Rebecca Temple Mysteries 3-Book Bundle

by Warsh, Sylvia Maultash

  In three days they have managed to sell all the heavy furniture in the dining room, living room, and bedrooms. People come and go in the apartment, removing one stick of furniture at a time, until finally all that’s left is a sofa, the kitchen table, a few chairs, the beds, some small chests of drawers, and their radio, which they have hidden in a closet behind some boxes so that no one can accuse them of listening to foreign broadcasts.

  The evening before they are to move out, Frieda feels a weight on her chest as she folds her clothes into a suitcase. Luise comes into her room carrying a blouse by one sleeve, the rest of it hanging to the floor.

  “Help me,” she whines, pulling Frieda into the room she shares with Oma. “I can’t ...” Luise says, pouting at the suitcase lying open on her bed. Her clothes, which Oma always folds carefully before placing them in a drawer or hanging them up, lie jumbled all over the bed. Like the chaos of their lives.

  “Luise! What’s the matter with you?”

  Luise’s face crumples and tears pour down her face. Frieda’s heart contracts with remorse as she takes her sister in her arms. “Oh, Luise, don’t cry! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.” She wipes Luise’s eyes with a handkerchief.

  “Here, look.” She takes a blouse and demonstrates how to fold it, one sleeve, then the other. “Now you try.”

  Luise’s forehead creases with effort and she manages to fold a blouse, if lopsidedly.

  “Good!” says Frieda. “Then put it in here.” She places both pieces in the suitcase to demonstrate.

  “Don’t want to go,” Luise says. “Stay here.” Despite the defiant words, her eyes are large and frightened.

  Frieda doesn’t know how to protect her. That sense of helplessness brings on a surge of self-pity that surprises, then sickens her. Frieda’s eyes begin to fill with tears until they brim over and slide down her cheek.

  Luise’s face grows calm. “Oh, Frieda-mouse, don’t cry.” She takes Frieda in her arms and pats her back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

  chapter nineteen

  Rebecca arrived late for dinner at her parents’ house Friday evening. Detective Fitzroy had kept her waiting for over an hour at Fifty-Two Division on Dundas near University, two blocks from the library where she had found Stanley. Instead of thanking her, the detective had scolded her for not handing the book cover to the police right away so that they could do their work. After satisfying himself she wasn’t holding anything else back, he’d let her go.

  Uncle Henry, her mother’s brother, usually a guest at Friday night dinner, became very animated on hearing about the killing of the homeless woman across from his niece’s office.

  “Rebecca, you’re a doctor, for God’s sake! How do you get to lead such a crazy, exciting life? Haven’t you come across three dead bodies in the past six months?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Henry,” her mother said, bringing a bowl of sautéed mushrooms and onions to the table. “Doctors have to deal with dead bodies all the time. It’s part of the job.”

  “Yes, but —”

  “For heaven’s sake, Henry!” her father said. “You’re a history teacher. It doesn’t take much to get you excited. Queen Victoria farted in bed? Oooh! That’s exciting.”

  “Mitch!” Her mother waved a fork at him.

  “Actually, Uncle Henry, I have a historical question for you.”

  Henry leaned forward with interest, his short, fuzzy hair a halo beneath the chandelier.

  “Have you heard of a place called Mittverda? Something to do with a concentration camp?” She speared a piece of roast potato with her fork and brought it to her mouth.

  “Mittverda? Can’t say I have. Odd name. I thought I knew all the camps. Do you know where it was? Germany? Poland?”

  She shook her head. “Sorry.”

  “May I know your interest?”

  She shook her head some more. “Maybe later.”

  “Okay, okay. So I’m a nosy parker. Tell you what. I’ll look it up in my little library when I get home.”

  Uncle Henry was a student of history and indulged himself by collecting all the books he could find on the subject. When he said “little library” he was being modest. One of the rooms in his small bungalow was lined with bookshelves to the ceiling. Her mother said it was because he had never married and had to do something to occupy his time.

  “Have you heard from Susan?” Her mother asked this casually, but Rebecca heard the concern between the words.

