Rebecca Temple Mysteries 3-Book Bundle

by Warsh, Sylvia Maultash

  Frieda tries to smile, but her face is too stiff. “Some other time. Thank you.”

  Numb with mortification, she approaches Eisenbaum’s. What will she find there? Instead of opening the door, she stops by the window, looking in like a voyeur. Three young women in street clothes and hats lower their heads before Vati, touching handkerchiefs to their eyes, while he stands erect, arms folded across his chest, immobile. He looks like a monolith, but Frieda knows better. There’s a confusion in his face she’s never seen before.

  It’s not till she opens the door that Frieda recognizes the women from the shop in the back, sewing machine operators usually in aprons. Their voices are low; the walls have ears.

  “This is the only job I ever had, Herr Eisenbaum. I will miss it awfully.”

  “I enjoyed working here, Herr Eisenbaum. You were always fair. It’s a terrible shame.”

  When they see her, they bow slightly, take one last look at Vati, and file past her out the door. He stares after them, his face drained of blood, his eyes empty. She steps toward the round window of the back door that leads to the shop, to see if anyone is left. A young woman is arguing with Wolfie. His hand is on her arm, and she is shaking her head vehemently. Wolfie never lost an opportunity, and it seems one of his opportunities worked right in the shop. Now his playing field has shrunk and he will have to make do with Jewish girls.

  At that moment the front door of the store opens and a young woman wearing a stylish beret is pushed inside by the tall, paunchy man behind her.

  “My wife has come for her things, Herr Eisenbaum,” the man says.

  The woman, round of face and hips, looks down at the floor, avoiding her former employer’s eyes. She disappears behind the door to the back.

  “It’s too bad about the store, Herr Eisenbaum,” the man says, in a flat tone of voice that belies his words. “But it’s not so bad for Kristine. She was always tired when she came home. You didn’t pay enough for the work she did.”

  Vati watches the man beneath hooded eyes. In another time this conversation would have been impossible. “Frau Rheinhardt was paid the same as the others ...”

  “You made a good profit on her back.” The man looks around surveying the store. “A good profit. What does a store like this make in a week, eh?”

  Papa stares at him dumbfounded.

  “That much, eh?”

  Kristine steps back into the store carrying a small bag. “Is that all you have?” says her husband. He turns to Vati. “Is there anything else you can give her?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The man gestures at the goods with a sweep of his hand. “Is there anything else here you can give her? Underwear? Something?”

  Vati takes a quiet breath and steps to the shelf piled high with women’s panties. He scrutinizes the sizes and takes down two pair. Silently he moves to the counter, rolls the panties in tissue paper, and places them in a bag.

  Kristine keeps her eyes more resolutely on the floor. The man takes the parcel from Vati’s hand, clasps large fingers around the woman’s arm, and leads her out the door.

  For the next few days, they must eat leftovers and eggs for dinner because the kosher butchers are out of business and the other shopkeepers would not serve Oma when someone pointed her out as a Jew. Oma went straight to Irmgard, their former maid, and got a list of the stores she patronized while in their employ. Early the next morning, Oma visited those shops while they were still setting up their wares, before other customers arrived, and, after imploring the owners and invoking Irmgard’s name, came away with the lesser parts of the cow, inferior potatoes, and a small bag of coarse flour.

  One day Frieda finds she cannot force herself to go down the stairs to the U-Bahn. They are too steep, or the tunnel too confining, or the crowds too thick, she knows not what. She only knows that the panic rises in her throat when she thinks of descending to the underground.

  She boards the streetcar travelling east to the hospital. It will take longer, but what difference does it make anymore. She takes the last seat, beside a middle-aged woman carrying a string shopping bag filled with parcels. Beneath fly-away red hair, she wears a dazed expression; a steady odour of sweat emanates.

  Die Electrische sways along its tracks in a mellow rhythm, but Frieda cannot be soothed. She keeps her eyes straight ahead, trying not to attract anyone’s attention. She is small but professional looking, with her black leather briefcase. She has caught her straight brown hair in the back with a clip and affects a haughty look in her hazel eyes. People will not guess she is Jewish. The woman next to her is staring at her, but Frieda suspects she would stare at anyone who sat beside her. There seems to be little awareness in her eyes.

