Entwined (34 page)

"She has been through deep hypnosis before—when I don't know, but she knows how to hypnotize herself, bring herself through the waking cycles. I had no control over her for some considerable time. I have never witnessed anything like it, it is quite extraordinary. But we must try and ascertain when this occurred, because she is in a dangerous state. You witnessed yourselves her own deep struggle. Whatever she has locked, she refuses to unleash. God only knows what she was involved in, or subjected to…the key to her lies in that box, chest, the thing that is so hidden inside her, with chains, locks, God knows what else…but it is inside her. It is imperative that we find out the nature of the hypnosis she has been subjected to on previous occasions. Somebody at some time treated her, made her lock away horrors, and what you have witnessed, Baron, what we have all seen here today, is the danger that can result. Vebekka, Rebecca has repressed a trauma, hidden it deep inside her mind, and it rears up. When this occurs, it brings her to the edge of a breakdown. If we find out what it is, your wife may, with time and therapy, be able to face and deal with the trauma. But we also must acknowledge that we are dealing with the unknown. Others may argue that she has survived only by locking this trauma away. It will have to be your decision whether we continue or not. I sincerely hope, however, you will agree to pursue these sessions."

The baron stared, nonplussed. He could not tell whether Franks believed he could help his wife. He turned helplessly to Helen, who looked away.

"It must be your decision."

"But what about Vebekka, doesn't she have a say in this matter?"

Franks stared at his shoes. "Your wife has no memory of what occurred in that room, none whatsoever. As her husband, it must be your decision."

"But what if she goes crazy…as you said, if you open up this trauma, and she cannot face it, then what?"

Franks still refused to look up. "Then she will continue as she has done. There will be sane periods, insane periods, spasmodic logic, violent moods. Who knows what will happen? All we know is that she has, in your own words, grown steadily worse. She has attacked your daughter, you, your sons…"

The baron pinched his nose, looked again at Helen, wanting, needing confirmation—anything to assist his decision—but she turned away.

"What time would you like to see her tomorrow?"

Franks nodded. "Good, you have made the right decision. Let's say nine, to have an early start."

♦ ♦ ♦

Vebekka felt better than she had for a long time, even though she had taken no drugs for two, almost three days. She wanted to eat out, go to some of the clubs, and Louis agreed. But first Vebekka said they should go to the hotel to check whether there were any messages. Perhaps she would call Sasha. Then, after dinner, they would decide where to go. Louis was exhausted, had no desire to go to clubs; neither did Helen, but she giggled good-naturedly. The patient was full of energy, having slept most of the day! Helen suggested to Vebekka that maybe she should rest, take care of herself, but in reply all she got was a pinch on the cheek.

"Don't be such a fuddy-duddy, Helen. If my darling husband is too tired, then you and I will go; some of the Berlin clubs are the most famous in the world."

There were letters and two packages for the baron at the hotel desk. Helen went up in the elevator with Vebekka, but returned to her own suite for a shower. Louis read more material pertaining to his wife's background: names of schoolgirls who could be contacted, schoolteachers…He knocked on Helen's door and entered with the papers.

Helen read over the letters, and then asked if the newspapers had arrived, and the baron nodded; they would have to look through them. Helen had already decided that she would see what else she could find out about Rosa Goldberg, née Muller. The baron asked Helen if they should dine in the suite or in the restaurant. She said she would prefer the restaurant. He booked a table for eight-thirty and returned to his room to shower and change. He heard Vebekka on the telephone talking to Sasha, and called out to send his love. He said they would be dining in the hotel restaurant at eight-thirty.

♦ ♦ ♦

Shortly before eight Louis went to see if Vebekka was ready, but she was not in her room. She had changed; the clothes she had been wearing were on the bed. He called down to reception to see if she had gone ahead to the restaurant, but she was not there. Helen came in and they searched the suite. Helen spoke to Hilda, who said she had helped Vebekka to dress and presumed she had gone to the restaurant.

