Entwined

by La Plante, Lynda

  Ruda ran out and down the street in a panic, not sure which way to go, or where. She kept putting her hands into her coat pockets, making sure the rings were there.

  She went to a club she had worked at with Rudi and spoke to the manager, who gave her the once-over. She was looking very classy…he touched her coat. “Found yourself a rich American, have you?”

  Ruda smiled. “No, something better, I got people, a family with money, and they want a contact for passports.”

  The manager shrugged and said he couldn’t help her, he knew of no one dealing in foreign documents or currency.

  “Kellerman. I want to talk to Kellerman, I know you know him, and I know he’s somewhere in the Kreuzberg district. Now you tell me, or I tip off the authorities, I know this club is a contact drop.”

  Ruda found Kellerman sitting in a bar playing poker. It had been a long walk. She didn’t have money for a taxi, even for a bus.

  Kellerman didn’t recognize her, and she didn’t remind him where they had last met. He took her into a back room and looked her over, leaning against the wall as if he were some American movie star—all three feet of him.

  “So what do you want?”

  ‘‘Visa, passport, tickets to America.”

  He laughed out loud. “Oh yeah…what makes you think I can get them?”

  Ruda sat down and swung her leg, her legs were good, and she inched up her skirt.

  “Friend told me, I got something to trade!”

  Kellerman touched her knee. “Baby, if it’s your cunt, forget it. What you want costs a lot more than a fuck!”

  “Maybe I’ve got a lot more.”

  Kellerman shoved his hands into his tiny pockets. “Let’s see what you got.”

  Ruda was no fool, she had stashed the bulk of the stones under a broken-down truck outside the bar. She took out only a couple of rings, and held them in the palm of her hand. Kellerman picked one up, examined it, then prodded her palm with his short squat finger. “Good stones…but this isn’t enough.”

  “I have more, a lot more, and I’ve got a marriage license.”

  “You’ll need birth certificates, inoculation, visas, passport, then tickets…”

  Ruda felt her heart drop. How much was this going to cost? She held out her hand again. “I’ve got more, a necklace, diamonds…how much do I need?”

  Kellerman touched her palm again, and then he pushed back the sleeve of her coat and saw the tattoo. She tried to withdraw her wrist, but he held on to her. “S’okay, I won’t hurt you…where were you?”

  Ruda bowed her head. “Does it matter?”

  “I guess not, all that matters is you survived, eh? I’m not prying—see, I got one too.”

  He lifted his sleeve. Then he flushed and pulled his cuff down. “I don’t show it to anybody…I was at Birkenau.”

  She virtually whispered it. “So was I.”

  He looked up into her face, and reached to touch her cheek with his short stubby hand. There was no need to speak, there was mutual understanding in their eyes, it was not compassion, or love, it was a kind of solidarity. Ruda kneeled, and Kellerman cradled her in his arms. Still they did not speak, and it was Kellerman who broke the embrace. Stepping back he said, softly: “Never get down on your knees for anyone. Look at me, show me a fist, show me some fire in those eyes…I’ll get us out of this shit. Get up, up on your feet, girl.” He began to pace up and down, short, blunt steps.

  “We got to find a buyer first, sell the stones, turn them into cash, then we can do the deal. If you got more like the ones you showed me, we can get enough.”

  “We? I don’t understand, why we?”

  He gave her a cheeky wide smile. He had perfect white teeth, and his face was cherubic under the thick black curly hair. “Yeah, that’s the deal—Ruda, you said your name was?”

  “Yes, Ruda—” She could not say her recently acquired last name.

  “The deal is, Ruda, I get the documents, make all the arrangements, but I want to come with you. We both go to America, and I’ll get us a license. We get married, you go as Ruda Kellerman, it’ll make it a lot easier. I already got my papers, I just never had enough dough to get out of this shithole.”

  She hesitated, then smiled. He looked up at her. “You know when you smile, it changes your whole face.”

  “Same could be said of you.”

