Entwined (30 page)

Tina walked into the trailer. It was dark, the blind drawn, she stood in the doorway, unable to adjust to the darkness.

"Want a drink?"

He was stretched out on the bench seat, his fly undone, his shirt hanging out. Tina edged further into the room as he held out the bottle. "Have a drink?"

Tina took a step back, whispered his name, and then in a half sob repeated it. She had somehow not expected him to be there.

"Chimp, got a three-month-old chimp, called Boris…
Boris
!" He laughed, and continued to drink; he didn't even seem to realize she was in the room.

She jumped when she felt a light touch on her shoulder, and Ruda drew her close.

"Look at him, take a good look, Tina."

Tina squeezed past Ruda into the tiny corridor by the front door. "I did love him. I did."

Ruda pressed the envelope into her hand. "I know. I know you did, but you know as well as I do, it would never have worked out."

Tina fingered the thick envelope. "Because you would never have given us a chance. I'll take your money, Ruda, not for me but for my baby—Luis's baby."

The young girl's eyes stared at Ruda. This time she didn't look away. "We agreed twenty, don't make me count it. You said twenty."

Ruda smiled, touched Tina's cheek with her hand. "Don't push your luck, little girl. I have done only what I had to. It's called survival. You got off lightly, now get out of my sight before I kick you out."

Tina let herself out. Ruda shut the door fast, even faster than she had intended, because right outside the trailer she could see the wretched little inspector. She swore under her breath. Why had she been so foolish? She should have just smiled at him. She took a deep breath and waited. Was he coming to see her?

Torsen and his sergeant were looking at the pair of large boots outside the Grimaldi trailer. They had steel tips! Torsen gave Rieckert a few instructions, which he had to repeat, since Rieckert was distracted by the pretty girl who had just left the trailer. Then Torsen tapped on the trailer door.

Ruda inched open the door and smiled.

Torsen gave her a small bow. "Mrs. Grimaldi, could I please speak to you for one moment—oh! are those your husband's boots outside?"

Ruda hesitated, and then drew her gown tighter around herself. "Yes, why, do you want to borrow them?"

"No, no. May I come in?"

"I'm afraid he cannot see you right now, he's indisposed."

Torsen cocked his head to one side. "It is you I wished to speak to, Mrs. Grimaldi!"

Ruda shrugged her shoulders and stepped back from the doorway. She gestured to her husband, still sprawled out, and then suggested they go into her bedroom. She tossed the duvet over the unmade bed.

"What is it this time?"

Torsen remained in the doorway. "It is with reference to your husband."

"He won't be able to talk sensibly for hours, maybe days. He's drunk."

"No, it is about Mr. Kellerman. You see, when I questioned you, both here and at the city morgue, I asked about the dead man's left wrist. You said you had no knowledge of a tattoo, and you repeated that at the morgue. I have subsequently discovered that the dead man was a survivor of Auschwitz, and the tattoo was his camp identification number. So you must have known what the tattoo was when I asked you. Now I ask you, why? Why did you lie to me, Mrs. Grimaldi?"

Ruda sat for a moment, her head bowed, and then slowly began to roll up her left sleeve, carefully folding back the satin, inch by inch, until her arm was bare. She looked at Torsen.

"Is this a good enough reason for not talking about it?"

She turned over her wrist, her palm upward, displaying a jagged row of dark blue numbers: 124666. Her voice was very low, husky. "When they reached two hundred thousand they began again—did you know that? They were confident that by that time there would be no confusion, no two inmates carrying the same number. You know why? Because they would already be dead."

Torsen swallowed. He had never met a Holocaust survivor face to face. He had to cough to enable himself to speak.

"I am so sorry."

She stared at him, carefully pushing the sleeve down to cover the tattoo. Her eyes bore into his face. In great embarrassment he stuttered that she must have been very young.

"I was three years old, Inspector. Is there anything else you want to know?"

Torsen shook his head, mumbled his thanks and apologies, and said he would let himself out. He hurried to the patrol car, where Rieckert grinned at him.