The manager signaled to the baron as soon as he saw him get off the elevator. He gestured to the main foyer. "The baroness has just left."

The baron went pale. "Did she say where she was going?"

"No, Baron, I think she took a cab from the taxi stand outside, would you like me to inquire?"

The baron shook his head, gripped Helen by the elbow and guided her through the revolving door. He was angry and swore under his breath. As they stepped onto the red carpet, he curtly questioned the doorman, who told him that he had just missed the baroness.

"Do you know where she went?"

The doorman looked puzzled and ran to the taxi stand, signaling for the baron to join him by a waiting cab. The driver popped his head out.

"She asked to be driven around to some clubs, I heard her say. We can catch them…no problem."

The baron turned back to the hotel, and Helen hurried after him. "Louis, what are you doing? Don't you want to go after her?"

"I have been going after her all my life. She can do what she wants. I am hungry, I want to eat."

Helen hesitated; she knew that in spite of his words, Louis was very distressed. The baron went halfway toward the dining room before he stopped. "Perhaps I should return to the suite, have something sent up. I'll wait half an hour and if she has not returned I'll contact the police."

The walked to the elevator. Louis rubbed his forehead with his hand. "Why? Dear God, why is she doing this? I don't understand. She seemed so full of energy and…I had hope."

♦ ♦ ♦

Vebekka sat in the back of the taxi feeling like a truant schoolgirl. She wore her dark glasses, her sable cape, and a pale green cashmere top with matching slacks. She had taken great care in applying her makeup: thick eye shadow and a dark foundation. Her lips were outlined in a bright, unflattering crimson. This was makeup from her special box, makeup she used only on special occasions. She lit a cigarette and as she dropped the lighter back into her bag, realized she had no money. She tapped the glass.

"I have no money. Can you give me some?"

He stopped the car, turned back to her. "You want to go to the hotel? Yes? Get money? Yes?"

She shook her head. "No, you pay for me, okay? I am borrowing from you."

The driver turned and hit the wheel with his hand. "You must have cash!
Cash only, understand?
"

Vebekka opened her bag, took out her solid gold lighter. "Take this,
gold…good gold
."

The driver looked first at the lighter, then back at Vebekka, and put the car in gear with a broad smile. "Okay. Where you want to go?"

Vebekka looked from the window. "Clubs…take me to some clubs."

Torsen's eyes were becoming bloodshot reading the screens; he had been at it for hours and still had not traced the Jeczawitzes' marriage certificate. Many of the files were incomplete, and the further back he went, the worse they were.

Torsen looked up as the woman in charge of the records department gestured to her watch. She wanted to leave. "The building is empty, Inspector, and the watchman has to lock up the main gates before nine."

He began to collect his belongings. She came to stand by his side. "You still have four more files on the Js…will you come back tomorrow?"

Torsen nodded. She promised to have the files ready for him.

"Not knowing the year this man was married it is very difficult, especially in the fifties, there were so many refugees, so many homeless people, you know the cost of the Nazi dictatorship."

They walked to the door, and she sighed as she turned off the overhead lights. "There were four million inhabitants, more, and you know how many were left? Only two million. This city was devastated, there were corpses everywhere, burned-out tanks…You are too young to remember, but the survivors were mostly children, old men and old women, making homes amidst the rubble, in cellars, in old bunkers…"

They walked toward the main exit. On the way she stopped at a coat closet. "There was something so frightening about the terrible emptiness in the city; even the survivors crept about—no one believed it was over. I lost my father, my brothers, my family home—all my possessions…"

Torsen waited while she collected her coat and hat and told the watchman to lock up. He took her arm, and they walked slowly across the courtyard.