  When they are halfway to the hospital, a large group of people boards the bus, including a stout elderly woman in a dark flowered dress. She climbs the stairs of the tram, breathing heavily. Frieda glances at her and stares with horror: around her ample neck lies a gold necklace with a large Star of David. She is jostled in the aisle by the crowd, finally balancing in front of a young woman who immediately jumps up to offer her the seat.

  But when the old woman sits down, the man in overalls standing in front of her shouts, “Look at her! What’s she doing here defiling the bus? Get off, you dirty Jewess!”

  The woman beside Frieda starts to breathe noisily and shifts in her seat with agitation.

  “Get out!” a woman nearby cries. “You don’t belong here with good Germans.”

  The man in overalls grabs one of the old woman’s arms and lifts her from her seat, then pulls her to the door of the tram. Her white hair, tied in the back, starts to unravel. She opens her mouth to cry, but no sound comes out. The other passengers sit wordlessly; some look away. When the door of the tram slides open, the man pushes her off. The conductor watches nervously but says nothing. Through the window, Frieda sees her stumble and fall to the ground. Frieda’s heart is racing; the muscles in her legs tense up. The red-haired woman beside her puts her hand on Frieda’s knee as if to calm her. Frieda is startled by her kindness and flinches. All the passengers on that side of the car watch out their windows as the prone figure tries to get to her feet.

  Frieda stares straight ahead as the tram pulls away. She is sickened by her own cowardice. Why didn’t she help her? Isn’t she supposed to help people?

  She gets off at the next stop, though she must walk for nearly an hour to get to the hospital.

  chapter eleven

  Birdie

  Toronto, November 1979

  “Watch what you’re doing with the soap, you stupid cow! Can’t you even do that right?”

  “Don’t call her that. It’s an insult to the cow.”

  “What was I thinking! At least a cow is useful. From a cow you can get milk.”

  “More than milk. If you’re starving you can eat it. Yum, hamburger. Yum, brisket. Yum, spare ribs. Not like her. How can she possibly be useful? Look at her teats. Dried up like her. No flesh on her bones. Look at her skinny arms, her legs are worse. The meat would be stringy. Bah!”

  “You’re not doing the soap right, stupid cow! You’re out of order again. Not the whole abdomen, just the left side. Always the left first. What the hell’s the matter with you? How many times do I have to tell you? Start over!”

  Birdie stopped the progression of the soap down her body. She looked down. The abdomen again. This was where she always went wrong. The abdomen was a circle. Her hand went around in a circle. She couldn’t stop it. She peered through the spray of water: the hand below clutching the soap. Disconnected. Not hers. How could it be? If it were hers she could control it. They didn’t understand that it wasn’t hers. They couldn’t see through the water. She could barely see, but she knew that someone switched it when she was in the shower. One minute it was hers, then the next time she looked down, it wasn’t. It looked like hers, but it wasn’t. She didn’t mind. It was the price she paid for the surging stream of water that washed off her sweat as soon as it
formed. And there was always sweat. She perspired like mad. Mad! Yes that was a good one. Did she sweat because she was mad or was she mad because she sweated and the bacteria hatched in the drops of water beading all over her skin? Millions of bacteria. Millions begat millions. No matter. Too late for conjecture. Only action counted. This water. The bacteria were swept away in the deluge, the bugs trying to kill her, no chance for them if she did this right. She must do it right. She must start again just like they said. They hated her, but they were right. She deserved to be hated.

  The soap smelled clean. It would clean away all the dirt, the bacteria, the excrement the bacteria left behind, all the terrible things she’d done. Start at the left forehead, the left cheek, the left nostril, get every spot, every atom of skin. If you missed an iota of surface, the bacteria would seize it, make it their own, burrow into the pores where they would propagate and breed and multiply and fester until you’re done for. It’ll be over. Finally. Not so bad. Would it be so bad? Oblivion. The struggle would be over. No more war with the bugs. They would win. But she would win oblivion. She could forget. Finally. She would join all the tiny souls that she let loose so long ago. Yesterday. All those tiny, innocent, perfectly formed creatures that would never understand anything.

