The Traitor's Emblem Page 13

  Keller looked at him, evidently pleased with his response. Paul noticed that his attitude had changed slightly, as though the question had been a test for something much greater still to come.

  “I met Hans Reiner many years ago. I don’t remember the exact date, but I think it was around 1895, because he came into the bookshop and bought a copy of Verne’s Castle of the Carpathians, which had just come out.”

  “He liked reading too?” asked Paul, unable to hide his emotion. He knew so little about the man who had given him life that any flicker of resemblance filled him with a mixture of pride and confusion, like the echo of another time. He felt a blind need to trust the bookseller, to extract from his head any trace of the father he had never been able to meet.

  “He was a real bookworm! Your father and I talked for a couple of hours that first afternoon. That was a lot of time in those days, as my bookshop was full from opening to closing time—not deserted like it is now. We discovered common interests, such as poetry. Although he was very intelligent, he was rather slow with words, and he marveled at what people like Hölderlin and Rilke could do. Once he even asked me to help him with a little poem he’d written for your mother.”

  “I remember her telling me about that poem,” said Paul sullenly, “though she never let me read it.”

  “Perhaps it’s still in your father’s papers?” suggested the bookseller.

  “Unfortunately, the few possessions we had were left in the house where we used to live. We had to leave in a hurry.”

  “A pity. Anyway . . . every time he came to Munich we’d spend interesting evenings together. That was how I first came to hear of the Grand Lodge of the Rising Sun.”

  “What’s that?”

  The bookseller lowered his voice.

  “Do you know what the Masons are, Paul?”

  The young man looked at him in surprise.

  “The newspapers say they’re a powerful secret sect.”

  “Run by Jews who control the fate of the world?” said Keller, his voice full of irony. “I’ve heard that story many times, too, Paul. All the more so these days, when people are looking for someone to blame for all the bad things that are happening.”

  “So, what’s the truth?”

  “The Masons are a secret society, not a sect, made up of select men who seek enlightenment and the triumph of morality in the world.”

  “By ‘select,’ do you mean ‘powerful’?”

  “No. These men choose themselves. No Mason is allowed to ask a Profane to become a Mason. It’s the Profane who has to ask, just as I asked your father to grant me admission to the lodge.”

  “My father was a Mason?” asked Paul, astonished.

  “Wait a moment,” said Keller. He locked the shop door, flipped the sign to CLOSED, and then went to the back room. On his return he showed Paul an old studio photograph. It showed a young Hans Reiner, Keller, and three other people Paul didn’t recognize, all of them looking fixedly into the camera. Their rigid pose was common to pictures from the beginning of the century, when models had to remain still for at least a minute so the photo didn’t blur. One of the men was holding up a strange symbol that Paul remembered having seen years earlier in his uncle’s study: a square and compass facing one another with a big G in the middle.

  “Your father was the keeper of the temple of the Grand Lodge of the Rising Sun. The keeper ensures that the door to the temple is closed before the Work can begin . . . In the language of the Profane, before beginning the ritual.”

  “I thought you said it had nothing to do with religion.”

  “As Masons, we believe in a supernatural being, whom we call the Great Architect of the Universe. That’s as far as the dogma goes. Each Mason venerates the Great Architect in whatever way he sees fit. In my lodge there are Jews, Catholics, and Protestants, although this isn’t talked about openly. There are two subjects that are forbidden in the lodge: religion and politics.”

  “Did the lodge have anything to do with my father’s death?”

  The bookseller paused for a while before answering.

  “I don’t know very much about his death, except that what you’ve been told is a lie. The day I saw him for the last time, he sent a message to me and we met close to the bookshop. We talked hurriedly, in the middle of the street. He told me he was in danger and that he feared for your life and your mother’s. A fortnight later I heard a rumor that his ship had gone down in the colonies.”

  Paul wondered whether he should tell Keller about his cousin Eduard’s last words, about the night his father had visited the Schroeders’ mansion, and the shot Eduard had heard, but he decided against it. He’d given the evidence a great deal of thought but couldn’t find anything conclusive to prove that his uncle had been responsible for his father’s disappearance. Deep in his heart he believed there was something to the idea, but until he was quite sure, he didn’t want to share that burden with anyone.

  “He also asked me to give you something when you were old enough. I’ve been looking for you for months,” Keller went on.

  Paul felt his heart somersault.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know, Paul.”

  “Well, what are you waiting for? Give it to me!” said Paul, almost shouting.

  The bookseller shot Paul a cool look to make it clear that he didn’t like people giving him orders in his own home.

  “Do you think you’re worthy of your father’s legacy, Paul? The man I saw the other day at the BeldaKlub didn’t seem to be any better than a drunken lout.”

  Paul opened his mouth to reply, to tell this man about the hunger and cold he’d endured when they were thrown out of the Schroeder mansion. Of the exhaustion of hauling coal up and down damp staircases. Of the desperation of having nothing, and knowing that in spite of all the barriers you still had to continue your search. Of the temptation of the Isar’s cold waters. But finally he repented, because what he’d suffered did not give him the right to behave as he’d done over the previous weeks.

