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.”
37
From the corner, Alys watched Manfred alighting from the trolley. She had taken up her position close to her old house, as she had done every week for the past two years, in order to see her brother for a few moments. Never before had she so powerfully felt the need to approach him, to speak to him, to give up once and for all and return home. She wondered what her father would do if she appeared.
I can’t do it, especially like… like this. It would be like finally admitting he’s right. It would be like dying.
Her gaze followed Manfred, who was turning into a good-looking young man. Unruly hair stuck out from under his cap, his hands were in his pockets, and there was sheet music tucked under his arm.
I bet he’s still terrible at the piano, thought Alys with a mixture of irritation and regret.
Manfred walked along the pavement and, before reaching the gate to his house, stopped at the sweetshop. Alys smiled. She’d seen him do this the first time two years ago, when she’d discovered by chance that on Thursdays her brother came back from his piano lessons on public transport instead of in their father’s chauffeur- driven Mercedes. Half an hour later Alys had gone into the sweetshop and bribed a shop assistant to give Manfred a packet of toffees with a note inside when he came the following week. She’d hastily scribbled It’s me. Come every Thursday, I’ll leave you a note. Ask for Ingrid, give her your reply. Love you-A.
For the next seven days she waited impatiently, fearful that her brother would not want to answer, or that he was angry because she had left without saying good-bye. His reply, however, was typical of Manfred. As though he’d just seen her ten minutes earlier, his note started with a funny story about the Swiss and the Italians, and ended up telling her things about school and what had happened since he last heard from her. Hearing from her brother again filled Alys with happiness, but there was one line, the last, that confirmed her worst fears. Papa is still looking for you.
She ran out of the sweetshop, afraid that someone might recognize her. But in spite of the danger she returned every week, always pulling her hat down to her eyebrows and wearing an overcoat or scarf that disguised her features. She never raised her face toward her father’s window, in case he should be looking and recognize her. And each week, however dreadful her own situation, she was comforted by the daily successes, the small victories and defeats in Manfred’s life. When he won an athletics medal at the age of twelve, she cried with happiness. When he received a thrashing in the schoolyard because he’d confronted some children who’d called him a “filthy Jew,” she howled with rage. Insubstantial though they were, those letters bound her to the memory of a happy past.
On that particular Thursday, November 8, Alys waited for a slightly shorter time than usual, fearing that if she stayed around Prinzregentenplatz for very long her doubts would overcome her and she’d go for the easiest-and worst possible-option. She went into the shop, asked for a packet of mint toffees, and paid three times the standard price, as usual. She would wait till she was on the trolley, but that day she looked immediately for the piece of paper inside the wrapping. There were just five words, but they were enough to make her hands shake. They’ve found me out. Run.
She had to stop herself from screaming.
Keep your head down, walk slowly, don’t look to the side. Maybe they’re not watching the shop.
She opened the door and stepped out into the street. She couldn’t help glancing behind as she walked away.
Two men in raincoats were following her, less than sixty yards away. One of them, realizing she’d seen them, gestured to the other and both picked up the pace.
Shit!
Alys tried to walk as fast as she could without breaking into a run. She didn’t want to run the risk of attracting the attention of a policeman because if he stopped her, the two men would catch up, and then she’d be
