It would be so simple to do it all again: find out where he slept, send over a patrol, then head to the cellars of the Wittelsbach Palace, the Gestapo’s headquarters in Munich. To go into the padded cell—padded not to stop people hurting themselves, but to muffle the screams—sit down in front of him and watch him die. Perhaps he could even bring the Jew and rape her right in front of Paul, enjoy her while Paul struggled desperately to free himself from his bonds.
But he had to think of his career. He didn’t want people talking about his cruelty, especially now that he was becoming better known.
On the back of his title, and his achievements, he was so close to promotion and a ticket to Berlin to work side by side with Heydrich.
And then there was also his desire to confront Paul man-to-man. Pay the little shit back for all the pain he’d caused without hiding behind the machinery of the state.
There has to be a better way.
Suddenly he knew what he wanted to do, and his lips twisted into a cruel smile.
“Excuse me, sir,” Eichmann insisted, thinking he hadn’t heard. “I was asking if we will be turning Reiner in?”
“No, Adolf. This will require a more personal touch.”
52
“I’m home!”
Returning from the cemetery, Alys walked into the small apartment and readied herself for the usual wild charge from Julian. But this time he didn’t appear.
“Hello?” she called, puzzled.
“We’re in the studio, Mama!”
Alys made her way down the narrow corridor. There were only three bedrooms. Hers, the smallest, was as bare as a wardrobe. Manfred’s was almost exactly the same size, except that her brother’s was always piled high with technical manuals, strange books in English, and a stack of notes from the engineering course he had completed the previous year. Manfred had lived with them since he started university, when the arguments with his father had intensified. It was supposedly a temporary arrangement, but they’d lived together for so long now that Alys couldn’t imagine juggling her career as a photographer and looking after Julian without the help he gave her. Nor did he have much opportunity for advancement, because in spite of his excellent degree, job interviews always ended with the same phrase: “It’s such a shame you’re a Jew.” The only money coming into the household was what Alys made selling photos, and it was getting harder to pay the rent.
The “studio” was what in normal homes would have been the living room. Alys’s developing equipment had taken it over completely. The window had been covered in black sheets, and the only lightbulb was red.
Alys knocked on the door.
“Come in, Mama! We’re just finishing!”
The table was covered in developing trays. Half a dozen lines of pegs ran from wall to wall, clasping photos left out to dry. Alys ran over to kiss Julian and Manfred.
“Are you all right?” her brother asked.
She made a gesture to say that they would talk later. She hadn’t told Julian where they were going when they left him with a neighbor. The boy had never been allowed to get to know his grandfather in life, nor would his death provide the boy with an inheritance. In fact the entirety of Josef’s estate—much depleted in recent years, since his business had lost momentum—had gone to a cultural foundation.
The last wishes of a man who once said he was doing it all for his family, thought Alys as she listened to her father’s lawyer. Well, I have no intention of telling Julian about his grandfather’s death. At least we’ll spare him that unpleasantness.
“What’s that? I don’t remember taking those photos.”
“Looks like Julian’s been using your old Kodak, Sis.”
“Really? Last I remember, the shutter was jammed.”
“Uncle Manfred fixed it for me,” replied Julian with a guilty smile.
“Tattletale!” said Manfred, giving him a playful shove. “Well, it was that or let him loose on your Leica.”
“I’d have skinned you alive, Manfred,” said Alys, feigning annoyance. No photographer likes a child’s sticky little fingers anywhere near his or her camera, but both she and her brother couldn’t refuse Julian a thing. Ever since he had learned to speak he’d always gotten his way, but he was still the most sensitive and affectionate of the three.
Alys approached the photos and checked whether the earliest ones were ready to handle. She took one and held it up. It was a close-up of Manfred’s desk lamp, with a pile of books next to it. The photo was exceptionally accomplished, with the cone of light half illuminating the titles and excellent contrast. It was slightly out of focus, no doubt the product of Julian’s hands pressing the shutter release. A beginner’s mistake.
And he’s only ten. When he grows up he’ll be a great photographer, she thought proudly.
She glanced over at her son, who was watching her intently, desperate to hear her opinion. Alys pretended not to notice.
“What do you think, Mama?”
“About what?”
“About the photo.”
“It’s a little shaky. But you chose the aperture and depth very well. Next time you want to do a still life without much light, use the tripod.”
“Yes, Mama,” said Julian, grinning from ear to ear.
Ever since Julian’s birth, her nature had sweetened considerably. She ruffled his blond hair, which always made him laugh.
“So, Julian, what would you say to a picnic in the park with Uncle Manfred?”
“Today? Will you let me take the Kodak?”
“If you promise to be careful,” said Alys, resigned.
“Of course I will! The park, the park!”
“But first go to your room and change.”
Julian raced out; Manfred remained, watching his sister in silence. Under the red light that obscured her expression, he couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Alys, meanwhile, had taken Paul’s piece of paper out of her pocket and was staring at it as though the half dozen words might transform themselves into the man himself.
“He gave you his address?” asked Manfred, reading over her shoulder. “To cap it all, it’s a boardinghouse. Please . . .”
“He might mean well, Manfred,” she said defensively.
“I don’t understand you, Sis. You haven’t heard a word from him in years, for all you knew he was dead, or worse. And now suddenly he shows up . . .”
