Lynda Plante - Entwined

"That little prick of an inspector was here, he wanted to know about the night Kellerman died, something about a pair of boots, the ones he'd seen outside."

She shrugged, gestured to her closet. "He can take whichever ones he likes. Is that all you wanted to say to me? I got a lot to do..."

"I'll go and check the props — and Ruda, if you still have Kellerman's hat, get rid of it. They asked about that, a leather trilby... Mike borrowed it, he said that you had said it was mine. Get rid of it, Ruda." Grimaldi slammed out of the trailer.

Ruda kicked her door shut. "Damn!.. Damn!"

She paced up and down. She had gotten rid of everything, she was safe, they couldn't link her to Kellerman's murder. Then she realized maybe the police had not made the connection, but Grimaldi had. She stood with her hands clenched at her sides. "Damn!" She calmed down, ordered herself to remain calm.

Torsen hovered around the bus station, checking his watch. He had to get back to his apartment, bathe and change, and collect Freda; he wouldn't make it if the bus didn't come soon. There was a sound of a car backfiring, and Torsen looked out. He hurried toward the driver as he slammed the door shut. "Eh, you'd better be careful, slam it too hard and the engine'll fall out."

Torsen smiled. "Could I have just a word?"

The driver nodded, but said he would have to make it quick since he was late. Torsen produced the leaflet. "Can you look at this, it's not a proper photograph, but it's a good likeness of the person we think may have been the passenger on your bus the night the dwarf was murdered. Remember we spoke about it?"

Again the driver nodded. "You know it's been a while now. I dunno if I can remember her, let me see..." He squinted at the picture.

"I'm sure I've seen this before..."

"But is it of the woman on your bus that night?"

"I have definitely seen this woman's face before, but whether it was her or not, I couldn't honestly say. I just took her fare, I didn't have a conversation with her. It could be, but I couldn't say it was."

Torsen slipped the picture back into his wallet. "Thanks for your time. Have a good night!"

He returned to his car, was unlocking it as the bus drove past. On the side of the bus out of Torsen's sight was a large poster — Ruda Kellerman's face about a foot high was posted up on the wall of the bus terminal.

Torsen threw up his hands. So much for a valued eyewitness. He drove back to his apartment. On the way he called in for messages by radio, and stated that he would be using the patrol car that evening. Rieckert radioed back to Torsen asking if he could pick him up. There was just his girlfriend and himself. Torsen snapped that he thought he was giving the tickets to his wife and kid. Rieckert laughed. "Na, they hate the circus... see you about seven, over and out!"

Mama Magda's was empty when Vebekka walked in. She called out and, receiving no reply, descended the dark unlit staircase. She passed through the arch with the beaded curtains, called out again, and walked toward the office. Eric opened the door.

"I came to see Magda."

Eric squinted in the darkness, unable to see her face clearly.

"I want to talk to her."

"That would be very difficult. Who are you?"

Vebekka introduced herself, and Eric opened the door wider.

"Please, it is very important I speak to her."

Eric gestured for her to come in. "You're twenty-four hours too late. She died last night."

Vebekka leaned on the doorframe. "Oh no... no please, no!"

Eric offered her a chair, but she refused.

"Can I be of help? I've taken over the club... sit, please sit."

"She called me Ruda..."

Eric saw how distressed Vebekka was. "Look, I'm sorry I can't help you."

Eric watched her leave, then remembered the purse. If she was who she said she was maybe she could cause trouble. He opened the drawer, picked up her purse and ran after her.

"You left this last night, your purse... no money, there was no money in it, okay?"

She stared at the bag, disinterested. Eric thrust it toward her.

"It's yours, eh, are you okay?"

She took the purse. She seemed close to tears. "It was perhaps just a coincidence, you see... Ruda, Ruda was my sister. The big woman called me Ruda."

"I can ask around for you, what's her last name?"

"I don't know."

Eric backed away; she was a nut. "Well I can't help you then, good-bye. Any time you're passing, drop in..."

He made his way back, and heard a screech of tires. She had walked out into the street and a car had narrowly missed her, but she kept on walking, not even turning to the shocked driver.

Helen turned to see the baron, who was out of breath, having run up from the reception. "She came to the hotel, went up to the suite, and then took a taxi. The driver has just come back. He said Vebekka went to 'Mama Magda's' and he's waiting to take us there now."

When they reached the club, Eric explained that the baroness had been there; he swore he had returned the handbag she left there the previous evening.

"We are not interested in that, all we want to know is where she went."

Eric explained she had come asking about her sister, someone called Ruda, and the next minute she had almost got herself killed walking across the street, straight into the traffic.

Eric followed them out to the sidewalk, and watched them as they, too, ran across the street amid blaring horns. He shook his head. Crazy foreigners, all crazy.

Vebekka walked on, bumping into passersby. She turned into a churchyard, unaware of where she was going. Fragmented pictures kept cropping up in her mind. She walked into the church and sat in a row at the back. Rosa used to take her to church on Sundays, but her adopted father never accompanied them. Vebekka closed her eyes, remembering. She used to call Rosa "the woman" — she didn't know the name of the woman who worked at the hospital where they had taken her after the camp was liberated.

The woman had been very gentle. She had explained she was just examining her, to see if she needed any medication. She asked her if she remembered her name, but Rebecca was too terrified to speak; any moment she expected them to stick needles into her arms. When the needles didn't come, she lived in terror they would bring the electric pads, and she hid beneath the sheets for long periods of time. The woman would come every day with little presents, but Rebecca would refuse to take them. She knew it was a trick. After a few weeks, maybe even months, she began to believe she was safe; until they had taken her to the X-ray department, and she had screamed and screamed.

Rebecca had spent six months in the hospital before she was sent to an orphanage; she had yet to speak a word, but she had begun to get used to the nice woman's visits. The woman had explained to Rebecca that she lived in Berlin with her husband, that she was not a doctor, just helping in any way she could. She had held the frightened girl's hand, saying she wanted to help her, and that she would come to the orphanage to see her, if Rebecca wished. Rebecca had slowly nodded her head.

In the orphanage, the older children would steal her things, and pinch her. She was so fat — they called her a pig, a fat pig. They were too young, too bruised themselves to know she had been injected and tortured, to know that they had all suffered. Rebecca rarely spoke. She missed her sister, cried for her every night. Then, one day, the nice woman arrived with her husband. She asked Rebecca if she would like to live with them.

There were many children to choose from, but Rebecca had touched Rosa deeply; she was also outwardly the most healthy of the children, and Rosa was confident that, in time, Rebecca would be able to overcome her terror.

They had tried to trace Rebecca's family to no avail; she could not remember her last name. They knew her first name only because one of the children told them. Rebecca left with the Goldbergs a year and a half after her release from Birkenau, but it was months before she started to believe they were not going to hurt her.