The Crooked Maid

by Dan Vyleta

  She shook her head. “It’s not about the crows.”

  “Oh, I understand. You’re upset. He doesn’t love you enough.” He shrugged as though to say it was hard to meet her standards. “Or maybe you have this fantasy, buried deep in your heart. That you will go to America with all this money and then ten years down the road you’ll return, almost a princess, take a taxi to his house and ring the bell?” He searched her face, found only spite and irritation. “Tell me, Lieschen. Were you always this sour?”

  She flashed a smile, bitter, turned, and straightened out before the washstand mirror. It only seemed to emphasize the hump. “Sour? Not at all. I was the sweetest little girl in the whole wide world. People could not wait to pet me. It even worked at the orphanage. The wardens were quite charmed. Then the other girls got jealous.”

  “They beat it out of you, eh? Ah, the cruelty of children.”

  His voice was mocking, more from habit than intent. He half expected her to let it drop, but his remark had evidently struck a chord.

  “It wasn’t just that,” she said. “After a few years, I beat them too. The newcomers, the ones that were younger. Weaker.” Eva gave him time to process the words then carried on. “I did have a fantasy once. When I was living at the orphanage. I’d imagine sneaking down to the kitchen, boiling the kettle, and carrying it back up to the dorm. What I kept picturing was this: standing there in the dark, the kettle tilted in my hands, the water flush with the spout, just inches from the little sleeping face. Not the pouring itself, but the moment just before, when I knew I would pour without fail and nobody could stop me. It’s funny that I never imagined scalding the matrons, only the orphans.” She shuddered, smiled. “I used to imagine it in great detail. It wasn’t revenge, mind. I didn’t pick any of the bullies. I chose the quiet girl, the sweetheart, the one they hadn’t broken yet. I stood there looking at her locks. I was fourteen then. Timid. Today, I would pour the water.” She paused; a long pause, eyes turned inward. At long last her thoughts came to rest on this: “Have you heard about that man, the one who tried to blow up Hitler?”

  “Stauffenberg.”

  “No, the other one. Elsner or something. He sat in his garage and built a bomb. I heard about him on the radio. They called him a hero. Any day now they will make a movie about him, with Jimmy Stewart, you just wait.”

  Karel grinned. “So that’s it, eh? Another fantasy! You’re a funny girl, Liese. First you don’t speak, not ten words in two weeks, and then it all comes out, what you’ve been working away at, in some corner of your mind: you want to blow up Hitler. Of course, it’s impracticable; you don’t know a thing about explosives, and he’s dead, the little fucker. Who, then?—No, no, don’t be insulted!” She had turned away from him, stood scowling at the mirror. “I’m laughing, but all the same I understand; it’s despair, a dark anger of the heart. Mama killed all the crows and no one loves you. So, good, let’s rob her a little, it isn’t justice, it won’t take the orphanage out of your blood, and that nasty steaming kettle, but hell, at least you’ll be rich and far away and Robert will be sorry.”

  “I hate you,” she said. And then, in a voice suddenly choked with tears: “What a stupid fool I am.”

  He tried to reassure her. “What does it matter, all this? The truth is, you never poured the water.”

  “No, I didn’t. I thought that if I did, they would have put me down. Like a dog. Turns out I wanted to live!” She blew her nose, walked over to the bed, picked up the cutthroat. “It is too late. He won’t have me, and I’m too ugly.” She thumped her chest, not her hump, forced the cutthroat into Karel’s hand. “Take it. Make us rich.”

  They left the hotel together. Out on the street he turned to her one more time before they parted. “You’ll send the telegram? At six o’clock. Not before.”

  “We’ve been over this.”

  She watched after him until he was lost in dark and growing mist, then walked to the telegraph office. A clock was hanging on the wall. She waited until the agreed time, filled in the little slip, then went up to the counter.

  “Send Urgent,” she said, “to be delivered at once.”