  “I tried calling her around lunch today,” Rebecca said, “but no one answered.”

  Actually, she had gotten Jeff Herman’s answering machine, but she wasn’t going to say that in front of Uncle Henry, who probably didn’t know Susan’s situation. She couldn’t imagine her mother telling her bachelor brother that his niece had abandoned her new baby. Her mother licked her lips and looked away.

  “Flo, this chicken is outstanding,” said Rebecca’s father, chewing.

  Had he been sensitive enough to change the subject?

  Her mother watched him with expectation.

  “What?” he said. “I can’t compliment your cooking without you waiting for a joke?”

  “I’ll get some more mushrooms,” she said, taking the empty bowl to the kitchen.

  Rebecca’s father took that moment to lean conspiratorially toward the table. “If a man speaks in a forest and there’s no woman to hear him, is he still wrong?”

  “I heard that, Mitch,” said her mother from the kitchen.

  After Uncle Henry had gone home and Mitch was ensconced in front of the TV, Rebecca sat in the kitchen with her mother. They were nursing their second cup of tea.

  “Any plans for the weekend?”

  Her mother routinely asked this question. Rebecca rarely had anything to tell her.

  “I’ve been invited to a fencing tournament.”

  “A fencing tournament? Well, that should be interesting since you used to fence in university.”

  “My mistake was to mention that.”

  “To whom?”

  “A fencing instructor.”

  “Young and handsome?”

  “Old and handsome. But his son is young and handsome.”

  Her mother’s eyebrows went up in a question. When Rebecca didn’t embellish on the son, her mother asked, “When’s Nesha coming?”

  “Two weeks.” She knew her mother thought Nesha was too old for her at forty-eight.

  “Well, it sounds like fun. I say go for it.”

  Rebecca smiled at her mother’s vernacular, but noticed the half moons, darker than usual, beneath her eyes.

  “Do you want me to pick up some soup from Daiter’s next week? Less for you to cook. It’s too much to do, week after week.”

  “There’s nothing like homemade. I thought you liked my soup.”

  “I do. But you look tired, and it would be one less thing you’d have to make.”

  “I’m more worried than tired. I can’t sleep thinking about Susan.”

  Her sister had told Rebecca not to give anyone else Jeff’s home number, but now Rebecca felt guilty.

  “Do you want to speak to her?”

  Her mother’s eyes lit up.

  Rebecca retrieved the number from her purse and dialed the wall phone in the kitchen. Susan picked up on the first ring.

  “Hi, it’s Rebecca. How are you feeling?”

  A pause. “You know how.”

  “I called during the day to see if you wanted to come up to Mom and Dad’s for dinner, but nobody answered.”

  “I don’t answer the phone.”

  “I’m still here —”

  “I’m really not ready to go anywhere.”

  “Mom would like to talk to you.” Without waiting for a reply, she handed the phone to her mother.

  Flo smiled with gratitude and took the receiver. “Hi, sweetie. I’ve been worried about you. How’re you feeling?”

  As Rebecca watched, her mother’s face went from joyful anticipation to puzzlement
to despair.

  “Sweetheart, don’t. Please. Stop crying.”

  Flo wiped a tear from her eye, then put her hand over the mouthpiece. “I don’t know what she’s saying. I don’t know what she wants.” She handed the receiver back to Rebecca.

  Rebecca heard a few words between sobs. “... alone ... went out ... weekend ...”

  “Susan! I can’t hear you. Calm down and tell me what’s happening.”

  Susan sniffed and wept. “He went out. To get his son. I’m alone. Always alone.”

  “Give me the address and I’ll come and get you. Ben’s gone back to Montreal so you can stay at my place.”

  Silence. Thinking. Breathing into the phone. Then Susan said, “51 Thomas Valley. In Rosedale.”

  Rebecca drove south on Bayview from her parents’ suburban home. They had watched her rush out the door and made her promise to call them later no matter the hour.

  Rosedale was the WASP enclave of upper-crust Toronto. A Jewish lawyer who bought an expensive home here was making a statement, claiming a kinship with the captains of industry, the leaders of the country. Who said a Jewish boy couldn’t make good?

