Entwined (40 page)

Magda would probably have kept Ruda on as a maid, had she not been visited by health inspectors, who regularly checked on missing kids. They had a long list of kids who had escaped from orphanages. Magda listened to the names and shook her head. "I look over the lists, I make sure none of them are around here. If I find one, you know me, I drag them to the depot, I'm known there."

Then they asked if she'd come across a girl called Ruda. They had no last name, and they were still trying to trace any living relative. Ruda had arrived at Auschwitz but had been removed to Birkenau until her release. She had been kept in a mental institution for four years right after the war. She was a survivor of Birkenau, could be recognized by her tattoo; they described her as possibly eight to twelve years of age. They had a place for her in an orphanage but she had run away.

Magda said she had no child of that age working for her. She was sorry she couldn't help, but she would keep her eyes peeled. For a moment she was scared they were going to search her apartment, but they folded their papers.

"I hope, Magda, you don't keep any underage girls, because if you do, we'll keep on coming, and we'll bring the police with us."

Magda had given them a black market bottle of scotch. Laughing and joking, she told them she drew the line at kids. "You think I'd use kids?—what kind of a woman you think I am?!"

They had no illusions about her, but what could they do? They had no search warrants, no time to really look, there were too many children…Even the threat of bringing in the police was an empty one, but they had to make a show, at least try to salvage some of the children roaming the streets. They took the scotch and left.

After they had gone, Magda had to look for Ruda, guessed she must be hiding. She went into her bedroom and opened the wardrobe. Ruda was crouching inside. "Don't send me back there, Mama, please…please don't."

"I can't keep you here, sweetface, they'll shut me down. I don't want trouble; I said I didn't know you. They find out I lied and I won't get them off my back."

Ruda had clung to her, sobbing. It was the first time Magda had seen her shed a tear. "I can't keep you here, but I'll see what I can do."

Even though she now knew Ruda's age, she got one of the older girls to take her around to the brothels, got her to break her in. But then, after a few weeks, Magda was told that there was something wrong with the girl's vagina. She couldn't have straight sex. Magda had shrugged; she was still a kid, maybe too tight. She suggested they teach her a few other tricks, to get her working. "Just don't bring her back, I don't want her here. If she can't earn her keep, kick her out."

Ruda was taught about oral sex. She was grateful it didn't hurt her insides. She would do anything not to be sent back to the mental institution or orphanage. She learned fast, and was given a small percentage of the money she earned. She ate well, and started living with a few of Magda's whores in a run-down house. The customers often asked for her, since she was exceptionally young. But she was forever stealing; no matter how often she was beaten she still stole wallets and food coupons. Magda turned her loose on the streets, to see if that would teach her a lesson—out by the bomb sites, giving head wherever there was a dark corner, a derelict truck or car. It was worse than Magda's filthy cellars, at least they had mattresses there, but now Magda never knew just how much she earned, even though she sent her thugs around to collect. Ruda could always lie, hide a percentage of her takings, even up her price.

Ruda worked the streets for almost three years, scrimping and saving money, never buying the black market clothes the other girls coveted; she couldn't care less. Over her underwear she wore the same old brown coat Magda had given her, opening it as a come-on to the soldiers. The few items of clothing she bought secondhand were neatly folded in a battered case she got as a tip. She had found a derelict house to share with a few prostitutes, girls so low down they didn't even have a Magda to look out for them. These girls fought and clawed each other to safeguard their territory, be it a lamppost, doorway, or wrecked car.

Ruda's house had no electricity or running water but her room was dry, and she slept on a burned mattress she had retrieved from the rubble. She began to bring in clients, but then one night a U.S. Marine had wanted more than oral sex. When she had said she couldn't have straight sex, he had tried to rape her. Unsuccessful, he had forced her to have anal sex. It had hurt her, made her bite the edge of the mattress to stop herself from screaming, but when it was over, he gave her a handful of dollars, tossing them onto her naked body. The pain dissipated as she counted the money. She realized she could ask more, she could do more.