  If anything, it made him even more guilty.

  “Herr Keller . . . if I belonged to the lodge, would that make me more worthy?”

  “Were you to ask for it from the bottom of your heart, that would be a start. But I assure you, it won’t be easy, not even for someone like you.”

  Paul swallowed before replying.

  “In that case, I humbly ask for your help. I want to be a Mason, like my father.”

  26

  Alys finished moving the paper around in the developing tray, then placed it in the fixing solution. Looking at the image made her feel strange. Proud, on the one hand, because of the photograph’s technical perfection. That tart’s gesture as she held on to Paul. The shine in her eyes, his eyes half closed . . . The details made you feel you could almost touch the scene, but despite her professional pride, the image gnawed at Alys’s insides.

  Lost in her thoughts inside the darkroom, she barely registered the sound of the bell announcing a new visitor to the shop. However, she looked up when she heard a familiar voice. She peered through the red glass spy hole, which gave a clear view of the store, and her eyes confirmed what her ears and her heart had told her.

  “Good afternoon,” Paul called out again, approaching the counter.

  Aware that the business of selling shares could be exceedingly short-lived, Paul still lodged in the boardinghouse with his mother, so he had taken a long detour in order to call at Muntz and Sons. He had obtained the address of the photographer’s studio from one of the workers at the club, having loosened his tongue with a few banknotes.

  Under his arm he was carrying a carefully wrapped package. It contained a thick black book embossed in gold. Sebastian had told him it contained the basics that any Profane should know before becoming a Mason. First Hans Reiner and then Sebastian had been initiated with it. Paul was itching with desire to run his eyes across those lines that his father had also read, but there was something more urgent to be done
first.

  “We’re closed,” the photographer said to Paul.

  “Really? I thought there were ten minutes left until closing time,” said Paul, glancing suspiciously at the clock on the wall.

  “To you, we’re closed.”

  “To me?”

  “You’re not Paul Reiner, then?”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “You fit the description. Tall, thin, glassy-eyed, handsome as the devil. There were other adjectives, too, but best if I don’t repeat them.”

  There was a crash from the back room. Hearing it, Paul tried to look over the photographer’s shoulder.

  “Is Alys in there?”

  “Must be the cat.”

  “That didn’t sound like a cat.”

  “No, it sounded like an empty developing tray being dropped on the floor. But Alys isn’t here, so it must be the cat.”

  There was another crash, this time louder.

  “There goes another one. Just as well they’re made of metal,” said August Muntz, lighting a cigarette with an elegant flourish.

  “You’d best go feed that cat. It seems hungry.”

  “Furious, rather.”

  “I can understand why,” said Paul, lowering his head.

  “Listen, my friend, she did leave something for you.”

  The photographer held out a photograph to him, facedown. Paul turned it over and saw a slightly blurred picture, taken in a park.

  “It’s a woman asleep on a bench in the Englischer Garten.”

  August took a long drag on his cigarette.

  “The day she took this photograph . . . it was her first outing on her own. I lent her a camera to go round the city looking for an image that would move me. She spent her time walking round a park, like all beginners. Suddenly she spotted this woman sitting on a bench, and the woman’s stillness appealed to Alys. She took a photo and then went to thank her. The woman didn’t reply, and when Alys touched her shoulder, she fell to the ground.”

  “She was dead,” said Paul, horrified, suddenly understanding the truth of what he was looking at.

  “Starved to death,” replied August, taking one final drag, then stubbing the cigarette out in an ashtray.

  Paul gripped the counter for a few moments, his gaze fixed on the photograph. Eventually he handed it back.

  “Thank you for showing me this. Please tell Alys that if she goes to this address the day after tomorrow,” he said, taking a piece of paper and a pencil from the counter and making a note, “she’ll see just how well I’ve understood.”

  A minute after Paul had left, Alys came out of the darkroom.

  “I hope you haven’t dented those trays. Otherwise you’re going to be the one hammering them back into shape.”

  “You said too much, August. And that thing with the photo . . . I didn’t ask you to give him anything.”

  “He’s in love with you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know a lot about men in love. Especially how hard it is to find them.”

  “Things started off badly between us,” said Alys, shaking her head.

  “So? The day begins at midnight, in the middle of darkness. From then on, everything is light.”

  27

  There was an enormous queue outside Ziegler Bank.

  The previous night, when she’d gone to bed in the room she rented not far from the studio, Alys had decided that she wasn’t going to see Paul. She repeated this to herself as she got ready, as she tried on her collection of hats—which consisted of only two—and as she took a trolley she never usually took. She was completely surprised to find herself by the queue for the bank.

  As she approached she noticed that there were in fact two queues. One led to the bank, the other to the entrance next door. People were coming out of the second door with smiles on their faces, carrying bags bulging with sausages, bread, and enormous stalks of celery.

