Entwined (22 page)

"Okay, I married Tommy Kellerman—I needed a marriage certificate for a visa for the United States. Tommy offered it, I accepted, I went to the United States. End of marriage—or is that fertile imagination of yours working overtime?"

He laughed, and then paused at the open door.

"More kids arriving for the tour of the cages! Look at the little gawking creeps."

Ruda walked with Mike to the loaded trolley. Stacking the last of the big trays, she chatted nonchalantly. "There was one of those kids hanging around the cages the other afternoon, did you see me talking to him? Only came up to my waist, trying to put his hand into Mamon's cage. I had to give him a ticking off. Did you see him?"

Mike grinned. "I remember, yeah. It was a kid then, was it? I wondered, you know…" He went on with his business and called to her that he would return as soon as he parked the trays. Ruda returned to the freezer. Mike was now sorted out, he hadn't known it was Kellerman with her, and now that she had the little bastard's hat, she was safe.

Ruda stared at her hands, her red-stained fingers, the blood trickling down almost to her elbows. She was thinking of Tommy, seeing his crushed, distorted face on the morgue table, and she whispered: "I'm sorry I broke our pact, Tommy, but you just wouldn't stop."

It was as if he were calling out to her from the cold marble slab in the morgue, calling to her the way he used to when she teased him, but hearing his voice in her mind, hearing it now, made her feel a terrible guilt, like a burning heat it swamped her.

"Don't turn the light out, Ruda, please leave the light on!"

The rain had started again, and the traffic jams built up, the journey to Charlottenburg becoming a long and tedious drive. The baron looked from his rain-splattered window and checked his watch. It was after six. Helen spoke to their driver in German. "I have never seen so many dogs!"

Their cab driver looked into his mirror.

"We Berliners love animals, bordering on the pathological. There are more dogs in Spree than anywhere else in Germany—they say there's about five dogs to every one hundred inhabitants."

The baron sighed, resting his head back against the upholstered seat. Helen stared from her window.

"Why is that? I mean why do you think there are so many?"

The driver launched into his theory, welcoming the diversion from the inch-by-inch crawl his car was forced to make.

"Many people living in the anonymous public housing complexes, many widows, a dog is their only companion. A psychologist described the Berliners' love of animals, dogs in particular, as a high social functional factor."

Louis grimaced, taking Helen's hand, and spoke in French. "Don't encourage him! Please…the man is a compulsive theorist!" Helen laughed.

They passed by the Viktoria-Luise-Platz, heralding the West Berlin Zoo, and their driver now became animated.

"The zoo, you must visit our famous Tiergarten. In 1943 the work of one hundred years was destroyed in just fifteen minutes, during the battle for Berlin. When the bombing was over, only ninety-one animals survived, but we have rebuilt almost all of it. Now we have maybe eleven or twelve thousand species—the most found in any zoo in the world!"

At last, they were near the center of Charlottenburg itself.

"
Bundesverwaltungsgericht,
" the driver said with a flourish, and then he smiled in the mirror. "The Federal Court of Appeal in Public Lawsuits."

Helen passed over the slip of paper with the address of Rosa Muller Goldberg's sister, a Mrs. Lena Klapps. The driver nodded, turned off the Berliner Strasse, passing small cafes and ale houses, and rows and rows of sterile apartment blocks, their shabby facades dominating the run-down street, before he drew up outside a building. He pointed, and turned to lean on the back of his seat.

"You will need me to get you back, yes?"

The baron opened his car door, said in French to Helen: "Only if he promises to keep his mouth shut!"

Helen instructed the driver to wait, and joined the baron on the sidewalk. They looked at the apartment numbers painted above a cracked wide door leading to an open courtyard. The numbers read 45-145. Their driver rolled down his window, pointing.

"You want sixty-five, go to the right…to the right."

The elevator was broken, and they walked up four flights of stone steps. Dogs brushed past them, going down, and one bedraggled little cross-breed scuttled ahead, turned and yapped before he disappeared from sight. There were pools of urine at each corner, and they had to step over dog excreta. Helen muttered that perhaps the residents were all widows. "Dogs are…what did he say? A social function? More like a health hazard."

