time in Paul’s life everything he thought he knew imploded in an instant.
“Oh, God-what have I done?”
He quickly ushered them inside.
Manfred, wanting to be alone with Paul, told Julian, “Go and wash your face and hands-go on.”
“What happened?” asked Paul. “Where is Alys?”
“We were going on a picnic. Julian and I went ahead to wait for his mother, but she didn’t show up, so we returned home. Just as we were coming around the corner, a neighbor told us that a man in an SS uniform had taken Alys away. We didn’t dare go back, in case they were waiting for us, and I thought this was the best place for us to go.”
Trying to remain calm in front of Julian, Paul went over to the cupboard and from the bottom of a suitcase took a little gold-topped bottle. With a twist of his wrist he broke the seal and held it out to Manfred, who took a long swig and started to cough.
“Not so fast or you’ll be singing before too long…”
“Damn, that burns. What the hell is it?”
“It’s called Krugsle. It’s distilled by the German colonists in Windhoek. The bottle was a present from a friend. I was saving it for a special occasion.”
“Thank you,” said Manfred, handing it back. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way, but…”
Julian came back from the bathroom and sat on a chair.
“Are you my father?” the boy asked Paul.
Paul and Manfred were aghast.
“Why do you say that, Julian?”
Without replying to his uncle, the boy grabbed Paul’s arm, forcing him to crouch down so they were face-to-face. He ran his fingertips around his father’s features, exploring them as though merely looking were not enough. Paul closed his eyes, trying to hold back tears.
“I look like you,” said Julian at last.
“Yes, son. You do. Very much so.”
“Could I have something to eat? I’m hungry,” said the boy, pointing to the tray.
“Of course,” said Paul, suppressing the need to hug him. He didn’t dare get too close, because he understood that the boy must also be in shock.
“I need to talk to Herr Reiner alone outside. You stay here and eat,” Manfred said.
The boy folded his arms. “Don’t go anywhere. The Nazis have taken Mama away, and I want to know what you’re talking about.”
“Julian…”
Paul placed his hand on Manfred’s shoulder and gave him a questioning look. Manfred shrugged.
“Very well, then.”
Paul turned toward the boy and tried to force a smile. To be sitting there looking at the small version of his own face was a painful reminder of his last night in Munich, back in 1923. Of the terrible, selfish decision he had taken, leaving Alys without at least trying to understand why she had told him to leave her, leaving without putting up a fight. Now the pieces were falling into place, and Paul understood the serious mistake he had made.
I’ve lived my whole life without a father. Blaming him and those who killed him for his absence. I swore a thousand times that if I had a child I would never, never let him grow up without me.
“Julian, my name is Paul Reiner,” he said, holding out his hand.
The boy returned the handshake.
“I know. Uncle Manfred told me.”
“And did he also tell you I didn’t know I had a son?”
Julian shook his head, silent.
“Alys and I always told him his father was dead,” said Manfred, avoiding his gaze.
This was too much for Paul. He felt the pain of all those nights when he’d lain awake, imagining his father as a hero, now projected onto Julian. Fantasies built on a lie. He wondered what dreams this boy must have conjured in those moments before he fell asleep. He couldn’t bear it any longer. He ran over, lifted his son from the chair, and hugged him tight. Manfred stood up, wanting to protect Julian, but he stopped when he saw that Julian, his fists clenched and tears in his eyes, was hugging his father back.
“Where have you been?”
“Forgive me, Julian. Forgive me.”