But wait a moment: the waitresses . . .
Struck by a sudden flash of inspiration, Alys approached a service table. She picked up an empty tray, took off her jacket, wrapped it around her camera, and held it under the tray. Then she collected a couple of empty beer glasses and headed for the kitchen.
Perhaps they won’t see. I’m wearing a white blouse and black skirt just like the waitresses. Perhaps they won’t notice I’m not wearing an apron. Just as long as they don’t notice the jacket under the tray . . .
Alys passed through the crowd, holding the tray aloft, and had to bite her tongue when a couple of patrons touched her bottom. She didn’t want to attract attention to herself. As she approached the swinging doors, she got behind another waitress and passed by the SA guards, fortunately without any of them giving her a second glance.
The kitchen was long and very large. The same tense atmosphere reigned in there, though without the tobacco smoke and flags. A couple of waiters were filling glasses with beer while the kitchen boys and cooks talked to one another by the stoves under the stern gaze of a couple of storm troopers who were again blocking the exit. Both were carrying rifles and pistols.
Shit.
Not knowing quite what to do, Alys realized she couldn’t just stand there in the middle of the kitchen. Someone would realize that she wasn’t one of the staff and throw her out. She left the glasses in the enormous metal sink and picked up a dirty rag she found nearby. She ran it under the tap, soaked it, wrung it out, and pretended to be cleaning while she tried to come up with a plan. Looking around cautiously, an idea occurred to her.
She sidled over to one of the trash cans next to the sink. It was full almost to bursting with leftovers. She placed her jacket in it, put the lid on, and picked up the can. Then she began to walk brazenly toward the door.
“You can’t go past, Fräulein,” said one of the storm troopers.
“I’ve got to take out the garbage.”
“Leave it here.”
“But the cans are full. You can’t have full garbage cans inside a kitchen: it’s against the law.”
Don’t worry about that, Fräulein, we’re the law now. Put the can back where it was.”
Alys, deciding to gamble everything on a single hand, put the can down on the floor and folded her arms.
“If you want to move it, move it yourself.”
“I’m telling you to get that thing away from here.”
The young man didn’t take his eyes off Alys. The kitchen staff had noticed the scene and were looking at him angrily. As Alys had her back to them, they couldn’t tell she wasn’t one of them.
“Come on, man, let her past,” the other storm trooper intervened. “It’s bad enough having to be stuck here in the kitchen. We’re going to have to wear these clothes all night and the smell’s going to stick to my shirt.”
The one who’d spoken first shrugged and moved aside.
“You go, then. Accompany her to the bin outside and then get back here as quickly as possible.”
Silently cursing, Alys led the way. A narrow door gave onto an even narrower alley. The only light came from a single bulb at the opposite end, closer to the street. The bin was there, surrounded by scrawny cats.
“So . . . have you been working here long, Fräulein?” said the storm trooper, in a slightly embarrassed tone.
I don’t believe it: we’re walking down an alley, I’m carrying a garbage can, he’s carrying a machine gun, and this idiot is making a pass at me.
“You might say I’m new,” replied Alys, pretending to be friendly. “And what about you: Have you been carrying out coups d’état for long?”
“No, this is my first,” the man replied seriously, failing to catch her irony.
They reached the bin.
“Right, well, you can go back now. I’ll stay and empty the can.”
“Oh, no, Fräulein. You empty the can, then I’ve got to accompany you back.”
“I wouldn’t want you to have to wait for me.”
“I’d wait for you anytime you like. You’re lovely . . .”
He went to kiss her. Alys tried to step back but she was trapped between the bin and the storm trooper.
“No, please,” said Alys.
“Come on, Fräulein . . .”
“Please, no.”
The storm trooper hesitated, remorseful.
“I’m sorry if I offended you. I just thought . . .”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s just that I’m already engaged.”
“I’m sorry. He’s a lucky man.”
“Don’t worry about it,” repeated Alys, shaken.
“Let me help you with the garbage can.”
“No!”
Alys tried to pull away the hand of the brownshirt, who, in his confusion, let go of the can. It tumbled over and rolled along the ground.
Some of the leftovers scattered in a semicircle, revealing Alys’s jacket and its precious cargo.
“What the hell is that?”
The parcel had opened slightly and the lens of the camera was clearly visible. The soldier looked at Alys, who wore a guilty expression. She didn’t need to confess.
“Damn slut! You’re a Communist spy!” said the storm trooper, feeling for his cudgel.
Before he could grab it, Alys picked up the metal lid of the garbage can and tried to hit the storm trooper on the head. Seeing the attack coming, he raised his right arm. The lid struck his wrist with a deafening noise.
“Aaargh!”
He snatched the lid with his left hand, throwing it far away. Alys tried to dodge him and run off, but the alley was too narrow. The Nazi grabbed her by the blouse and pulled hard. Alys’s body turned, and her shirt tore down one side, exposing her bra. The Nazi, who’d raised an arm to strike her, froze for a moment, torn between excitement and fury. That look filled her heart with fear.
