Rebecca Temple Mysteries 3-Book Bundle

by Warsh, Sylvia Maultash

  “Rebecca Temple.”

  “This is my son, Dr. Sentry.”

  “Erich,” he said, watching Rebecca with observant brown eyes. “It must’ve been a disturbing experience. Are you all right?”

  His mother gave him a dirty look. “You didn’t ask me.”

  Without missing a beat, he said, “Are you all right, Mother?”

  “I’m upset.”

  “Of course you’re upset. It’s a horrible thing, finding her like that.”

  “I won’t sleep all night.”

  “Take something. I know you don’t like to, but this is a special circumstance.”

  He addressed Rebecca. “Do you practise near here?”

  “Almost across from your parents’ house. On Beverley Street.”

  “GP?”

  She nodded.

  “You should give my mother your card. Their doctor’s moved north. Though they’re both in excellent health,” he gave his mother a guarded glance, “it’s good to have someone close by in an emergency.”

  “They could call you,” she said, digging in her purse for a card.

  “I’m a pathologist at St. Mike’s. Only used to corpses. Anyway, it’s unwise to treat family.”

  Rebecca handed the woman her business card.

  A male voice boomed out, “Johanna Sentry!”

  They looked up. Two uniformed policemen, one tall, one average height, scanned the waiting room until Mrs. Sentry stood up.

  “Follow us, please.”

  The woman glanced nervously at her son.

  “Don’t worry,” said Erich. “Just a police report. It was a crime. You’ll have to answer some questions, that’s all. You should go too, doctor, since you found her.”

  His mother’s eyes beckoned him. He followed them down a hallway out of view of the ER.

  The young policemen stopped and turned toward them, one with pad and pencil in hand. “Who found her?” asked the tall one.

  “I did,” Rebecca said.

  “Come with me.”

  He led her further down the hallway past a corner.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  She explained how the week before she had come across the old woman talking to herself and had gone into the yard tonight to check on her. “On Sunday a man came to see her when I was leaving. The same man was in the yard when I found her. He ran away when I came in.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “He looked homeless. Weathered skin, broken nose. In his sixties at least. He was wearing a dirty maroon ski jacket and a woollen hat. Grey. He has some problem with his hips. A waddling kind of walk. Probably arthritic. And he was pulling along one of those bundle buggies.”

  “Did you catch a name?”

  “No.”

  “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

  “Yes. He had a very distinctive face. Extremely unpleasant. But he seemed to be her friend. He called out and said he was bringing her a present. Mrs. Sentry has seen him before.”

  “The woman who owns the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “You say the injured woman was talking to herself. You think something’s wrong with her — mentally?”

  “I’m not a psychiatrist, but I’d guess schizophrenia. She seemed to be hearing voices.”

  “There are a number of those people on the street.”

  He took one of her cards for contact information and accompanied her back to the waiting room. A doctor with an operating room mask pulled down around his neck led Mrs. Sentry and her son into the ER, stopping close to the door. Rebecca stood watching through the glass pane. She had seen enough doctors conveying bad news to recognize the posture, the head angled downward, the veiled eyes.

  Erich looked up, saw Rebecca and shook his head. He motioned for her to enter.

  The OR doctor was saying, “... she had a fractured skull and lost too much blood. I’m sorry.”

  Johanna Sentry stared at the doctor, blinking, until he turned and walked away.

  “I’ll try to reach Dad,” Erich said. “He’ll want to come down.” He put an awkward arm around his mother’s shoulders, as if they were unused to such intimacy.

  “I’m very sorry,” Rebecca said, feeling clumsy, as usual, around death. “Did she have any family?”

  Erich opened his mouth to say something, but his mother answered first. “We don’t know.”

  He glanced at his mother but said nothing more. Rebecca watched him, wondering if her adrenaline was working overtime. Were they hiding something?

  “It was nice meeting you,” Rebecca said. Mostly out of politeness, since the mother was a prickly sort.