  The man looked at the address. “It’d be quicker to just take a taxi. Cheaper, too. That’s what our boy will do.”

  “Just do as I ask.”

  When she returned to the hotel, there stood in the corridor outside their door a small woman with foreign features that seemed incapable of settling into any definite expression. She was wrapped into an expensive fur-trimmed coat. As Eva approached, the stranger watched her with a puzzled intensity, but stood aside when Eva drew level.

  “Looking for someone?” Eva asked, but received no answer.

  When she checked a half-hour later, the shabby hallway stood empty, though there lingered amongst the kitchen smells and dirty walls a hint of French cologne.

  5.

  Robert and Wolfgang spent the day together waiting. They sat in the kitchen, then the drawing room; drank coffee, ate jam; spoke at intervals with a freedom and intimacy they had not enjoyed even during Wolfgang’s time in jail. Later, waiting in the dark of a doorway, counting off the minutes since Wolfgang had left, Robert would revisit these snatches of conversation, sift them for meaning.

  “Did she give you the money?” Robert asked.

  “She gave me an envelope. It’s rather thick.”

  “You didn’t open it?”

  “Why bother? We both know what I’d find: a cut-up newspaper. Look”—he held the envelope to the light—“you can make out the print.”

  “She’s determined to cheat, then.”

  “Don’t be too hard on her, Robert. You don’t know what it’s like to live in a place where you can make a man disappear just with a phone call. And have the radio tell you you did right.

  “Besides, we’re cheating a cheat.”

  A half-hour later, rain on the windowpane.

  “You know, Wolfie, it’s possible he’s a relation. A stranger wouldn’t know the details. It might be Rothmann’s brother. Or his uncle. Or maybe the lists have it wrong. There must be thousands unaccounted for.”

  A little later he added, “We have to atone.”

  Wolfgang smiled at the word.

  The clock struck one. They heard Robert’s mother move deep in the house, walking about. Floorboards creaking, the slither of slippers.

  Robert closed the door.

  One forty-five.

  “Father wanted to give it back, didn’t he? That’s why he was looking for Rothmann.”

  “So it’s ‘Father’ all of a sudden?”

  “He wanted to give it back. All this time I hated him. But he was a good man, wasn’t he?”

  “A good man? Ah, Robert, it always comes back to the same thing with you. So what if he was? One thing, though: all the time he was looking for Rothmann, writing letters, talking to past acquaintances, he hoped and prayed the man was dead. The thought of losing it all (well, half, or two-thirds, or whatever it is, but in his mind, let me tell you, he thought of it as all), it gave him an ulcer. All the same, he wrote his letters inquiring, ‘Did Rothmann live? What happened to his family?’ et cetera, et cetera, always hoping God was watching, taking note.”

  Wolfgang smiled sourly, took a pinch of drug. “Do you remember the priest at the church? Father Ludwig? God, what a swine he was. Every time some girl got herself pregnant, out of wedlock, I mean, he’d lay into her until she sobbed and was ready to throw herself off a bridge. He’d come here afterwards and brag about it to Father. And then he would join us for dinner and eat and eat and eat. Well, guess what? Father Ludwig was sent to a camp and died a martyr. Devil knows how he got himself arrested, some leaflets of some sort. Father heard it and wrote a letter of complaint. Addressed it to the Gauleiter himself. He sealed it up and mulled it over; it sat on his desk till after the war.

  “But on the whole, yes, a good man; better than most.”

  Two twenty-five: time passing erratically, in fits and bursts, Rober
t watching the clock face, trying to catch it at its tricks.

  “Here, Wolfgang, take this and give it to him. I don’t care if he’s a crook. Just give it to him. What difference does it make?”

  “Three thousand? And he whips it out like it’s a fiver! Had it flying round his trouser pocket. Where do you have this from?”

  “Mother. I know where she keeps it.”