  Paul was in the place next door with another man who was weighing up vegetables and hams and attending to his customers. When he saw Alys, Paul pushed his way through the crowd of people waiting to get into the store.

  “The tobacconist’s shop next to us had to close when the business went under. We’ve reopened it and made it into another grocer’s shop for Herr Ziegler. He’s a happy man.”

  “The people are happy, too, from what I can see.”

  “We sell merchandise at cost, and we sell on credit to all the bank’s customers. We’re eating up every last pfennig of our profits, but the workers and pensioners—everyone who can’t keep up with the ridiculous pace of inflation—they are all very grateful to us. Today the dollar’s at over three million marks.”

  “You’re losing a fortune.”

  Paul shrugged.

  “We’ll be giving out soup to those who need it in the evenings, starting next week. It won’t be like the Jesuits, because we’ll only have enough for five hundred portions, but we’ve already got a group of volunteers.”

  Alys was looking at him, her eyes narrowed.

  “You’re doing all this for me?”

  “I’m doing it because I can. Because it’s the right thing to do. Because I was struck by the photo of the woman in the park. Because this city’s going to hell. And yes, because I behaved like an idiot and I want you to forgive me.”

  “I’ve already forgiven you,” she replied, walking away.

  “Then why are you going?” he asked, throwing his arms wide in disbelief.

  “Because I’m still angry with you!”

  Paul was just about to run after her, but Alys turned and smiled at him.

  “But you can come and pick me up tomorrow night and see if it’s passed.”

  28

  “Therefore I consider you to be ready to begin this journey on which your worth will be tested. Bend down.”

  Paul obeyed, and the man in the suit placed a thick black hood over his head. With a sharp tug he adjusted two leather straps around Paul’s neck.

  “Can you see anything?”

  “No.”

  Paul’s own voice sounded strange inside the hood, and the sounds around him seemed to come from another world.

  “There are two holes at the back. If you are short of air, pull it away from your neck slightly.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Now hold my left arm tightly with your right arm. We will be covering a great distance together. It is very important that you move forward when I tell you to, without hesitation. There is no need to hurry, but you must listen closely to your instructions. At certain points I will tell you to walk, placing one foot in front of the other. At others, I will tell you to lift your knees to go up or down stairs. Are you ready?”

  Paul nodded.

  “Answer the questions loudly and clearly.”

  “I am ready.”

  “Let us begin.”

  Paul set off slowly, grateful to be moving at last. He’d spent the previous half hour answering the questions the man in the suit had put to him, although he had never seen this man before in his life. He knew the answers he ought to give in advance because they were all in the book that Keller had given him three weeks ago.

  “Should I memorize them?” he’d asked the bookseller.

  “These formulas are part of the ritual we have to preserve and respect. Soon you will discover that the initiation ceremonies and how they change you are an essential aspect of Masonry.”

  “There’s more than one?”

  “There’s one for each of the three degrees: Entered Apprentice, Fellow Craft, and Master Mason. There are another thirty after the third degree, but these are honorary degrees you will learn about when it’s time.”

  “What’s your degree, Herr Keller?”

  The bookseller ignored his question.

  “I want you to read the book and consider its contents closely.”

  Paul did. The work recounted the origins of Masonry: the guilds of builders in the Middle Ages and, before them, the mythi
cal builders of ancient Egypt:

  They all discovered a wisdom inherent in the symbols of construction and Geometry. You must always write this word with an upper-case G, because G is the symbol of the Great Architect of the Universe. How you choose to worship him is up to you. In the lodge, the only stone you will work will be your conscience and whatever you carry in it. Your brothers will give you the tools to do this after initiation . . . if you overcome the four trials.

  “Will it be hard?”

  “Are you afraid?”

  “No. Well, a little.”

  “It will be hard,” the bookseller admitted after a moment. “But you are brave, and you will be well prepared.”

  Paul’s bravery had not been called upon so far, although the trials had not yet begun. He had been called to an alley in the Altstadt, the city’s old city, at nine o’clock on a Friday night. From the outside, the meeting place looked like an average house, although it was perhaps rather neglected. A rusty mailbox bearing an illegible name hung beside the doorbell, but the lock seemed new and well oiled. The man in the suit had come to the door alone and led Paul into a hallway containing various pieces of wooden furniture. It was there that Paul submitted to the first ritual interrogation.

  Under the black hood, Paul wondered where Keller might be. He had assumed that the bookseller, the only connection he had with the lodge, would be the person who’d introduce him. Instead he had been met by a complete stranger, and he couldn’t help feeling slightly vulnerable as he walked blindly on the arm of a man he’d first met half an hour earlier.

  After what seemed an enormous distance—he had gone up and down various flights of stairs and several long corridors—his guide finally came to a stop.

  Paul heard three loud knocks, then an unknown voice asked: “Who calls at the door of the temple?”

  “A brother bringing a Profane who desires to be initiated into our mysteries.”

  “Has he been adequately prepared?”

  “He has.”

  “What is his name?”