Rebecca Temple Mysteries 3-Book Bundle

by Warsh, Sylvia Maultash

  “Must’ve been a terrible burden on your parents.”

  “They didn’t complain. My father loved her. And you know, I didn’t expect it to affect me. But I feel it ...” He made a fist with his free hand and hit it against his chest.

  She knew that feeling. “It’s natural. You’re in mourning.”

  He put out his cigarette and opened the massive oak door of Hart House, standing aside for her to enter. “Not a word to my father.”

  The time-worn stone stairs took them down to the basement. Their running shoes made no sound along the linoleum of the long hallway. She felt closer to Erich, now that he had confided in her. Maybe they could be friends after all.

  “You know, when I was an undergrad,” she said, trying to keep the dialogue going, “women weren’t allowed in Hart House for sports. We didn’t mind — it was a musty old place, even then. The university felt guilty and built us the Benson Building. It was spanking new when I took fencing there.” She didn’t say so, but from the looks of the cement block walls of the dingy basement, the men were moving out of Hart House just in time. And ironically starting in the Benson Building. She looked sideways at Erich. He made eye contact with her, but distractedly, with no feigned interest in her undergrad days. They strolled toward the subdued clamour of a crowd.

  She followed him into the salle — the routine use of French in fencing lent the sport a cachet that had always given her guilty pleasure at the snobbery. The referee was called the president and, in keeping with the lofty title, wore a suit and tie.

  Three fencing bouts were progressing at the same time, each with their coterie of hangers-on seated in the first few rows of the bleachers. Everyone’s attention was fixed on the fencers, old-world debonair in their white padded jackets and breeches, with wire mesh masks to protect their faces. Pockets of spectators sat scattered higher up. Along the sidelines of each bout stood fencers-in-waiting, also in white uniforms, their faces intent on the action. A section of bleachers was taken up by the storage of carelessly deposited winter jackets, briefcases, and gear bags. Three blue-lettered signs were displayed on the highest seats at the back: University of Toronto, Queen’s University, and University of Western Ontario.

  Erich began to lead Rebecca along the perimeter of the wooden floor to one of the strips where a bout was taking place. The room echoed with the clashing of steel. Two fencers assailed each other with swords on a regulation piste, a rectangle of floor mapped out with tape that defined the limits of the bout. The elder Sentry, in navy sweatpants and jacket, stood at the side, arms across his chest, engrossed in the duel. On either side of him a young fencer, dressed all in white, had planted himself in the same posture with the same absorption on his face. Though shorter than his students, Sentry stood out. He had a presence, a rare intensity in his eyes below the mass of dark, greying hair that appeared to rise from the bounds of a haphazard morning brush. Despite the energy he exuded, Rebecca noted the strong shoulders were rounded with a fatigue the students wouldn’t know for decades. The young men leaned toward him, listening while he spoke. Yes, she could see why he continued to coach past what was probably retirement age.

  She had always found it difficult to follow a bout when others were fencing. In foil, unlike saber, a hit only counted if delivered on the torso. Yet each time a foil touched the opponent, the president would shout, “Halte!” The judges, positioned behind each fencer, notified the president of every legitimate hit. Most often the hit didn’t count because it was on a leg or an arm, but the action went by so quickly, Rebecca barely saw them. It was all very civilized, but hardly a spectator sport, she thought.

  “Good hit!” Sentry called out. “Keep it up!”

  Erich hung back, several yards away from his father, watching the bout. Finally one of the fencers delivered a fifth hit on his opponent, the bell rang, and the bout was over. Will Sentry turned a moment and spied his son. He smiled broadly, strolling over to embrace him and shake hands with Rebecca.

  “You’re just in time. It’s the quarter-finals.” He gestured to the young men to approach. “Laszlo! Pawel! This is my son, Dr. Erich Sentry, and his friend, Dr. Rebecca Temple.”

  Erich looked at her sideways, embarrassed. She wondered if his father always introduced him as Dr. Erich Sentry.