"I began working here after the war, nearly all my life, recording marriages, births, and trying to trace the dead. The worst was trying to put the papers in order. You see the building had caught fire, there was nothing left. In those days the main priority was to find food, everything was scarce, and without documents people could not get food coupons. The black market trade flourished, there were forged documents galore, endless confusion. It still goes on. People from all over the world are trying to trace their relatives, they come back year after year to find out about a son, a daughter…It is impossible, but we do what we can; that is all we can do."

Torsen paused and took out his notebook. "May I ask you a great favor, if you could, when you have a moment, see if you can find any record of Rudi Jeczawitz's wife. All I have is a Christian name, Ruda, I don't know her age."

They walked on. She seemed glad of his company. "Ruda? Is that Polish? Russian? We had so many refugees, they poured in daily, they were starved…many so young, all they had was their body. Now we have them again, refugees from the borders—they come every day, no papers, no money…it is getting bad, begging on the street, Gypsies—Romanian, Czech, Polish. Dear God, it seems it will never end!"

Torsen nodded. "I have been told she was a prostitute, perhaps they were not married legally, I don't know…"

"Many married for papers, they would marry for a name, for an identity. You know, many children roaming the streets in those days knew only their first name, nothing more—and some only a number. It was a terrible sight to see these young children everywhere, their shaved heads, their skeletal bodies. Now, when I see these punks…this new fashion stuns me, they do not remember…maybe, maybe it is best they don't, because it haunts the living, I know that."

Torsen continued walking. "My father has been saying the same things to me, he's in a nursing home. He said there were many who clung to life because their memories made them afraid of dying…"

She turned to him, a tight smile on her face. Her blue eyes searched his for a moment, and then she pointed to a bus stop. "I leave you here, my friend, and I will do what I can, but no promises. I have enjoyed speaking with you."

They shook hands, and Torsen apologized: He did not know her name.

"Lena. Lena Klapps."

Torsen waved to her as she stepped onto her bus, and then caught one himself, going in the opposite direction. He was worn out, and wondered whether he had been wasting his time; the days were passing and he had made no arrest. He was behind in his regular duties. He closed his eyes. "There are no coincidences in a murder inquiry…" As he opened his eyes he looked out of the window—and saw Ruda Kellerman stepping out of a taxicab. He craned his neck to look more closely, but he could not see her face because she wore dark glasses, and a fur draped around her shoulders. She was standing outside Mama Magda's—a notorious hangout for gay, lesbian, and mixed couples. He moved to the back of the bus to see more clearly, and watched her entering the dark, paint-peeling doorway. He was sure it was her. He wondered what she was doing in such a place, then returned to his seat, his mind churning over the day's events, asking himself if there was some connection between Ruda Kellerman and the two murders. Suddenly he realized he was almost at his stop, and as he rushed from his seat calling out to the bus driver he rang the bell. Hurrying along the aisle he came face to face with the driver he wished to question again. He asked whether he could hold the bus for just a few moments.

For privacy, they spoke on the pavement. Torsen asked for a fuller description of the woman who got off his bus near the Grand Hotel the night of Kellerman's murder.

The man removed his cap, rubbed his head, and tried to recall what he had told the inspector—while the disgruntled passengers glared at them from their seats.

"She was foreign, definitely dark-haired…and wearing a dark coat, no, a mackintosh…it was raining, and she was tall, yes, tall…taller than me, say about five feet eight, maybe a little more."

"That is very tall, are you sure she was that tall?"

The driver backed off and sized up Torsen, asking him how tall he was. They then stood shoulder to shoulder, until the man was satisfied he was correct.

A passenger descended the steps and asked angrily if they were going to stay there all night.

♦ ♦ ♦

Torsen let himself into his apartment, and turned on his electric heater. He looked into his empty fridge and swore, slamming the door shut. He brewed some tea, sat at his kitchen table, and began making laborious notes.

He had a suspect, one he underlined three times. Ruda Keller-man-Grimaldi—but what was the motive?

Torsen erased number five, then reinstated it. He recalled her handshake. She was very strong, she was very tall. Could she have been mistaken for a man leaving Kellerman's hotel?