The Traitor's Emblem Read Online Free

entrance from his pocket and let himself into the mansion. Inside, everything seemed quiet enough. He was approaching the staircase when he heard voices from the main living quarters of the house.
    “He slipped as we were climbing the steps, madam. It’s not easy to hold him up, and we’re all very weak. It’s been months and his wounds keep reopening.”
    “Incompetent fools. No wonder we lost the war.”
    Paul crept across the main entrance hall, trying to make as little noise as possible. The long bloodstain that ran under the door narrowed into a series of drips that led toward the largest room in the mansion. Inside, his aunt Brunhilda and two soldiers were leaning over a sofa. She kept rubbing her hands together until she realized what she was doing and then hid them in the folds of her dress. Even though he was hidden behind the door, Paul couldn’t help quaking with fear when he saw his aunt like this. Her eyes were like two thin gray streaks, her mouth was twisted into a question mark, and her authoritative voice trembled with rage.
    “Look at the state of the upholstery. Marlis!”
    “Baroness,” said the servant, approaching.
    “Go and fetch a blanket, quickly. Call the gardener. His clothes will have to be burned, they’re covered in lice. And someone tell the baron.”
    “And Master Jürgen, Madam Baroness?”
    “No! Especially not him, you understand? Is he back from school?”
    “He has fencing today, Madam Baroness.”
    “He’ll be here any moment. I want this catastrophe sorted out before he returns,” Brunhilda ordered. “Go!”
    The servant rushed past Paul, her skirts swishing, but he still didn’t move, because he had spotted Eduard’s face behind the legs of the soldiers. His heart began to beat faster. So that was who the soldiers had carried in and laid down on the sofa?
    Good God, it was his blood.
    “Who is responsible for this?”
    “A mortar shell, madam.”
    “I know that much already. I’m asking why you’ve brought my son to me only now, and in this state. It has been seven months since the war ended, and not a word of news. Do you know who his father is?”
    “Yes, he’s a baron. And Ludwig here is a bricklayer, and I’m a grocer’s assistant. But shrapnel has no respect for titles, madam. And the road from Turkey was a long one. You’re lucky he’s back at all; my brother won’t be coming back.”
    Brunhilda’s face turned livid.
    “Get out!” she hissed.
    “That’s nice, madam. We return your son to you and you throw us out into the street without so much as a glass of beer.”
    A glimmer of remorse might perhaps have crossed Brunhilda’s face, but it was overshadowed by rage. Speechless, she raised a trembling finger and pointed toward the door.
    “Piece of aristo shit,” said one of the soldiers, spitting on the carpet.
    Reluctantly they turned to leave, their heads down. Their sunken eyes filled with weariness and disgust, but not surprise. There was nothing, thought Paul, that could shock these men now. And when the two men in large gray greatcoats moved out of the way, Paul finally understood the scene.
    Eduard, Baron von Schroeder’s firstborn son, was lying unconscious on the sofa at an odd angle. His left arm was propped up on some cushions. Where his right should have been, there was only a badly sewn fold in his jacket. Where he should have had legs, there were two stumps covered in dirty bandages, one of which was seeping blood. The surgeon had not cut them in the same place: the left was severed above the knee, the right just below.
    Asymmetric mutilation, thought Paul, remembering that morning’s art history class, and his teacher discussing the Venus de Milo. He realized he was crying.
    When she heard the sobbing, Brunhilda raised her head and hurled herself toward Paul. The look of contempt and disdain she usually reserved for him had been replaced by one of hatred and shame. For a moment Paul thought she was going to strike him and