  They all nodded politely at each other. “Laszlo is up next, then Pawel. They’ve done very well today. Maybe they’ll take home some medals.” He beamed at them with pride.

  “Good luck,” Erich said, his face blank.

  “Vlad!” Sentry motioned a reprimand to a young man talking to friends. To Rebecca he said, “I don’t let them spend time between matches fooling around. They should be watching the next opponent to learn his idiosyncrasies. Something they can use when their turn comes.”

  “Sorry, Maestro!”

  Vlad, tall and blond, took Laszlo’s place beside Sentry. Laszlo, a wiry young man with neatly trimmed brown hair, stepped onto the piste facing his opponent from the Queen’s team. They saluted each other, a gallant gesture Rebecca remembered with fondness. Each fencer stood with his mask in his left hand, sword-arm extended, the point of the weapon several inches from the ground. The sword was raised gracefully till the guard was chin level, the blade pointing up. A pause, then the sword swept down again on an angle. The whole thing took a few seconds. Salute the opponent, then the president and judges, and the coach. So civilized. One could almost forget it was a sport derived from combat, a sport in which people tried to kill each other, metaphorically. Finally each fencer drew his mask over his head, starting with the chin.

  The president said, “Prêts? En garde! Allez!”

  Each fencer stood with feet at right angles, knees slightly bent. One shoulder pointed toward the opponent, sword raised; the unarmed hand lifted behind the head in a fluid arch for balance. The body turned sideways to the opponent to offer less surface area to hit.

  Laszlo extended his sword and lunged at his opponent, who parried and began his own return thrust. They took turns lunging at each other. After a few minutes the Queen’s opponent scored a hit on Laszlo. After the third hit by each player, they changed sides. A momentary pause in the action.

  Enough time for Rebecca to look up and spot a figure in the auditorium entrance that astonished her. Imposing in a calf-length grey cashmere coat, Dr. Mustafa Salim, square-jawed, his dark eyes grim. He stood searching the room as Erich had stood and searched it moments before. And like Erich, his eyes stopped on Will Sentry.

  chapter twenty-two

  March 15, 1938

  “Don’t tell them I’m a doctor,” Frieda murmurs to Hanni as they hurry along the crowded street, still blocks from the British Embassy.

  “Why ever not? If I were going to hire a maid, I’d rather get someone who knew something. If they pick me they’ll get a strong worker, but I need to be fed. I wish we’d stopped at that bakery back there. I’m starving.”

  “Didn’t you have breakfast?”

  Hanni shrugs.

  Frieda imagines they look a strange pair marching together along the sidewalk; Hanni, a young Amazon, tall and athletically thin, her curly dark hair cut chin length. Frieda, prettier and daintier in her beret, is a half-foot shorter and has to take two steps for every one of Hanni’s.

  They slow down as they pass the newsstands. Heavy black headlines in all the papers shout, “Anschluss! Victory in Austria!” German soldiers have crossed the border after the Austrian chancellor decided to hold a plebiscite about union with Germany. Photos show Austrians cheering as the Wehrmacht rides by on their horses. Women throwing flowers, throwing kisses. Leopold had shaken his head with a profound fatigue that evening as they listened to the radio broadcasts. The Austrian chancellor should’ve known Hitler would never take that chance, Leopold said. “How could Hitler trust a free vote where Nazis weren’t in control of the polling booths?” Now Austria is part of the Reich.

  Frieda comes to a halt at a photo on one of the front pages: grinning Nazi soldiers,
their guns holstered, lean casually over a row of men and women on their knees scrubbing the sidewalk, while in the background civilians stand smiling. The caption reads, “Jews clean Vienna streets.”

  Two men are buying papers nearby. Frieda overhears one of them exclaim with excitement, “Austria! And not a shot fired!”

  Hanni pulls on Frieda’s arm and they continue on their way. A couple behind them discusses the new addition to their country. “The Austrians know which side their bread is buttered on,” the woman is saying. “Vienna should be cheaper this year,” says the man. “And the Viennese not so high and mighty.”