  Though it was more than a month before Christmas, holiday lights were already winking through the greenery in some front gardens. Tastefully strung across a tall spruce here, a few bushes there. Nothing gaudy.

  She parked in front of Jeff Herman’s house, a solid two-storey brick affair lit up by strategically placed spotlights.

  She marched up the front steps and was immediately impressed by the heavy door, an architectural work of art comprised of vertical slats of honey-coloured oak. Something you’d find at the entrance of a stately Anglican church.

  She rang the bell. Chimes echoed inside. Where are you, Susan?

  Finally the door opened. Susan, her eyes red from crying, made a sad attempt at a smile. She wore ivory silk lounging pyjamas.

  Rebecca stepped inside a large vestibule rising to a cathedral ceiling. She embraced her sister. Susan didn’t hug her back but felt limp as a doll.

  “Where’s Jeff?” The honey oak floors glittered too brightly beneath the chandelier.

  “He went out to get his son. He’s got him for the weekend. Joint custody. He’ll be back any minute.”

  “Do you want to wait till he comes back to say goodbye?”

  Susan looked off, thinking. “No. I’ll get my things. Give me a minute.” She stepped up the stairs with visible effort, her energy gone.

  Rebecca had time to admire the dining room suite on one side of the hall. An oval oak table sat surrounded by barrel-like chairs with rounded oat slats for backs. Probably the same architect who designed the door. Everything screamed money.

  While Susan still moved around upstairs, the front door opened. A boy of seven or eight stepped in, followed by Jeff Herman. He stopped in his tracks when he saw Rebecca.

  “Hi. Remember me?” she said blithely, to disguise her embarrassment. “Rebecca. I came to see my sister.”

  “Yes, of course. Long time no see. You haven’t changed that much since high school. Maybe your hair.” He angled his head for a better look. “Is it curlier?”

  She lifted a self-conscious hand to her hair. “Maybe.”

  Jeff, a lanky teenager, had improved with age. His shoulders had filled out and his unruly hair had been tamed. And tinted? It looked blonder than she remembered. He had a fine aquiline nose. Almost aristocratic.

  “Tyler, take your coat and boots upstairs to your room.”

  Little Tyler, in a ski jacket and cap, peered up at Rebecca, who smiled. He didn’t smile back, but sat down on the floor to take off his boots. Jeff watched with dispassion as the boy tried unsuccessfully to unzip his jacket.

  “It’s stuck,” he said, looking up at his father with resentful eyes.

  “Then I guess you’ll have to sleep in it.”

  Rebecca stepped forward despite feeling Jeff’s eyes on her. “I can help.” With a quick flip, she unsnagged the zipper and helped him wriggle out of the jacket.

  “Children need to learn to do things for themselves,” Jeff said, ice in his voice.

  “They’ll learn if they’re shown how,” she said. Where was Susan?

  “Go upstairs, Tyler.”

  The little boy ran up the wide staircase carrying his boots and jacket, one sleeve dragging on the floor.

  “Pick up the jacket!” Jeff called out. Then to her, “You don’t have children yourself, do you?”

  It wasn’t a question. He probably knew her story from Susan. He was appraising her beneath lowered lids, his regal nose sniffing. If he compared her to Susan, she would be found wanting.

  “Why don’t you take off your coat?” he said, suddenly playing at host as they stood awkwardly in the grand hall.

  “She can’t stay,” said Susan from the top of the stairs.

  Rebecca stared up at her, puzzled. She was still in her lounging pyjamas, no more ready than when she had gone up.

  “Susan ...” Rebecca tried to find the right words. “Do you have your things?”

  Jeff looked from one to the other. “What does she mean, Susan?”

  This was an actual question, spoken in a soft voice, not the peremptory tone he had used earlier.

  “I’m going to stay with Rebecca for a while, Jeff. I have to sort things out.”

  “Susan, please ...” The glacier in his eyes melted and threatened to flood over. “Please don’t go. You know how I feel about you. Tyler’s only here till Sunday. Then it’ll just be the two of us. I’ll take some time off work.”