"I did it, took a shoe box, one of the performers gave it to me. I filled it with mud, then pressed the boot down hard, we've got two good clear prints. I took the right and the left because I wasn't sure which heel we got the original print from."

Torsen started the engine.

"Left, it was the left heel, and they're Grimaldi's boots."

The car splashed through the mud and potholes and onto the freeway. Rieckert opened his notebook.

"I got samples of sawdust from the cages, from all over the place, got it all in plastic bags as they told me. So, what did she say? Why did she lie?"

Torsen stared ahead. After a moment, he said, "She had a reason for not wanting to remember. One I accepted."

♦ ♦ ♦

Ruda carried her boots to the incinerator, the one used for the rubbish left after a show. She checked the grid. The fire was low, it wouldn't really get going until after the performance, but she tossed them inside anyhow, and waited by the open door to see them ignite. They took a long time, the leather was tough and hard. Gradually they began to smolder and to give off a heavy odor. She slammed the oven closed.

For many years she had controlled the flow of images, fought them, but the smells…they were the worst, they would sneak up on her, and they were stronger because they were unexpected, more difficult to repress; the pictures they conjured up were more powerful, more horrific.

Ruda walked blindly, her hands clenched, taking short sharp breaths. She made her way to the cages as if by instinct, until she arrived at Mamon's. He sprang to his feet, swinging his head from side to side, and she clung to the bars, gripping them so tightly her knuckles turned white. "Ma'angel…Ma'angel!"

Mamon's tongue licked her through the bars, rough and hard. She closed her eyes, comforted by his affectionate, heavy-bellied growl, and she answered him with a part howl, part scream of release, as the pictures faded.

♦ ♦ ♦

Vebekka was calm on her way to the doctor's. She was seated between Helen and Louis, holding their hands.

She clung to Louis as they went into the reception, where Maja greeted Vebekka warmly. Dr. Franks, wearing a green cardigan and an old pair of gray flannel trousers, sauntered in, kissed Vebekka, and suggested they talk in his sitting room.

"Sit where you will, my dear, and Helen, Baron—if you wish to stay with us, do. We are only going to have a friendly talk…"

Helen touched Louis' arm; she knew Dr. Franks wanted them to sit in the adjoining room and watch through the glass. Vebekka seemed a little afraid when they left, but then sat down.

"And how are you?" Franks asked softly.

"A little better, still weak and thirsty. I keep on drinking as you asked."

"Good, good." He drew up a chair, and then he went to get a stool. "Now, let me get you some iced water, would you like a cigarette?"

Vebekka started to relax. He would not offer her a cigarette if he were going to hypnotize her, would he? She opened her case and he clicked open his lighter. She bent her head, inhaled and leaned back. Franks settled himself in his chair and propped his feet up.

"Tell me," he said quietly, "if you were to describe, in one word, how you feel mostly, what word would it be?"

She let the smoke drift from her mouth, and then cocked her head. "One word?…Mmmmmmmmmmmm—that is very difficult."

The room fell silent, Franks sitting with his arms folded over his chest, Vebekka cupping her chin in her hand.

She flicked the ash from her cigarette. "One word?" she asked again. He nodded.

She continued to smoke pensively for a while, then she sipped some iced water and put down the glass.

"Can you think of a word, Vebekka?"

She turned her face away from Franks and sighed.

"Longing."

He repeated the word, and then smiled. "That is very interesting, nobody has ever said that to me before…longing."

"I long for…always I feel I am longing for…"

His voice was gentle and persuasive: "What, Vebekka, what are you always longing for?"

"I don't know."

The clock was ticking. She could hear a soft voice telling her not to be afraid, that she had nothing to fear, and that perhaps she would like to lie down and rest for a while.

Helen and the baron saw Vebekka smiling and smoking, and then saw Franks help her lie down on the couch. He took a soft blanket and covered her. Her eyes were wide open.

Franks now flicked on the intercom connecting the two rooms, and looked to the two-way mirror. "She is under, I am going to begin now," he said.

Dr. Franks started with simple questions: what she liked to eat, drink. She answered coherently and directly. Then he referred to the doctors she had visited and asked for her reactions to the tests. Again she answered directly, speaking about the last diagnosis with sarcasm. Franks asked if she often felt afraid.