  Rebecca excused herself and headed for the exit to University Avenue, surprised not by the death, but how these strangers had reacted to it.

  chapter fourteen

  Spring 1936

  Leopold knows a cigar store vendor who still dares to keep foreign papers behind the counter for steady customers. Last fall, shortly after Hanni’s triumph in the Grunewald, he began to bring Frieda copies of the New York Times — he hid them inside his jacket — to show her how different life is in America. She has kept them, and sometimes at night she brings them out and marvels that there’s a place where people can voice conflicting opinions in a forum as public as a newspaper.

  BRUNDAGE FAVORS BERLIN OLYMPICS

  Has Faith in Nazi Pledge

  CHICAGO — Avery Brundage, president of the American Olympic Committee, asserted here today that he knew of no racial or religious reasons why the United States should consider withdrawal of its athletes from competition at the Olympic Games in Berlin next year.

  He was responding to Jeremiah T. Mahoney, president of the Amateur Athletic Union, who was quoted as personally opposed to American participation because of German discrimination against Jewish athletes.

  Brundage stated, “The AOC must not be involved in political, racial, or sociological disputes. The Nazi government has agreed to accept Olympic rules. A boycott would be a travesty for Olympism, for the American athlete would become needlessly involved in the present Jew-Nazi altercation and become a martyr to a cause not his own.

  “It seems,” he said, “that opponents of the Nazi regime, mainly Jews and Communists, are not satisfied with Olympic rules; that they really want a boycott to undermine Nazism; they mean to use the games as a political weapon. The Jews and Communists must keep their hands off American sports. We must stand our ground and not give in.

  “Mr. Mahoney, on the other hand, has mayoral ambitions in New York and is wooing the Jewish vote.”

  In the end, the Americans, led by Avery Brundage, convinced themselves that Jewish athletes were being treated fairly and decided against the boycott. They made the decision in time to compete in the winter games held in Garmisch-Partenkirchen, which took place in full Nazi splendour in February.

  Less than two weeks later, Hitler, perhaps encouraged by the success of those games, marched German troops into the Rhineland, an area demilitarized by the Treaty of Versailles. The river Rhine, Leopold maintains, is considered a natural border between Gaul and Germany, and after the war, France insisted that the east bank be removed from German control so that the Boches could not use it as a platform for attack again. According to Leopold, the student of history, the river has always been the boundary between Western civilization and something darker, more primitive. Hadn’t Julius Caesar himself stopped at the Rhine, believing the murderous German tribes too barbaric to be absorbed into the Roman Empire?

  The papers in March are filled with pictures of soldiers on horseback being cheered by the inhabitants lined up along the route. But afterwards, the whole country hold its breath, waiting for France to respond and send troops. Of course that would mean war, and no one, including France, wants this. Leopold is particularly on edge.

  “Hitler’s gambling,” he says. “He’s sent a small force to see what everyone will do. France could easily defeat him there now — they must not le
t him get away with it. According to the treaty, England is obliged to back them up. And America should protest and show him that he can’t just do as he damned well pleases.”

  But one day goes by with no response from the world, then another. Nobody protests. Nobody sends troops. The German papers roar with jubilation. Hitler is a hero who will bring Germany back to the glory it so rightly deserves, which it has been denied so unjustly since 1918.

  And if anyone thought the Rhineland incident would affect the coming of the games to Berlin in August, they were sadly mistaken. In June the anxious mood of the city lifts. Berlin has been dressed up like a tart going to the opera. Thousands of blood-red Nazi flags with their swastika centres flutter high above the streets, attached to building fronts in endless succession. Interspersed, but not as profuse, are the white Olympic flags with their insignia of five interlocking circles representing the continents. Fellowship among continents is commendable, Frieda thinks wryly, on her way to the hospital. Much easier than fellowship among countrymen.

  Like sentinels, banners two storeys high have been erected along Unter den Linden. When the wind rises, all the flapping in the streets sounds like a flock of birds startled in formation.