Ruda would buy a bath a week at the local bathhouse. She paid for a private, number one bath—this meant she was the first to use the water. This was her only luxury; she hoarded her earnings, dreaming of going to the United States one day. She plied any American soldier she met with questions about America. She was naive enough to believe that when she had enough money saved she would simply buy a ticket and go.

When Ruda discovered that without documents, visas, and a passport she would never go anywhere, she remained secluded in her hovel for two days, then went to talk to Magda.

"You want papers? Visas? You any idea how much that kind of thing costs, sweetface? There's lines, hundreds, thousands lining up waiting…go find somebody with papers, marry him—that's the fastest way you can get a legitimate passport. You'll have to wait, but you'll find one eventually."

Ruda begged Magda to help her—where was she going to find anyone who would marry her? Magda asked how much she had saved, Ruda admitted to half the amount she actually had; she knew that Magda would be suspicious. Even so, Magda accused Ruda of holding out on her, it was a lot of money. Ruda had opened her coat. "I have no clothes but these, I don't cheat on you, not anymore. I don't smoke, I don't drink, Jesus Christ, Magda, I hardly fucking eat, I save every cent, I wanna go to America."

"What's so special about America?"

Ruda buttoned her coat. I need some surgery, I have trouble peeing straight, it hurts all the time. I'm not going to a hospital here, they'd drag me off to a mental hospital, but in America they can help me."

Magda arranged for Ruda to meet with Rudi Jeczawitz, a cabaret artist who knew people dealing in forged papers. Jeczawitz had survived Auschwitz, maybe he'd be prepared to help her.

Magda made a deal with him; he needed a girl to help him with his act, and she made a deal with Ruda. She asked for half of her savings. Ruda was pleased she had not told Magda the right amount she had stashed away. In some respects, Magda was relieved she had got rid of her. Within the hour, she had found another girl to work Ruda's territory. She knew Jeczawitz had contacts, but whether he could get Ruda to her beloved America or not didn't concern her. Magda just pocketed the money; she did nothing for free.

Jeczawitz worked the clubs, and those in need of forged papers went through him. He then forwarded the requests to a man named Kellerman, a dwarf.

Jeczawitz took Ruda into his act and for the rest of her savings agreed to marry her. That way she would have a marriage license and a last name. Ruda paid, believing that it would be only a matter of time before her husband got the visas and documents necessary for her to leave for New York.

Rudi Jeczawitz was in his late sixties, and crippled with arthritis. He had lost his wife and children at Auschwitz. He made no sexual advances toward Ruda. She cooked for him, and washed his tattered belongings, and he moved into her derelict room. He owned a battered cardboard suitcase filled with hoops and magic tricks, which he had been allowed to keep even in the camp. He had stayed alive by entertaining the officers; they had found him a cloak, and a wizard's hat. The suitcase represented everything to him, and he guarded it obsessively. He kept his hat in the case and always wore his cloak.

It was Ruda's job to hand him the hoops, hats, and silk handkerchiefs he dragged from his sleeves, night after night. The clubs were seedy and run-down; most of them employed him only because of his contact with Kellerman. If they were caught trafficking in illegal papers, they could be closed down; but by using Jeczawitz as the go-between, they could always plead innocent: He had agreed to take the blame. After every show there would be a number of desperate figures waiting to speak to him.

One night, just before a show, he had been arguing with Ruda about the order of the handkerchiefs, when she had grabbed them, called out the colors, and stacked them in a heap. He began to notice how quickly she had caught on; he tested her a few times, holding them up to her, then behind his back—she was always able to guess the order of the colors. If he spread them on a table, she needed to look only once before telling him each color in rapid succession. He asked how she did it. She had shrugged and said they used to play games in the camp. It was a test they did…

He stared at her. " You played games?…My babies died, my wife died, thousands died—and you played games?"

That was the first time he beat her; he took a stick and kept on hitting her. She took the beating, she was used to it. She simply shut her mind off and waited for the old man to exhaust his rage. Bruised, she had gone on stage, hating him, and holding him to his promise of papers.