  No, mustn’t think about that. Mustn’t think. They never suffered. Not like her. What choice did she have? Ever? And now The Controller has found her. Has come for her. She must protect her Precious and keep her safe.

  He understood. He knew because he had been there. No one else. All gone, the others. He had seen what it was like, that she had no choice. Where was he? He must protect her from The Controller. He was the only one who could. Because she had protected him once. She did everything she could. Not much. But he kept his life (he must remember). Now The Controller wants hers. And now he must protect her. Because The Controller will come back. Where is it? Where is it? She won’t give him her precious treasure. It’s a piece of her and he can’t have it. There are so few pieces left after everything they took. She has shrunk to nearly nothing. Soon she will be nothing.

  Birdie looked out shyly past the curtain of water at the other women, coming and going. They were not like her; they showered for a moment at the nozzles along the tiled wall. Then they went swimming, or came back from swimming. She had seen the pool: it was blue, the colour of formaldehyde. Stunk of chlorine. She couldn’t go near the pool. It would kill her. Kill her and preserve her at the same time. She would float like a perfectly preserved specimen in a giant bottle: This was how a wicked woman ended; examine the heart. What? Can’t find it? Well there’s the problem. There was no heart.

  There was, once. He remembered. He remembered when she had a heart like everyone else. But it had been broken. Like the rest of her. It didn’t vanish without a fight. She had struggled, but they pulled it out of her chest and tore it apart with their teeth. Not all at once. Bit by bit. They were hungry. Like the bacteria that gnawed at her body and chewed her up, left their slime on her skin.

  Where was he? He never came anymore. He hated her too. No, maybe he was on the other side, the men’s side. He couldn’t come here. Only women. Men gave women babies, and men weren’t allowed here. But he couldn’t make babies. Not ever again. She wanted to see him. Where was he?

  “You did the abdomen again, you stupid cow!”

  Birdie stopped soaping. She looked down. Her hand was circling her stomach again. Was it her hand? No, they switched it again.

  “Don’t you ever learn, stupid cow? Only one side at a time. How many times must you be told? Gott in Himmel. Start over!”

  Birdie let the rain of water rinse the lather off. Then she lifted the soap to the left side of her forehead again.

  Later she sat in a corner near the lockers. Eyes down. Don’t look at them and they’ll leave you alone. Wait till they go. Sit very still; play with the little key around your neck. Hair still wet. Eyes down. Look! A crack in the tile. Bigger than last time. Filthy. Swarming with bacteria. Bugs breeding, swelling up, a city of germs spawning till they flood over. Filth and more filth. Look! The crack is growing! There! Can’t they see the floor moving? Creaking open with bugs. Like a great yawning mouth. The floor is disappearing into the crack.

  She jumped up. “Stop it! Stop it! Can’t you see?”

  The others cringed back, stared. She was used to it. Always her effect on people. They would be sorry when the bacteria got them.

  Must get out. Oh sweet clean wind! Cold fresh scoops of it on the street. Swept over her still damp hair, scouring her skin from the bugs and their larvae, their rot and putrefaction.

  Walk faster — no, slower. No, faster. If The Controller found her out here it would be the end of her. Finally, the yard. The Controller couldn’t hurt her here. Open shed with the key. Pull out the wagon. Where’s my Precious? I remember. Precious gone. I miss her. There, there, don’t cry. Let’s find the darling box. Feel the smooth metal with the dear little house, green trees. Open the lid. See the pretty mouse? Pat the pretty fur. Something long ago, darling and warm — when was it? Can only remember the braids. Sweet braids. Like a mouse tail, twisted and shiny. Feel my pretty braids. Where are they? Gone, all gone. The Controller took them. Like everything else. But he wasn’t happy with every thing. He wanted her soul, too.