  He chuckled. “I guess maybe we’ve neither had too much to smile about, but have we got a deal?”

  She nodded, but then held her hand up. “But it’s just a marriage of convenience, right? And where the stones go, I go? Agreed?”

  He laughed, and then swung the door wide with a flourish. “Let’s go, partner. America here we come!”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  It had taken two nerve-wracking months. Ruda and Kellerman stayed in his small rented room. He never made any advances toward her; instead they played cards and he taught her how to read and write. They felt safe together and they liked each other. He found out about the magician, and said she would come to no harm, he would take care of her. And he did. He pocketed a lot of the money for himself, but he kept his promise, he got them to America.

  Magda had sent all her boys searching for Ruda, sure she would turn up on some street corner. The days turned into weeks, months, and Magda had to admit she was wasting her time searching for the little bitch. But she never forgot Ruda; every time she slipped a ring onto her finger she remembered her. She had never told anybody of her part in the murder, but she had kept the knife—as a memento, a warning never to turn soft on any of her tarts, or on anybody else for that matter. The knife had traveled from apartment to apartment, club to club, until she had stowed it away. Somehow she knew that one day Ruda would come back, one day she would see her again…and when she did, she would think about cutting her throat open.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Magda ran her nail along the serrated edge. She had been right, she had come back. But when she had seen her, it was strange…she hadn’t hated her, she had really wanted to talk to her. She had been ready to forgive, but Ruda had played a stupid game, pretending she couldn’t understand German, that she didn’t know Magda. Well, the baroness, or whoever Ruda pretended she was, would be sorry. This time she wouldn’t be able to hide, there would be no place in Berlin where she could take refuge. Remembering it all made her head throb, she searched for aspirin.

  Eric rushed back into the office. He was soaked. “I lost her, she was going from club to club, she was very drunk. Then I went in one door, and she must have walked out another; she disappeared.”

  Magda hurled papers from her desk. “You fucking little queen…all you had to do was follow the bitch!” Her face was puce with rage.

  “I followed her up and down the fucking streets. I’m soaked—it’s comin’ down in torrents out there!”

  “Get out of my sight, you useless piece of shit!”

  Eric leaned on her desk. “I’m all you’ve got, you big fat cow. You haven’t got a friend in the world, Magda. I am the only person who can put up with you.”

  “There’s the door, Eric, and that thing attached is the handle. Turn it and walk. Go on, I don’t need you, I don’t need anybody—I never have. I have never depended on anyone or anything but me! Because that’s all I’ve ever had, me, I made me and my money is mine"

  Eric hesitated, and she laughed—her heavy phlegmy laugh. How many years had he put up with her? But he had no place to go, and he did have an easy life. Besides, she couldn’t last many more years. She was eighty, maybe even more. So he laughed, and she held open her arms, her mammoth body shaking.

  “Come on, make up, give me a hug.”

  He let her embrace him, her beads clanking against his head. He could hear the rattle of her chest, the hideous breathing he had lain next to for fifteen years. She settled back on the cushions and said she’d start calling the clubs, she’d soon trace her.

  “Who is she? I mean what’
s so important about her?”

  Magda dialed, and waited. “She stole from me, Eric. I was like a mother to that girl, and she pretended she didn’t know me. Well—she’s going to know who I am.”

  Eric eased off his tie, removed his Gucci loafers. They were encrusted with mud around the edges. Magda made call after call, club after club, getting angrier as she described Vebekka in minute detail, down to the cape with the sable trim. She kept on saying it was urgent, she had to find her.

  Eric took off his socks, his feet were cold. He was so intent on inspecting his feet he didn’t even observe anything strange; he only looked up because the room was so quiet. She sat well back in her chair, her head almost touching her bosom, a cigarette still burning in her fat hand.

  “Magda?…Magda?”

  Eric walked around the desk, peering at her. The poodle suddenly started pawing at her leg, wanting attention. Eric took the cigarette from her fingers, stubbed it out. He called her name again, then felt her pulse. He withdrew his hand, and gave her body a small push—she slowly sagged to one side, and her arm slid from the desk and hung limply over her chair.