“Alys!”
She looked toward the entrance to the alley.
Paul was there, in a dreadful state, but he was there all the same. In spite of the cold, he was wearing only a sweater. His breathing was ragged and he had a cramp from having run across the city. Half an hour earlier he’d planned to enter the Bürgerbräukeller by the back door, but he hadn’t even been able to cross the Ludwigsbrücke, as the Nazis had set up a roadblock.
So he had taken the long way around. He looked for policemen, soldiers, anyone who could answer his questions about what was going on in the beer hall, but all he found were citizens applauding those who had taken part in the coup, or booing them—from a wise distance.
Having crossed to the opposite bank via the Maximiliansbrücke, he started asking the people he met on the street. Finally someone mentioned the alley that led to the kitchen and Paul ran toward it, praying that he’d arrive before it was too late.
He was so surprised to see Alys outside, struggling with the storm trooper, that instead of launching a surprise attack he announced his arrival like an idiot. When the other man drew his gun, Paul had no choice but to hurl himself forward. His shoulder bashed the Nazi’s stomach, knocking him over.
The two of them rolled on the ground, struggling for the weapon. The other man was stronger than Paul, who was also utterly drained by the events of the previous hours. The struggle lasted less than five seconds, at the end of which the other man pushed Paul aside, got to his knees, and pointed the gun.
Alys, who had now retrieved the metal garbage can lid, stepped in, pounding the soldier furiously with it. The impacts rang out through the alley like the crash of cymbals. The Nazi’s eyes went blank, but he didn’t fall. Alys struck him again, and at last he toppled forward and fell flat on his face.
Paul got up and ran to embrace her, but she pushed him away and crouched down on the ground.
“What’s wrong with you? Are you all right?”
Alys stood up, furious. In her hands she held the remains of the camera, which was completely destroyed. During Paul’s fight with the Nazi, it had been c
rushed.
“Look.”
“It’s broken. Don’t worry, we’ll buy a better one.”
“You don’t understand! There were photos in there!”
“Alys, there’s no time for that now. We have to go before his friends come looking for him.”
He tried to take her by the hand, but she pulled away and ran ahead of him.
42
They didn’t look back until they were far from the Bürgerbräukeller. At last they stopped beside the Church of St. Johann Nepomuk, whose impressive spire pointed at the night sky like an accusing finger. Paul led Alys to the archway over the main entrance to take shelter from the cold.
“God, Alys, you have no idea how scared I was,” he said, kissing her on the mouth. She returned the kiss without much conviction.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s not what it looks like to me,” said Paul, annoyed.
“I said it’s nothing.”
Paul decided not to pursue the matter. When Alys was in this mood, trying to get her out of it was like trying to escape from quicksand: the more you struggled, the deeper you sank.
“Are you all right? Have they hurt you or . . . anything?”
She shook her head. It was only then that she fully registered Paul’s appearance. His shirt stained with blood, his face covered in soot, his bloodshot eyes.
“What’s happened to you, Paul?”
“My mother died,” he replied, lowering his head.
As Paul recounted the events of the night, Alys felt sorrow for him and shame at the way she’d treated him. More than once she opened her mouth to ask his forgiveness, but she had never believed in the meaning of that word. It was a disbelief fed by pride.
When he told her his mother’s last words, Alys was astonished. She couldn’t understand how the brutal, vicious Jürgen could be Paul’s brother, and yet deep down it didn’t surprise her. Paul had a dark side that flared up at certain moments, like a sudden autumn wind shaking the curtains of a cozy house.
When Paul described breaking into the pawnshop and how he’d had to hit Metzger to make him talk, Alys began to feel very afraid for him. Everything to do with this mystery seemed unbearable, and she wanted to distance him from it as quickly as possible before it consumed him completely.
Paul concluded his tale by recounting his dash to the beer hall.
“And that’s all.”
“It’s more than enough, I think.”
“What do you mean?”
“You aren’t seriously planning to keep digging around, are you? It’s obvious there’s someone out there who is prepared to do anything to keep the truth hidden.”
“That’s precisely the reason to keep digging. It proves someone’s responsible for the murder of my father . . .”
There was a brief pause.
“. . . of my parents.”
Paul didn’t cry. After what had just happened, his body was begging him to cry, his soul needed him to, and his heart was overflowing with tears. But Paul kept it all inside, forming a small shell around his heart. Perhaps some ridiculous sense of manhood wouldn’t allow him to show his feelings in front of the woman he loved. Perhaps it was this that ignited what happened moments later.
“Paul, you should give up,” said Alys, increasingly alarmed.
“I have no intention of doing that.”
“But you have no proof. No clues.”
“I have a name: Clovis Nagel. I have a place: South-West Africa.”
“South-West Africa is a very big place.”
“I’ll start at Windhoek. A white man shouldn’t be hard to spot over there.”