  By July, foreign visitors are strolling the sidewalks, gawking at the banners and buildings festooned with swastika flags row upon row. How can they know that for their benefit, all the signs forbidding Jews have been removed from the entranceways to shops, grocery stores, restaurants, parks, and swimming pools?

  One evening Wolfie insists on taking Frieda to a neighbourhood ice cream parlour they frequented before the “No Jews Allowed” signs went up. Now that the signs have been removed, they stroll in, Frieda’s head down as they pass the waitress. She is too busy to notice. They sit down and eat their favourite flavours of ice cream, smiling at each other like cats that have swallowed canaries.

  Meanwhile, the German government has responded to international pressure over the past year and invited twenty-one Jews, including Hanni, to train at special Olympics centres. Since then, Leopold’s skepticism has abated somewhat.

  “She’s the best woman jumper in Germany,” he tells Frieda. “They’d be mad not to let her compete. In the pre-Olympic qualifying tryouts she came first with a jump of one-point-six metres, four centimetres higher than her closest rival.”

  But one Saturday afternoon in the middle of July, Frieda is called to the hospital telephone. “It’s an emergency,” Wolfie says. “Come to the store at once. Bring a sedative.” He hangs up with no further information.

  All the way home she is running over the different scenarios in her mind: Mutti has had a breakdown; overworked Oma has gone beserk; Vati is threatening to kill Wolfie for coming into the store late.

  When she hurries into the store, Vati is sitting behind the counter.

  “What’s happened?” she asks.

  He waves a dismissive hand at the door behind him that leads to the workroom.

  She pushes it open and finds Oma at her usual place at her sewing machine.

  Oma looks up from her work and points her nose to the office. “It’s just the silly girl.”

  Frieda sees Wolfie sitting in a chair with Hanni curled on his lap, her head burrowed into his neck. She’s sobbing quietly.

  “What’s happened?” Frieda says.

  Wolfie removes his hand from Hanni’s back to reach for a letter on the desk. “Read this crap.”

  Frieda steps forward and takes the letter from him. It is from Reich Sports Office Director Hans von Tschammer und Osten, who regrets to inform Hannelore Sussman that she will not be considered for the German Olympic team because of her mediocre achievements.

  Mediocre achievements, Frieda thinks with disgust. Even such a blatant lie must have cut the poor girl to the quick. All the patriotic banners and interlocking circles flapping cheerily in the breeze mean nothing to those who no longer have a place in the life of their country. She looks up at Hanni, hiding her face in Wolfie’s neck, and silently forgives him for summoning her with the “emergency” message.

  She scans the rest of the letter, in which von Tschammer und Osten says that Hannelore must understand that standards must be kept high and therefore only the best can be included on the team. He thanks her for her efforts and has included for her use two tickets for standing room only for the high jump event. Standing room only! The insult is clear.

  Wolfie tries to stir, shifting Hanni’s weight. “Look who’s here, Hanni!” he says, moving his head so that Hanni must lift hers.

  She blinks up at Frieda, her face bloated from weeping.

  “I’m sorry,” Frieda says. “This is terrible for you ... so unfair ...”

  “They’re idiots,” says Wolfie. “She’s the best jumper they’ve got and they won’t let her compete. They’d rather lose than let a Jew play.”

  Hanni’s mouth sets. “They have three spots on the team and they’re only using two. I was supposed to be the third one. Why are they doing this?”

  “Look,” says Wolfie, “let’s find a British reporter — or a French one — and tell them what they’ve done. Embarrass the bastards in the foreign papers, the ones they’re so intent on impressing.”

  “No!” says Frieda vehemently as Hanni watches him with interest. “It’s too dangerous. Once the reporters are gone, who will protect her? Or her family? Do you want them to end up in Dachau?”

  Wolfie stares at her, annoyed.

  “All right,” he says, “when the Americans arrive, find them and tell them you want to go to the United States. Tell them you’re the best jumper in Germany and they’ll get you over there. And then you can compete for them.”