  Rebecca observed her sister at the top of the stairs. She was still striking, a week after giving birth, a wave of long blonde hair falling over one cheek. But her eyes gave her away; her eyes mourned.

  “She needs some time to herself,” Rebecca said. “She has to consider all her options, including the baby in the hospital.”

  “She can do that here,” Jeff said, the peremptory voice back. “If she goes with you, she won’t come back.”

  “She has a new baby! Who needs her more?”

  “I do!” he said. “You don’t understand. I need her most.”

  “Excuse me,” Susan spit out, “but I’m right here. Don’t talk about me in the third person as if I’m somewhere else. Why does everyone treat me like an idiot?”

  “Susan!” said Jeff, stepping to the foot of the stairs. “I’ve got your law school application in my briefcase. Remember what we were talking about? I’m going to speak to my friend Brian Metcalfe about your application. He’s a prof in the faculty — it’s always good to know someone on the inside.”

  Susan’s eyes brightened a bit.

  Rebecca had a sinking feeling: Jeff knew his strategy.

  “You’re a very bright woman.” He lifted a foot onto the first stair. “You’ll make a great lawyer.” Then, as if remembering she was still there, he turned his head sideways to Rebecca. “She’s staying here tonight,” he said quietly.

  Rebecca looked up to where her sister stood transfixed. “Susan?”

  Susan’s face grew calm as she watched Jeff place another foot on the stairs. She turned to Rebecca. “I can’t,” she said. “I’ll call you in a few days.”

  Tyler stuck his little head out of one of the rooms upstairs.

  “Go to sleep, Tyler!” his father boomed out.

  “Jeffrey,” Susan said, reproach in her voice. Rebecca watched Jeff blink with a submission that would ruin him in court.

  “If you change into your pyjamas quickly,” he said to his son, “I’ll read you a story.”

  Susan gave him a crooked half-smile of approval.

  Without another word, Rebecca turned around and let herself out.

  chapter twenty

  February 1937

  The two windows in the back wall of the Eisenbaums’ workroom bring in little light. They face west into a courtyard shared by other buildings that abut Eisenbaum’s and that preclude the presence of any other windows. The absence of li
ght drives Frieda to despair — it will be difficult to read without constantly burning a lamp. A few weeks in this half-light and she will feel like a mole.

  Under Oma’s direction she helped Wolfie and Leopold carry in the beds and chests of drawers, while Vati tended to customers out front in the store. The diminished workroom has been moved off to one side: the two sewing machines that Oma and Vati still use are there, as well as a smaller cutting table. The huge one has since been sold, along with Vati’s desk. White cotton fabric is piled in one corner beside a tailor’s dummy. The Eisenbaum household has sprouted in the remaining space like a flower in the wrong garden. The familiarity depresses Frieda, sucks her back to when she was fifteen and required to learn to sew so that she could one day take over the business. She sits on her narrow bed, listening to the hum of Oma’s sewing machine. She fled the business to become a doctor. Nothing, it seems, has turned out the way she planned. Not the business, not her career.

  Oma has organized the cramped space with a judicious placing of curtains to separate designated areas: the workroom on the side where the door leads to the store, Vati and Mutti’s bedroom, and the room where Oma and Luise will share a bed and where Frieda will sleep on a cot. This leaves the large old stove at the back where they will cook their meals and eat at their kitchen table; here, too, they’ve placed the sofa where Wolfie will sleep. The small washroom has a toilet and sink. The washtub they brought from their apartment will have to do double duty for bathing.

  Frieda’s hospital earnings diminish as the Jews remaining in Berlin grow poorer. A Jewish agency distributes small amounts of money so the physicians can keep treating patients. She sees more and more people brought in who have attempted suicide and failed: a woman who didn’t keep her head in the oven long enough; a man who jumped from a second-storey window only to break his legs and three ribs; a man who tried to hang himself with a sheet that unwound.

  A smartly dressed young mother whose husband was taken away comes in with her two children and asks for poison pills. Frieda looks at the two little girls, aged four and six, their blonde hair in curls around their heads.