“South-West Africa is very big . . . and very far away,” repeated Alys, emphasizing every word.
“I have to do it. I’ll leave on the first boat.”
“So that’s it?”
“Yes, Alys. Haven’t you listened to a word I’ve said since we met? Don’t you realize how important it is for me to find out what happened nineteen years ago? And now . . . now this.”
For a moment Alys contemplated stopping him. Explaining how much she’d miss him, how much she needed him. How much she’d fallen in love with him. But pride stilled her tongue. Just as it prevented her from telling Paul the truth about her own behavior over the last few days.
“So go, then, Paul. Do whatever you have to do.”
Paul looked at her, utterly bewildered. The icy tone of her voice made him feel as though his heart had been torn out and buried in the snow.
“Alys . . .”
“Go straightaway. Leave now.”
“Alys, please!”
“Leave, I’m telling you.”
Paul seemed on the verge of tears, and she prayed that he would cry, that he’d change his mind and tell her he loved her and that his love for her was more important than a search that had brought him nothing but pain and death. Perhaps Paul was waiting for something similar, or perhaps he was just trying to record Alys’s face in his memory. For long, bitter years she would curse herself for the haughtiness that overcame her, just as Paul would blame himself for not having taken the trolley back to the boardinghouse before his mother was stabbed . . .
. . . and for having turned around and walked away.
“You know what? I’m glad. This way you won’t burst into my dreams and trample all over them,” said Alys, throwing to her feet the broken bits of the camera she had been clinging to until that moment. “Since I met you, only bad things have happened to me. I want you out of my life, Paul.”
Paul hesitated for a moment, and then, without looking back, said, “So be it.”
Alys remained in the church doorway for several minutes, fighting a silent battle against her tears. Suddenly a figure emerged from the darkness, from the same direction in which Paul had disappeared. Alys tried to collect herself and put a smile on her face.
He’s coming back. He’s understood, and he’s coming back, she thought, taking a step toward the figure.
But the streetlights revealed that the person approaching was a man in a gray raincoat and hat. Too late, Alys realized it was one of the men who had followed her that afternoon.
She turned to run, but as she did she saw his companion, who had come around the corner and was less than three meters away. She tried to escape, but the two men lunged at her and caught her by the waist.
“Your father’s looking for you, Fräulein Tannenbaum.”
Alys struggled in vain. There was nothing she could do.
A car emerged from a nearby street and one of her father’s gorillas opened the door. The other pushed her toward it and tried to force her head down.
“You’d best be careful with me, imbeciles,” said Alys with a look of scorn. “I’m pregnant.”
43
Elizabeth Bay, 28 August 1933
Dear Alys,
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve written to you. At a rate of once a month it must be more than a hundred letters, all of them unanswered.
I don’t know if they’re reaching you and you’ve decided to forget me. Or perhaps you’ve moved house and not left a forwarding address. This one will go to your father’s house. I write to you there every once in a while, even though I know that it is useless. I remain hopeful that one of these will somehow get past your father. In any case, I shall keep writing to you. These letters have become my only contact with my former life.
I want to begin, as always, by asking you to forgive me for the way I left. I’ve recalled that night ten years ago so many times, and I know I shouldn’t have behaved in the way I did. I’m sorry I shattered your dreams. Each day I’ve prayed for you to be able to realize your dream of being a photographer, and I hope that over these years you’ve succeeded.
Life in the colonies isn’t simple. Ever since Germany lost these lands, South Africa has controlled the mandate over the former German territory. We aren’t welcome here, though they tolerate us.
There aren’t many jobs going. I work in farms and in the diamond mines for a few weeks at a time. When I’ve saved a bit of money, I travel the country in search of Clovis Nagel. It’s not an easy task. I’ve found traces of him in the villages of the Orange River basin. One time I visited a mine site that he’d just left. I missed him by only a few minutes.
I also followed a tip-off that led me north, to the Waterberg Plateau. There I met a strange, proud tribe, the Herero. I spent some months with them, and they taught me how to hunt and gather in the desert. I fell sick with a fever, and for a long time I was very weak, but they took care of me. I’ve learned a lot from these people besides physical skills. They are exceptional. They live in the shadow of death, every day a constant struggle to find water and adapt their lives to the pressures from the white men.
I’m out of paper; this is the last piece of a batch I bought from a peddler on the road to Swakopmund. Tomorrow I’m heading back there in search of new leads. I’ll go on foot, as I’ve run out of money, so my search will have to be a brief one. The hardest thing about being here, apart from the lack of news about you, is the time it takes me to earn my living. I’ve often been at the point of giving it all up. However, I don’t mean to give up. Sooner or later I’ll find him.
I think about you, about what has happened over these past ten years. I hope you are well and happy. If you decide to write to me, write to the Windhoek post office. The address is on the envelope.
Once again, forgive me.
I love you,
Paul
THE FELLOW CRAFT
1934