"Yes, I am afraid."

"Do you know what you are afraid of?"

"No."

"How does the fear begin?"

"As if someone I am frightened of were entering the room."

Franks changed the subject. He did not want to push Vebekka too far on their first session. He asked whether she liked to travel, what cases and clothes she liked to take with her. He was given a long list of favorite items from her wardrobe. She continued for ten minutes, and he saw that she was relaxed again, her hands resting on the top of the blanket.

The baron looked at Helen, raised his eyebrows, and sighed. He could see no point in the session whatsoever.

"Wait…just wait," Helen whispered.

"Now tell me about the cases, Vebekka."

She described her various suitcases, how she liked to pack everything with tissue paper. Franks asked her about her vanity cases, and she calmly listed her jewelry, her makeup, the photographs of her children, and her medicine.

"Do you feel these cases, or boxes, have also another meaning, the fact that you separate everything into compartments?" He received no reply. "Do you have similar boxes inside you?" he persisted. "For example, shall we say the makeup box is your head? Do you think that way at all?"

She hesitated, and then smiled. "Yes, yes, I do."

"Can you explain this to me?"

"I have many compartments inside me."

"Do they all have keys?"

"Oh yes!" She seemed pleased.

"Will you unlock them for me? Tell me what is inside. Can you do that?"

She sighed and shifted position.

"Well, there's the first compartment that holds my special makeup, makeup I use only on rare occasions."

"Tell me about the second."

"My children. I have their letters, their photographs, things I treasure. I have Sasha's first baby tooth and I have…"

"Tell me about the third box. What's in there?"

"My jewelry, all the pieces I am most fond of, the most precious pieces. There is an emerald and diamond clip and a bluebird made of sapphires and—"

"Go to the next box. Open the next box."

"Sleeping tablets, pills. I have them all listed."

"You make a lot of lists?"

"Yes, yes, lots of lists."

"Go to the next…open the next box."

Vebekka's hand clenched.

"Go to the next box."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it's private."

"Please, open it. Or does it frighten you to open it?"

"No, it's…just personal, that's all."

Franks waited; she was breathing very deeply. "Open it, Vebekka, and tell me what is inside."

"Rebecca."

Franks looked to the two-way mirror, and then turned to Vebekka.

"Rebecca?" he asked softly.

"
Yessssssssss,
she's in there."

"Do you have any more boxes?"

Vebekka was more agitated now, chewing her lips.

"Go to the next box, Vebekka…tell me about the next box."

"No…it is not a box."

"What is it?"

"Locked, it is locked, I can't open it."

"Try…why don't you describe it to me?"

"It's hard, black, it's chained, I don't have the key." She began to twist her hands. "Rebecca won't open it."

Franks talked to her softly, saying he was there to help her and whatever was in the box, he would deal with—all she had to do was open it.

"It's not a box."

"Whatever is there, we'll leave it for a while. No need to be upset, if you don't want to open it then we won't…but tell me about Rebecca, who is Rebecca?"

Her breath hissed, she seemed exasperated. "She guards it, she protects it, so nobody can open it, nobody must know."

"Know what?"

Franks could feel her strength, it astonished him. She was fighting his control. She began breathing rapidly, her eyelids fluttering, she was trying to surface, trying to come out of the hypnosis. Franks changed the subject.

"Vebekka, tell me about Sasha."

Vebekka relaxed and began to tell Franks about her daughter, that she liked to ride, had a pony. She described Sasha's bedroom, and her clothes, giving Franks a clear picture of the little girl.

"Tell me about Sasha's toys? Her dolls?"

Vebekka described the different dolls, where they had been bought. How many were for birthdays, for Christmas.

"Why did you destroy Sasha's dolls, Vebekka?"

"I did not."

"I think you did…you took all Sasha's dolls, you took their pretty frocks off, and you stacked them up like a funeral pyre, didn't you? You set fire to them, you burned them…"

"No…She did that!"

"Who? Who burned the dolls, Vebekka?"