There was a long stone balcony corridor, the apartments numbered on peeling painted doors…sixty-two, sixty-three was boarded up, and then they rang the bell of apartment sixty-five.

An elderly man inched open the door; he was wearing carpet slippers, a collarless shirt, and dark blue suspenders holding up his baggy trousers. Helen smiled warmly. "We are looking for Lena Klapps, nee Muller? I am Helen Masters, I called…"

The old man nodded, opened the door wider, and gestured for them to follow him. They were shown into a room where good antique furniture was commingled with a strange assortment of cheap modern chairs and a Formica-topped table. The room was dominated by an antique carved bookcase, covering two walls, its shelves stacked with paperbacks and old leather-bound books.

The old man introduced himself as Gunter Klapps, Lena's husband, and gestured for them to be seated. He stood at the door with his hands stuffed into his pockets.

"She is late. The rain—there will be traffic jams. But she should be here shortly, excuse me!"

He closed the door, and Helen unbuttoned her coat. Louis stared around the room, looked at the threadbare carpet, then to the plastic-covered chairs. Helen placed her purse on the table. "Not exactly welcoming, was he?"

The baron flicked a look at his watch. "Maybe we should call the hotel?"

Helen nodded, and crossed to the door. She stood in the hallway, calling out for Lena's husband. The kitchen door was open, and he glared.

"Telephone—do you have a telephone I could use?"

"No, it's broken."

He continued to stare, so Helen returned to the room. The baron was still standing, his face set in anger.

"I hope this is not a wasted journey, I am worried about Vebekka, leaving her alone!"

"Their telephone is broken, shall I go out, make a call?"

He snapped: "No!" and then sat in one of the ugly chairs. Helen took off her coat, placing it over a typist's chair tucked into the table. She looked over the bookcase; some of the leather-bound volumes were by classical authors, but many of the books were medical journals. She was just about to mention the fact to Louis when they heard the front door open.

Lena Klapps walked in. She was much younger than her husband, but wore her hair in a severe bun at the nape of her neck. The gray hair accentuated her pale skin, and pale washed-out blue eyes. She spoke in German.

"Excuse me, I won't be a moment, my bus was held up in the rush hour traffic. May I offer you tea?"

The baron proffered his hand. "Nothing, thank you. I am Baron Louis Marechal."

Lena retreated quickly, saying she would just remove her coat and boots.

She returned a few moments later. She wore a white high-necked blouse, a gray cardigan, and gray pleated skirt. Her only jewelry was her wedding ring.

"I must apologize for my husband, he has been very ill."

She shook Helen's hand, and nodded formally to the baron, gesturing for him to remain seated. She then withdrew the typist's swivel chair, lifting Helen's coat and placing it across the table. She seemed to perch rather than sit, her knees pressed together, her hands clasped in front of her.

Helen looked to the baron, but he gave a small lift of his eyebrows as an indication she should open the conversation. She coughed, and chose her words carefully.

"The baron's wife, Vebekka Marechal—we are trying to trace her relatives, and as I said to you in my telephone call, we think she may have been your sister's daughter. Your sister was Rosa Muller?"

"Yes, that is correct."

Helen continued. "She married a David Goldberg?…and they lived in Canada and then Philadelphia, yes?"

"Yes, that is correct."

The baron cleared his throat. "Do you have a photograph of their daughter, of Rebecca Goldberg?"

"No, I lost contact with my sister before she left for Canada. I know they emigrated to Philadelphia, but we did not keep in touch. Her husband's cousin, a man named Ulrich Goldberg, wrote to me that she had passed away."

Helen bit her lip. "We need as much information as you can give us about Rebecca and obviously your sister."

Lena swiveled slightly in her seat. Her toes touched the ground, the folds of her pleated skirt falling to either side of her closed knees. She answered in English.

"I know nothing of…Rebecca, you say? I cannot help you."

"But Rosa was your sister?"

"Yes, Rosa was my sister."

Lena suddenly swiveled around to the bookshelf, reached over and took down a thick photograph album. She began to search through the pages of photographs. She spoke in heavily accented English, as if to prove a point—that she was aware of how uncomfortable they were.