“You know how I feel about him.”
“You should have thought about that earlier.”
Her face contorted.
Thanks for that, Manfred. As though I haven’t regretted it enough.
“I’m sorry,” said Manfred, seeing he had upset her. He stroked her shoulder affectionately. “I didn’t mean it. You’re free to do whatever you want. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I’ve got to try.”
They were both silent for a few moments. They could hear the sounds of things being tossed onto the floor in the boy’s room.
“Have you thought about how you’re going to tell Julian?”
“I have no idea. Little by little, I guess.”
“How so, ‘little by little,’ Alys? Will you show him a leg first and say, ‘This is your father’s leg’? And the next day an arm? Look, you’ve got to do it all at once; you’ll have to admit you’ve been lying to him all his life. No one’s saying it won’t be hard.”
“I know,” she said pensively.
Another noise thundered through the wall, louder than the previous one.
“I’m ready!” shouted Julian from the other side of the door.
“You two had best go on ahead,” said Alys. “I’ll make some sandwiches and we’ll meet in half an hour by the fountain.”
When they had left, Alys tried to put her thoughts, and the battlefield of Julian’s bedroom, into some sort of order. She gave up when she realized she was matching up different-colored socks.
She went over to the little kitchen and put some fruit, cheese, jam sandwiches, and a bottle of
juice into a basket. She was trying to decide whether to take one beer or two, when she heard the doorbell.
They must have forgotten something, she thought. It’s better this way: we can all go together.
She opened the front door.
“You really are so forget—”
The last word came out as a gasp. Anyone would have reacted the same way to the sight of an SS uniform.
But there was another dimension to Alys’s alarm: she recognized the person wearing it.
“So, did you miss me, my Jewish whore?” said Jürgen with a smile.
Alys opened her eyes just in time to see Jürgen draw back his fist, ready to pummel her. She had no time to duck or dash behind the door. The punch landed squarely on her temple and she tumbled to the ground. She tried to stand up and kick Jürgen in the knee, but she couldn’t hold him off for long. He yanked her head back by the hair and snarled, “It would be so easy to kill you.”
“So do it, you son of a bitch!” Alys sobbed, struggling to free herself and leaving a chunk of her hair in his hand. Jürgen punched her in the mouth and stomach, and Alys fell to the ground, gasping for breath.
“Everything in due time, darling,” he said, unhitching her skirt.
53
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 Krügsle. 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.”
54
When their emotions had calmed a little, Manfred told them that when Julian was old enough to ask about his father, Alys had decided to tell him he was dead. After all, no one had heard from Paul for a long time.
“I don’t know if it was the right decision. I was just a teenager at the time, but your mother did think long and hard about it.”
Julian sat listening to his explanation, his expression serious. When Manfred had finished, he turned to Paul, who tried to explain his long absence, though the story was as hard to tell as it was difficult to believe. And yet, Julian, in spite of his sadness, seemed to understand the situation and interrupted his father only to ask the occasional question.
He’s a smart lad, with nerves of steel. His world has just been turned upside down, and he’s not crying, not stamping his feet or calling for his mother the way many other children would do.
“So you spent all these years trying to find the person who hurt your father?” asked the boy.
Paul nodded. “Yes, but it was a mistake. I never should have left Alys, because I love her very much.”
“I understand. I’d look everywhere for someone who had hurt my family too,” replied Julian in a low voice that seemed strange for someone his age.
Which brought them back to Alys. Manfred told Paul what little he knew about his sister’s disappearance.
“It’s happening more and more frequently,” he said, looking at his nephew out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t want to blurt out what had happened to Josef Tannenbaum; the boy had suffered en
ough. “No one does anything to stop it.”
“Is there anyone we can go to?”
“Who?” said Manfred, throwing up his hands in despair. “They didn’t leave a report, or a search warrant, or a list of charges. Nothing! Just an empty space. And if we show up at the Gestapo headquarters . . . well, you can guess. We’d have to be accompanied by an army of lawyers and journalists, and I worry even that wouldn’t be enough. The whole country is in these people’s hands, and the worst thing is that nobody noticed until it was too late.”
They went on talking for a long while. Outside, dusk hung over the Munich streets like a gray blanket, and the streetlamps were starting to be turned on. Tired from so much emotion, Julian was giving his leather ball desultory kicks. He ended up putting it down and falling asleep on top of the bedspread. The ball rolled toward the feet of his uncle, who picked it up and showed it to Paul.
“Familiar?”
“No.”
“It’s the ball I hit you on the head with all those years ago.”
Paul smiled at the recollection of his trip down the stairs and the chain of events that had led him to fall in love with Alys.
“It’s thanks to this ball that Julian exists.”
“That’s what my sister said. When I was old enough to confront my father and resume contact with Alys, she asked for the ball. I had to rescue it from a storeroom, and we gave it to Julian on his fifth birthday. I think that was the last time I saw my father,” he recalled bitterly. “Paul, I—”
He was interrupted by a knocking at the door. Alarmed, Paul gestured for him to be quiet and got up to fetch the gun, which he had put away in the cupboard. It was the landlady again.
“Herr Reiner, there’s a phone call for you.”
Paul and Manfred exchanged a curious look. Nobody knew Paul was staying there but Alys.
“Did they say who they were?”