  Frieda is so occupied by the conversation that she is startled by the sudden roar of engines beside them. From nowhere two policemen on motorbikes jump the sidewalk and cut in front of the path of two men who are walking ahead of them.

  “Papers!” shouts one of the policemen.

  The two men look like ordinary businessmen in their wool coats and felt hats, carrying the requisite briefcases. Jews, Frieda assumes from their terrified faces. She pulls Hanni away, crossing the street while the men are ordered to open their briefcases.

  The women continue on their way to the embassy, startled again by the sudden thunder of the two motorcycles winding down the street ahead of them; one of the unlucky Jewish men occupies the sidecar of one of the police vehicles.

  When Frieda and Hanni turn a corner, they are confronted by a long, irregular line of women snaking three blocks all the way to the door of the embassy. Britain has made the humanitarian gesture of allowing Jewish women to enter the country to work as housemaids.

  “Every Jewish girl in Berlin must be here,” Hanni mutters taking her place in line. “It’ll take hours.”

  So many Jews want to leave Germany that every civilized country in the world has tightened its immigration policy to keep them out. Frieda has tired of reading the German papers that revel in the negative responses from the countries in Western Europe, Central and South America, Canada, Australia. The English don’t want to anger the Arabs so they strictly control immigration to British-held Palestine. Frieda knows from the Sussmans’ frustrating efforts that the United States has stringent quotas for Jews and requires guarantees from an American citizen, usually a relative, willing to sign papers agreeing to support the immigrant. Since Herr Sussman’s heart attack, they have lost their place in line and must wait again.

  Frieda and Vati have already stood in line at the Argentine embassy to fill out forms. Mutti’s brother, cousin Greta’s father, has written several times comparing Buenos Aires to Paris. They are adjusting there, he writes, and urges Mutti to join them. The Eisenbaums might have a chance in Argentina, since they already have relatives who settled there. Frieda and Vati have also spent days, weeks, standing in line for Brazil, Venezuela, Australia, and Canada. She painstakingly fills out the forms on the typewriter on their kitchen table but, like Wolfie, she pictures the office clerks pitching the precious papers into the garbage as soon as they come in.

  She folds her arms across her chest for warmth and resigns herself to a long wait. The air is still cold in March but not frigid like it would have been a month earlier.

  “Save my place,” Hanni says. “I’m going to run back to that bakery.”

  Before Frieda can respond, Hanni disappears into the crowd that has already formed behind them. Where she gets her appetite from Frieda doesn’t know. Was she as hungry at nineteen? Well, the line isn’t moving very fast.

  Twenty minutes later, Hanni returns carrying a paper cone. She strolls right by Frieda, who is overshadowed by the taller women around her.

  “Hanni!” she shouts.

  The girl turns at her name and steps into the line. “I got you some Abfall,” she says, handing Frieda the cone.

  Because people are so poor these days, bakeries have begun to sell leftover crumbs from bread and cake trays. She has seen the clerks twist a sheet of white paper into a glass for support and tap the metal tray, shaking the crumbs into a cone that sells for ten pfennig.

  “That’s very nice of you,” Frieda says, hoping Hanni had enough money to treat herself to a pastry.

  After a few licks of the crumbs on top — donut pieces, some grated nuts — Frieda feels Hanni watching her sideways. “I’m not very hungry,” she says, handing the cone back to Hanni. “You have it.”

  “Well, if you’re not hungry,” says Hanni, shrugging. She takes the cone and sticks her tongue down to dislodge the assorted mixture. “Hmm,” she says, her head on an angle. “Shaved chocolate and a bit of rye bread, I think.”

  The line moves very slowly toward the embassy. Girls nearby who were chattering earlier are quiet now, hugging themselves for warmth. A small Asian man in a well-cut black coat and hat has approached some girls behind them. He is talking to them in a voice too low for Frieda to hear. In a few minutes he steps toward Hanni. He bows and smiles at them with yellow teeth. Frieda stiffens as he looks Hanni over with approval.