"I find it somewhat strange that after forty years I am asked about Rosa! You say it is in reference to your wife, Baron? Is that correct?"

Helen went to stand by Lena. "The baroness is very ill, and we have come to see a specialist in East Berlin who may be able to help her. It is his suggestion that we should try and discover as much about her past as possible."

Lena nodded. "And this is Rebecca? Correct?…But there must be some confusion. She could not be my sister's child." She paused, turned back two pages, and then showed Helen the photograph.

"This was Rosa when she was seventeen, 1934."

Helen stared at the picture of an exceptionally pretty blond-haired teenager, with white ribbons in her hair, white ankle socks, and a school uniform. Next to her stood Lena, taller, fatter, and not nearly as pretty. She had been as stern-faced a teenager as she was now in middle age. Helen passed over the photograph album to the baron. Lena hesitated, her hand out, obviously not wanting the baron to take possession of the album. "That is the only photograph, there is no point in looking at any others."

"Lena, is there some way we could contact any of David Goldberg's friends or family, do you know if any of his relatives are still living in Berlin?" Helen asked.

"No. I did not know Rosa's husband, they met at the university. As I said, I have not spoken to my sister for more than forty years."

The baron turned over a few pages, and Lena got up and retrieved her book. She stared at the neatly laid-out photographs, some brown with age. "Berlin has seen many changes since these were taken. My family home—" She pointed to an elegant four-story house. "It was bombed, all our possessions, we lost everything but a few pieces, the other photographs are just my family, my mementos—nothing to do with Rosa!"

Lena held on to the book, touched it lovingly before she replaced it in the shelf, and then hesitated. "I agreed to see you, because I know Rosa was well off... as you can see, money is short—I thought perhaps she had made provisions for me. Obviously I was wrong." She stared from Helen to the baron and then, tight-lipped, remained standing. "I am sorry, but it seems very obvious that I cannot help you."

Helen reached for her coat, making as if to prepare to leave. "Rosa was a doctor? Is that correct?"

"She was a medical student, she did not finish her studies here, she continued in Canada, after the war." Lena folded her arms.

"Was her husband a doctor?"

Lena shook her head. "No, my father, my grandfather were also doctors…"

"But Rosa and David met at the university?"

"Yes, but he was studying languages, I believe. When they went to Canada, I heard he went in the fur business."

Helen looked at Louis, wishing he would say something, ask something; but he sat on the edge of his seat, obviously wanting to leave.

"Er…you said earlier that Rebecca could not have been Rosa's daughter…was she perhaps David Goldberg's daughter?"

"I don't know."

"But why are you so sure she could not have been Rosa's child?"

Lena pursed her lips, clenched her hands. She then carefully pushed her chair under the table. "Rosa could not have children."

Helen persisted. "Could you give me the reason?"

Lena faced her. "Because she had an abortion when she was seventeen years old, a backstreet abortion, paid for by that creature she ran off with and married. She nearly died, and she broke my father's heart. When he discovered her relationship, he would have nothing to do with her, he begged her to give David up, but she refused. He tried everything, he even kept her under lock and key to stop him from seeing her. She was obsessed by David and so she ran away, and my father never spoke to her again."

"This was when?"

Lena rubbed her head. "She ran off on the second of June, it was 1934, they ran away together, we discovered they had married."

"They went to Canada?"

"Yes, to Canada. His family were wealthy, they must have had contacts there to help him set himself up in business; they always help each other!"

Helen began to put her coat on. "Did they ever come back?"

Lena nodded. "I believe so, but not for a long time, not until after the war. The Goldbergs had property here!"

"So they came back to Berlin?"

"Yes, yes I believe so."

"And you didn't see him or speak to him?"

"No."

"Did you see Rosa when she came back?"

"No."

"And you cannot give us any clue as to any relatives?"

Lena stared hard at Helen, her eyes expressionless. "He had no one left, but a distant cousin, Ulrich Goldberg, who was already residing in the United States. Rosa never contacted her mother, never visited her father's, her brother's graves. As far as I am concerned, my sister died a long time ago, the day she ran away…. Now I should be grateful if you would leave."