  An image flew by in her head. Glass breaking. The Controller in a white coat, angry, shouting. What’s in her hand? A pen? Lines on paper, like ladders. Like snakes. Inky little strokes between the snakes. Pen wriggling in her hand. She’s turning into a snake. Can snakes be afraid? She’s scared like the men waiting, but not the same scared. A different danger. Nothing compared to theirs. She wants to tell them it’s all right, knowing it isn’t. Their eyes watch; her pen jumps between the snakes, squiggles in ink. No people. Just numbers. Do numbers have eyes? Can they be scared?

  Something was missing from the box. The numbers. The squiggles and snakes and numbers that used to have eyes. She pulled all the bits of paper and old pens and broken pencils out of the pretty box till she saw the bottom shining beneath. It was gone. What was gone? Can’t remember. Her heart being eaten alive, that was what.

  chapter twelve

  October 1935

  In the next few weeks Vati and Oma disappear early in the morning to go to the store. Though they have some stock of goods remaining, their supply is dwindling on the store shelves since there are no operators left to cut and sew after the Aryan women have departed. Greta has come in to help a few times but her family is preparing to immigrate to Argentina and she must do her part and stand in endless lines at the innumerable agencies that require documents to be signed. At any rate there’s less money to pay her since business has fallen off.

  So Oma must start sewing again, after all these years. The conversation at dinner goes like this:

  Luise says, “Where were you all day? Why weren’t you here? I looked all over for you but you weren’t here.”

  Each day Oma replies in an exhausted voice, “I was in the store, liebling, because Vati needs me. Vati cuts patterns in the material and I sew the pieces together.”

  Oma and Vati are both pale with fatigue.

  “Can I come too?” asks Luise.

  Oma picks up a napkin with a tired hand and wipes food from around Luise’s mouth. “No, liebchen. You must help Mutti at home.”

  A light goes on in Luise’s face. “Look what I made today.” She bends down to the floor at her feet and brings up a sheet of paper. “Mutti gave me a crayon and I drew myself. See?”

  She holds the page with pride, first for Oma, then Frieda. A large head dominates a small torso with stick legs. Long squiggly lines hang from either side of the head, presumably braids. The eyes are two vertical strokes; the mouth is a large circle that seems to be asking, “Why?”

  Frieda pictures her mother trying to get Luise out of her hair for a few minutes, sitting her down with some paper for amusement.

  “Can I come with you tomorrow?” Luise asks, her mouth ful
l of food. “Please, Oma?”

  “I’m sorry, liebling. You must keep Mutti company. She’s lonely when Berta goes to the shops to get food.”

  They have been lucky that their former maid, Irmgard, has an aunt, Berta, who, at forty-eight, is beyond the reach of the recently enacted laws disallowing Aryan women under forty-five from working for Jews. Unlike her niece, she is plain and unsmiling, flat-chested, her grey-brown hair pulled back severely into a knot. But she’s efficient and does what she’s told. Oma must show her how to cook the food the family likes, chicken soup, gefullte fish, and pierogies. Nevertheless the apartment starts to stink of sausage and sauerkraut, which she prepares for lunch for Mutti and Luise and herself. Though the sausage is pork, Oma says nothing and sometimes even takes leftovers for herself and Vati the next day for lunch. Frieda understands: it is too hard to fight everything.

  Though Mutti has been saddled with Luise, she still manages to look beautiful. She must be taking the girl with her across the street while she gets her hair done by Ulrike, a woman who works out of her apartment. Mutti visits there twice a week for her hair, once a week for her manicure. She also manages to find time to read the classics of literature: War and Peace, Moby Dick, Les Misérables. She seems to like large dramas, as if getting lost in someone else’s epic rescues her from the confines of her life.

  Frieda knows how hard it must be for her mother to take care of Luise, who can barely feed and clothe herself. Luise is a chore Mutti was never good at. They had nannies when they were young and so Mutti knows little of the basics of child care. Though Wolfie was only two when Luise was born, he tells Frieda he remembers their mother crying softly at night. Mutti knew early on that there was something wrong with her new child. Once Frieda was old enough, she was called upon to help. Frieda, please take your sister out of the bath and dress her. Or, Please help Luise eat lunch. This when her sister was eight and Frieda six. Then, luckily for all of them, Oma decided the business no longer needed her and she began to stay home. She was the only one who had the infinite patience required to take care of Luise.