From then on Jeczawitz beat Ruda regularly; afterward he would weep inconsolably, calling out the names of his wife and children.

Jeczawitz was as pain-wracked as Ruda; his mental wounds would never heal. He had no peace, but he lived somehow, day to day, dragging his old suitcase to clubs and brothels. Every night he heard the pitiful pleas, collected the folded money, remembered the names. Some nights he became so drunk she had to help him to their room.

On one evening when he was too drunk even to make it to the club, Kellerman arrived at their hovel in his flashy clothes, and Rudi offered Ruda to the dwarf for the night.

"I don't want your whore, hear me? I want names, the money that's been paid to you."

Ruda had followed Kellerman out of the house and offered herself. He turned and spat at her; he never paid for women, he didn't want a whore.

"I want papers," Ruda said. "Can you get them for me? My husband said you could, I have money…"

He had stuck his thumbs into his suspenders. "I can get anybody anything they can pay for. You got the money, I'll get you the visas, passport—anything you want."

"I've got my marriage license, I've got proof of who I am."

He had laughed in her face, told her he needed only money. He would supply a name, get tickets for anywhere in the world—all she had to have was money!

When she learned how much, her heart sank; still she tried as hard as she could. But then Jeczawitz's drinking got out of hand, they lost two cabaret spots, and she had to get him sober enough to keep the third. That night their audience was a rowdy bunch. They were performers from the big circus, she was told.

Ruda had found out who the big man in the audience was, and she even tried to pick him up after the show, but he had virtually knocked her off her feet before his taxi drove off. Later, she had gone looking for him because she was certain he could get her out of Berlin. She had pushed her way into his trailer and he had given her money, told her he was leaving, that he couldn't get her a job.

When she got back to her room she found Rudi huddled on the bed.

"Kellerman's been here. He's not coming back, they kicked me out of the club, Ruda." He opened his arms up to her, wanting comfort, but she slapped his face.

"He was my only hope. You've ruined everything, where is he? Tell me where I can find him!"

Rudi lay down again, said there was no way Kellerman would do business with her, he hated whores.

She went to her hiding place, to look for her tin box. It was gone, as was all the money she'd saved.

"Oh no, please…please tell me you didn't take my money, please tell me you didn't."

He hung his head, shamefaced. "I owed Kellerman, I had to give him money, it had been paid to me…I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"

She punched him, and he tried to fend her off. He screamed out that Kellerman lived in the Kreuzberg district, that was all he knew. He never went to his place, Kellerman always contacted him. He started to cry, covering his face with his hands, blubbering his children's names.

"Shut up. I don't want to hear about your fucking children, your wife, your mother, you survived,
you're alive
!"

He sat up. "No. I am dead, I wish to God I were dead, like my babies, my wife…Oh God help me, why did they have to die?"

Ruda smirked at him. "You made them all laugh, didn't you, playing out your stupid tricks, Mister Wizard? What else did you do, huh? You had to do something else at the camps. You think I don't know?
You named names…You gave those bastards names…You killed your own babies, you bastard
!"

"So help me God I did not!"

Ruda danced around him. "Liar, why would they let an old man live?"

He reached for his stick, but she snatched it from him, started thrashing him, and he fought back, kicking at her. He raged at her, screaming: "You played games, you were his children, in your pretty frocks. I saw you all, I saw you all fat and well fed…my babies died, but you…"

Her rage went out of control. How could he know what they had done to her, what they had forced her to do? She kept on hitting him with the stick, over and over. She hit his head, his weak, bent body. She was panting, gasping for breath. At last he was silent, and she began to panic. She felt for his pulse—and then ran.

♦ ♦ ♦

Magda could hardly understand what she was saying. Ruda was on her knees, begging her to help, asking what she should do. She had to have somebody help her. "Mama, please, he lied to me…he took all my money, and he never got me papers…all my money…please, please help me. He said he would go to the police, tell them about you, tell them about the forged papers, he's really sick."