  Frieda shakes her head.

  Hanni sniffs a few times, stifling tears. “But how can I go without you?”

  Wolfie glances with embarrassment at Frieda, who looks away, astonished at their intimacy.

  “Look,” he says, “I was going to surprise you, but what the hell — you need a present now. You won’t believe what I’ve got.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out some tickets. He holds them in front of Hanni, who wipes her eyes as she examines them.

  “Four tickets to the fencing match. August 5. How did you get these?”

  “I have my ways.”

  She shakes her head rhythmically. “No,” she says, head back and forth. “How can I go after this? How can I show my face?”

  “You must go. Show them you’re better than them.”

  “I’m too embarrassed. I can’t. Look at what it says in the letter. Mediocre achievements!”

  “But you know it’s a lie. Don’t let them win. Remember, you’re the champion. You have no reason to be embarrassed. They should be embarrassed. You will wear your best dress and take my arm when we walk in. You will be the most beautiful woman there.”

  Her chest heaves in a sigh.

  “Frieda has something that will make you feel better. Don’t you, Frieda?”

  Frieda remembers the tube of sedative and pulls it from her purse. She goes to the little washroom in the corner to find a spoon and a glass.

  Later, when they’re alone, Frieda asks him, “How could you afford four tickets to the Olympics? They must’ve cost a fortune.”

  Wolfie chuckles. “I won them at cards. I was going to sell them — they would’ve brought in a lot of money — but I had to do something for her, she’s had such a shock. She deserves to go. Promise you won’t tell.”

  “And you’d love to go,” Frieda says. “Who are the other two tickets for?”

  He smiles at her mischievously.

  Oma insists on making Frieda a snappy little jacket from some off-white linen she picked up at a shop that was closing out. She nips it in at the waist to show off Frieda’s figure.

  “It’s not every day you go to the Olympic Games,” says Oma.

  Frieda wears the new jacket over a soft cream-coloured blouse tucked into a narrow maroon skirt with a slit up the side. She angles a wide-brimmed straw hat o
ver one eye, her hair wound inside. She hasn’t been this dressed up since she graduated from high school.

  Wolfie whistles as she steps through the front door ahead of him. They are meeting Leopold and Hanni at the U-Bahn. If they wanted to go to the Zoo station stop, they could join the crowds and watch the Olympic events broadcast on a giant screen. “Our great German technology leads the world!” the newspapers crow. Wolfie describes how he stood there amid the mob on the opening day (Saturday, when he should have been in the store) and watched the torch bearer mount the stairs on screen to light the Olympic flame. The Zeppelin Hindenburg floated high above the athletes marching in the new stadium, filled to capacity, while the spectators cheered and gave the Nazi salute.

  At the U-Bahn, Leopold smiles sadly when Frieda approaches. “You look beautiful,” he says, bending to kiss her cheek.

  The Sussmans have moved into a smaller apartment after the takeover of their factory. She dares not ask him how they are living, refuses to let him pay for anything.

  Hanni is sulky in a white cotton dress that skims her tall, boyish frame, arms crossed over her chest. Wolfie beams at the sight of her. He holds her at arm’s length, examines her scrubbed face with no makeup, the chin-length brown hair in soft waves around her unhappy face.

  “Beautiful,” he pronounces, kissing her on both cheeks. “My favourite high jumper.” He takes her arm and loops it through his.

  Frieda can’t remember when she has seen so many elegantly dressed people as those queuing up to go into the fencing hall. Thanks to Oma she can hold her own here in her maroon and cream outfit. The men in Nazi uniforms make her nervous, though they stand and joke with their companions like everyone else.

  Once they have reached their seats, Frieda sits down beside Hanni, the two men on the outside. She takes in the huge expanse of the room where natural daylight streams in through a wall of glass running along the whole perimeter above the tiered seating. Forty-foot-high banners cover either side of the hall, the swastika insignia glowering in the middle. She reads in the program they have received that they will be watching the women’s individual foil competition.