  He gave a small, dry laugh like a hiccup, and quickly covered his mouth. He shooed the dog away and it scuttled beneath the desk. He was about to rush out of the office when he remembered he was in his bare feet.

  As he slipped his feet into his loafers, he had another good look at Magda, and giggled. It was his club, all his now, and he wanted to hug himself.

  The phone rang. He hesitated, deciding whether or not to answer, and in the end he snatched it up. It was the barman at the Vagabond Club returning Magda’s call. The woman she wanted to know about had just walked in. “It doesn’t matter, Magda’s dead,” said Eric. He heard the shocked voice asking how and when, and he beamed, but kept his voice to a hushed whisper. “I have to go, I have to get the police.”

  “Jesus Christ, what happened?”

  “Heart attack, I think…”

  “My God, when?”

  “Oh, about five minutes ago.”

  “Oh shit, will you be closing the club?”

  “No…no I don’t think so, she wouldn’t have wanted that. Nothin’ll change, just that I’ll be running the show from now on…so, if you’ll excuse me…”

  Eric carefully replaced the receiver, looked at the peroxided head of his wife. He couldn’t see her face, he was glad about that. He whistled to the dog, and grabbed it by the scruff of its neck. “Your life, sweetface, hangs on a thread. You had better be very, very nice to me.” Eric didn’t even notice the carving knife on Magda’s desk as he walked out of the office.

  Chapter 15

  Vebekka eased her way to the bar, the third she had come to. The champagne had dulled her senses, she was confused and disoriented, and she wanted something—anything—to wake her. The rain had begun again, a downpour. Her hair was wet, her cape soaked, but she pushed her way through the customers, calling to the barman.

  Vebekka felt a man brush up against her. He smiled apologetically and then signaled to the barman, snapping his fingers impatiently. His heavy gold bracelet and thick ring shone, and his cheap suit and white polyester shirt gleamed in the fluorescent light.

  “Is it raining again?” he asked, smiling, his teeth as white as his shirt. She could see speckles of dandruff on his shoulders, and she giggled.

  “I don’t speak German, I’m American—or French.”

  He spoke in pidgin English, leaning his elbow casually on the bar. He asked her if she would like a drink and she nodded, asking for champagne. He hesitated, and moved closer.

  “It’s very expensive here.”

  She looked at him with a half smile, and asked for a cigarette. He patted his pockets; she leaned against him and slipping her hand into his pant pocket, she withdrew a cigarette pack and giggled. Confident, he slipped his arm around her shoulders, and then as the barman came over he asked for champagne.

  She drank the entire glass in one go, and banged it onto the bar.

  “Let’s sit down.”

  She shrugged and wandered off. Taking her by the hand he guided her to a booth, she tossed her cape onto the seat.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Vebekka.”

  She drank another glass, again gulping it down as if it were water. He moved closer to her; his hand began to feel along her thigh.

  She suddenly felt sick, and pushed his hand away, mumbling that she needed to go to the bathroom. He touched her thighs and behind as she eased past him. She stumbled, and he caught her.

  “Maybe you need help…”

  They headed toward the door marked TOILETTEN, and by this time he had one arm around her, the other feeling under her sweater. The door led into a small corridor, ladies’ and men’s toilets on either side.

  Vebekka staggered into the ladies’ room. She vomited into the bowl and as the room began to spin, her legs collapsed under her. She swore, pushing herself up against the wall. She began to pant, trying not to be sick again. The cubicle door opened, she hadn’t bothered to lock it.

  “You okay?”

  “I have to go…can you call me a taxi?”

  He closed the door behind him and locked it. “Sure…in a few minutes.”

  She didn’t even attempt to stop him from pulling down her panties and heaving up her sweater, she just leaned against him. He undid his fly, and pulled her hands down to his penis. Her head lolled against him, and he dragged her panties further down, ramming her against the wall. She half laughed, she felt like she was on a train, her back rocking against the wall. She kept on half laughing as he rammed himself inside her…it was over, and she laughed louder. He buttoned up his fly, listened in case anyone had come in, and then unlocked the door.