  “Good morning, young ladies,” he says in a heavy accent, his mouth struggling with the German syllables. “Perhaps you tired waiting in line to leave country. I represent agency seek for lovely ladies like you. Interesting work in China. Many cities, you choose. We make necessary arrangements — you no concern for passport or transport. You have lodging when arrive. Could be out Germany tomorrow.” He smiles with prominent teeth, his eyes drinking in Hanni. “My car there.” He points to the corner.

  “Could our families come too?” Hanni asks.

  The little man shrugs noncommittally.

  Frieda loops her arm through Hanni’s and interjects in a harsh voice, “We’re not interested.”

  The man’s smile vanishes and he moves down the line.

  “Why did you say that?” Hanni asks, watching the man leave. “I’d love to see China.”

  “How much do you think you’d see from a brothel?”

  Hanni’s brown eyes go large and blink. “You think ...”

  They both turn and, after a moment, watch him escort a pretty young woman away from the line, across the street, presumably to a waiting car. The woman walks with her eyes lowered, perhaps embarrassed, but resigned.

  Frieda takes a deep sigh. “If you want to go to China, go stand at the embassy. I hear they’re letting Jews into Shanghai without a visa.”

  “So why are we standing here?”

  “We can’t afford the tickets. The fare’s a fortune. And there was fighting there, but it’s calmed down now.” Frieda pulls her arm out of Hanni’s and hugs herself for warmth. “Besides, I can’t imagine going to China. It’s so far. It’s so foreign. It would be like going to the moon.”

  Once they get into the building, they must fill out a form and drop it into a deep box on top of all the others. Frieda pictures an English butler lifting each sheet out with an immaculate gloved hand and dropping it into a fire. They never hear from the embassy one way or the other. Yet another silence.

  In April the government sends Jewish families forms on which they must list all their valuables. After dinner that night, instead of scouring through the books on Ecuador, Peru, and South Africa, less appealing countries but ones they haven’t tried yet, Vati begins to write down the articles on a piece of paper, starting with their silver candlesticks and cutlery.

  “There’s only one reason why they’d need a list like that,” Wolfie says, putting on his jacket to go out.

  Vati keeps writing without looking up. “Of course. But we have no choice.”

  Wolfie sneers. “Soon the swine will come here and collect it all. You’d be better off selling it — at least you’d get some money for it.”

  “I have to put down something. We’ll hide what we can. But each of us must hand over something. We don’t want to give them an excuse to search the apartment.”

  Frieda sees Mutti place her hand over the ring on her finger, next to her wedding band.

  “Don’t put down my ring,” Wolfie says. “I’m going to sell it.”

&
nbsp; Frieda remembers the gold ring engraved with his initials that her parents presented him when he was sixteen.

  Wolfie slams the door behind him. Frieda turns the amethyst ring on her finger round and round. Leopold gave it to her when he thought his family was leaving for America.

  “Don’t put down my amethyst ring either,” she says to Vati.

  Without looking up he says, “I’ll put down the amber one.” Her parents’ gift when she was sixteen.

  Within a month policemen come to the door armed with the lists that the families themselves have filled out. Government-sanctioned theft, Frieda knows, but Jews are not going to risk their lives by making a fuss about silverware or jewellery. She doesn’t know what Wolfie did with his ring, but she has hidden hers in a drawer among her underwear.

  One morning, Luise disappears. Oma shrieks her name into every corner of the tiny apartment and searches under the beds. In all the commotion, Frieda hears a timid tap at the front door and opens it.

  Frau Thaler, their elderly neighbour down the hall, is smiling sheepishly at them, while Luise stands beside her, holding her hand. Luise’s other hand is engaged in stuffing a pancake into her mouth.

  “I’m sorry, Frau Eisenbaum,” the woman says to Oma, who stands with her lips firm in anger and relief. “But she came to my door when I was bringing in the milk.”

  Milk is no longer delivered to Jewish households. They must buy it on the black market at inflated prices, hence they have very little of it.

  “I didn’t think there was any harm giving her some. She drank it down so fast, dear girl.” Frau Thaler wears a frumpy brown dress beneath a flowered apron tied around her stout waist. She turns adoring eyes at Luise.