“Oh, thank you, Herr Faber. The doctor is draining the tissue that has formed over the years. He says he can put in a glass eye. In the meantime I’m at the mercy of his instruments. Anyway…”
“It’s all set, sir. Look, they’re bringing her over now.”
A door opened behind Paul, and he heard footsteps. Paul didn’t turn to look at Alys just yet, for fear that his face would betray even the slightest emotion or, worse, that she would recognize him. It was only when she was standing next to him that he dared to give her a quick sideways glance.
Alys, dressed in a sort of coarse gray smock, had her head bowed, her eyes on the floor. She was barefoot, and her hands were cuffed.
Don’t think about how she is, thought Paul. Just think about how to get her out of here alive.
“Well, if that is all…”
“Yes, sir. Sign here and here, please.”
The fake baron took the pen and was careful to make his scribble illegible. Then he took Alys by the arm and turned, dragging her along with him.
“Just one last thing, sir?”
Paul turned again.
“What the hell is it now?” he shouted, exasperated.
“I’ll have to call Herr Eichmann to authorize the prisoner’s departure, since he was the one who signed her in.”
Terrified, Paul tried to find something to say.
“You think it’s necessary to wake our friend Adolf for such a trivial matter?”
“It won’t take a minute, sir,” said the official. He was already holding the telephone.
60
We’re done for, thought Paul.
A bead of sweat formed on his forehead, ran down over his eyebrows, and slipped into the socket of his good eye. Paul blinked discreetly, but more drops were already forming. It was very hot in the guardroom, especially where Paul was standing, directly below the bulb that lit the entrance. Jurgen’s cap, which was tight on him, was not helping.
They mustn’t see that I’m nervous.
“Herr Eichmann?”
Faber’s strident voice echoed around the room. He was one of those people who spoke louder when he was on the telephone to make it easier for the cables to carry his voice.
“I’m sorry to trouble you at this time. I have Baron von Schroeder here; he’s come to collect the prisoner who…”
The pauses in the conversation were a relief to Paul’s ears but a torture for his nerves, and he would have given anything to hear the other side. “Right. Yes, indeed. Yes, I understand.”
At that moment the official looked up at Paul, his face very solemn. Paul held his gaze as a new drop of sweat traced the path of the first.
“Yes, sir. Understood. I’ll do that.”
He hung up slowly.
“Herr Baron?”
“What’s going on?”
“Would you mind waiting here for a moment? I’ll be right back.”
“Very well, but make it quick!”
Faber went back out the door that led to the common room. Through the glass Paul saw him approach one of the soldiers, who in turn went over to his colleagues.
They’ve found us out. They’ve found Jurgen’s body and now they’re going to arrest us. The only reason they haven’t attacked yet is because they want to take us alive. Well, that’s not going to happen.
Paul was completely terrified. Paradoxically the pain in his head had lessened, doubtless because of the rivers of adrenaline racing through his veins. More than anything, he was conscious of the touch of his hand against Alys’s skin. She hadn’t looked up since she came in. At the far end of the room, the soldier who had brought her was waiting, impatiently tapping the floor.
If they come for us, the last thing I’ll do will be to kiss her.
The official came back in, now accompanied by two other soldiers. Paul turned to face them, forcing Alys to do the same.
“Herr Baron?”
“Yes?”
“I’ve spoken to Herr Eichmann and he’s given me some surprising news. I had to share it with the other soldiers. These men want to talk to you.”
The two who had come from the common room stepped forward.
“Please, allow me to shake your hand, sir, on behalf of the whole company.”
“Permission granted, Corporal,” Paul managed to say, astonished.
“It’s an honor to meet an authentic Old Fighter, sir,” said the soldier, pointing to the small medal on Paul’s chest. An eagle in flight, its wings spread, holding a laurel wreath. The Blood Order.
Paul, who hadn’t the vaguest idea what the medal signified, merely nodded and shook hands with the soldiers and the official.
“Was that when you lost your eye, sir?” Faber asked him with a smile.
An alarm bell rang in Paul’s head. This could be a trap. But he had no idea what the soldier was getting at, nor how to reply.
What the hell would Jurgen tell people? Would he say it was an accident during a silly fight in his youth, or would he pretend his injury was something it wasn’t?
The soldiers and the official watched him, hanging on his words.
“My whole life has been dedicated to the Fuhrer, gentlemen. And my body too.”
“So you were injured during the coup of ’23?” Faber pressed him.
He knew Jurgen had lost his eye before that, and he wouldn’t have dared tell such an obvious lie. So the answer was no. But what explanation would he have given?
“I fear not, gentlemen. It was a hunting accident.”
The soldiers seemed a little disappointed, but the official was still smiling.
So perhaps it wasn’t a trap after all, thought Paul, relieved.
“So, are we done with the social niceties, Herr Faber?”
“Actually no, sir. Herr Eichmann told me to give you this,” he said, holding out a small box. “It’s the news I was talking about.”
Paul took the box from the official’s hand and opened it. Inside was a typed sheet and something wrapped in brown paper. My dear friend, Congratulations on your excellent performance. I feel you have more than completed the task I charged you with. Very shortly, we will begin to act on the evidence you have gathered. I also have the honor of conveying to you the personal gratitude of the Fuhrer. He asked me about you, and when I told him you already wore the Blood Order and the party’s gold insignia on your chest, he wondered what special honor we could grant you. We talked for a few minutes and then the Fuhrer came up with this brilliant joke. He’s a man with a fine sense of humor, so much so he had this made by his personal jeweler. Come to Berlin as soon as you can. I have great plans for you. Cordially yours, Reinhard Heydrich
Understanding nothing of what he had just read, Paul unwrapped the object. It was a gold emblem of a two- headed eagle on a Teutonic cross diamond. The proportions weren’t right, and the materials a deliberate and insulting parody, but all the same Paul recognized the symbol immediately.
It was the emblem of a thirty-second-degree Mason.
Jurgen, what have you done?
“Gentlemen,” said Faber, gesturing toward him, “a round of applause for Baron von Schroeder, a man who,