  “You call that a fuck? When’s the next train through here?” She laughed loudly, and then slowly slid down the wall, her underwear around her ankles. The tiles felt nice and cool, she inched down, rested her cheek on the cold tiles.

  She was hauled to her feet semiconscious; the man literally had to drag her out. He dumped her in the corridor and went back into the club. He crossed to the bar, told the barman there was a drunken woman lying outside the toilets, went back to the booth, snatched his champagne bottle and made his way out.

  The barman had crooked his finger to the bouncer hovering at the main club entrance.

  Vebekka was thrown out of the club and fell into the gutter. She staggered up and stumbled away. She managed to pull her pants up, but she had lost her cape and her sweater was half off. She walked in the pouring rain. She stopped and looked up, opening her mouth to catch the water…she felt almost happy.

  Three skinheads passed, and began pushing and shoving her until she slid down against a wall. She put up her hands in a pitiful attempt to protect herself, but one kept kicking her, calling her a filthy whore. Finally they left.

  Vebekka sat hunched for a while, and then slowly stood, supporting herself against the wall; she was violently sick again.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The baron slammed the taxi door shut. Helen instructed the driver to go to the next club: So far they had been to four, each one more tawdry than the last. They sat in silence. Suddenly, Helen leaned forward and asked the driver to stop. Helen shouted: “I see her!”

  She was the first out, catching Vebekka in her arms before she fell again. The baron took off his coat and wrapped it around her. “Put her in the back!” he commanded.

  Vebekka rested her head against Helen’s shoulder.

  “Dear God, look at her face. Have you got a handkerchief, Louis? She’s bleeding.”

  He handed her one. “Aren’t we all…here!”

  Helen gently dabbed the cut on Vebekka’s forehead.

  “She’s been drinking!”

  “Clearly!”

  They arrived back at the Grand Hotel, Louis and Helen holding, almost carrying Vebekka between them. The manager rushed forward, but the baron brus
hed him aside.

  “My wife fell. She is all right, just call the elevator please.”

  The bellboy stared; the woman was so drunk she could hardly stand. He eased open the grid and stepped back. The baron scooped Vebekka up in his arms and Helen hurriedly opened the doors to their suite. Louis dumped Vebekka on her bed. She moaned, and turned her face into the pillow.

  Helen knocked on Hilda’s door. She would be only a moment, she needed to put on her clothes.

  “It doesn’t matter, Hilda, just put on a robe. It’s the baroness, she…she’s had a little accident!”

  Helen rejoined the baron, who stood staring down at his wife. “Look at her, take a good look Helen…so much for your damned doctor.”

  He was so furious that he had to walk out. Helen followed him, closing the door behind her.

  “Hilda’s bathing her, her stomach’s bruised, as if she’s been kicked. Louis? Did you hear what I said?”

  He stood with his back to her, his hands clenched at his sides. “She stinks like a whore…”

  Helen poured a drink and asked if he wanted one, but he shook his head.

  She sighed. “I blame myself. The moment we knew she had left the hotel we should have gone out and searched, we wasted time…”

  He whirled around. “Have you any idea how many times, how many nights I’ve had to go looking for her? Searching every seedy run-down club, every red light district…She’s been found in alleys, in back rooms, she’s been fucked for the price of a drink, and tonight was probably no different. You smelled her, she stinks of sex and booze and vomit—she sickens me, disgusts me, she’s been picking up men…”

  “You don’t know that!”

  He looked at Helen as if she were an idiot. “I don’t? She has played these games for years, for years!

  “I don’t think she knows what she is doing. Are you asking me to believe she likes what she has been doing? Likes to be beaten up, kicked?”

  He snapped. “That’s what she goes out for, Helen, she wants to be treated like a whore, she likes it—she is a whore!”