  “You stole it? Ah, now we’ve corrupted you in earnest. Very well, I’ll take it. If he deserves it—well, we shall see. I half expect him to show with a knife, you know. Or maybe an axe. Split my skull and rob me blind.”

  Ten to three, the tap of fingers against glass as Wolfgang shakes some powder out of the apothecary jar, its contents moist and sticking to its walls.

  “Go on, Robert, have some.”

  “No. Don’t you think you’ve had enough? It’s making you twitchy.”

  “On the contrary. It’s helping me focus. They gave this to our pilots. God, what it must have been like, dropping down on the enemy from the centre of the sun. You know, Robert, there were moments during the war when every little schoolboy felt just like a king.”

  At half past three Robert’s thoughts drifted to Eva.

  “I can’t find her,” he lamented. “I looked everywhere, but she’s simply disappeared.”

  “Be glad,” said Wolfgang. “You’re better off without.

  “It’s the sort of love,” he added, “that is two-thirds pity. Believe me, Robert. I know.”

  At four Poldi came to see what they were doing. She sat down, started chatting, was met by cold looks. When she reached for Wolfgang’s hand, he brushed her off. She slammed the door on the way out.

  Robert looked after her long after she was gone. “How did you meet, you and Poldi?”

  “She didn’t tell you? She was dancing. In a sort of cabaret. I was ordered to shut it down.”

  “Did she—Besides dancing, I mean.”

  “You want to know if she was a whore?” Wolfgang said it calmly. “Who knows? I didn’t ask. She did what she needed to survive. It’s hard being poor, Robert. Father never understood this.” And in a belated flare of anger: “She is the mother of my child.”

  As the clock inched towards five, Wolfgang’s thoughts returned to his father.

  “Were you there when he died, Robert? In hospital, I mean.”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “He wasn’t conscious.”

  “He didn’t suffer, then.”

  “I don’t know, Wolfie. It was terrible. I watched him die and I didn’t care.”

  Five-fifteen. Dusk had long fallen. It took them a while to notice and turn on the light. Outside, the rain had stopped, the temperature fallen: mist rising off the street like exhalation.

  Robert poured himself a glass of water.

  Wolfgang rubbed Pervitin into his gums.

  “Did you do it, Wolfgang? Because of the money? He kept on writing those letters, looking for Rothmann, giving away your inheritance. You grew angry, and you—”

  “Do you really believe that, Robert? That I killed my own father over money?”

  Robert hesitated. “Mother believes it. It’s not true?”

  “I’ve had my trial. You heard the verdict. That’s all I have to say.”

  “We’ll do it together, Wolfie, you and I.”

  “We have instructions. One person: ‘unaccompanied.’ If there are two of us, he might not show.”

  “Then let me go. I’ll talk to the man.”

  Wolfgang smiled. “With a face like that, you could get away with murder. No, Robert. I will—how did Father like to say it?—‘carry the cross.’”

  At twenty past six a car drove up. They heard the door slam then a ring at the door. The telegram boy passed over a little slip of paper, waited in vain for his tip. Outside, the drizzle had stopped and been replaced by a pale, cloying mist that gave the illusion of light.

  Wolfgang read the instructions, passed the slip of paper to Robert.

  “Do you know the address?”

  “I know the area. Our factory is just around the corner from there.” Wolfgang looked at his watch. “I’ll call a taxi.”

  The taxi arrived after fifteen minutes. They were already running late. Two blocks from their destination the brothers got out of the car and watched it speed away. They walked half a city block then stopped in the shelter of a doorway. Wolfgang searched his pockets for a cigarette, but all he found was the gun.

  “This will do,” he said. “You can see the gateway from here. Over there, next to the butcher’s shop.” He pointed out into the mist. “We’ll do it as agreed. You stand guard here. Whistle if you see something suspicious. If you hear me shout, run and get help.”

  Robert took hold of Wolfgang’s arm. “Don’t go, Wolfie. Let the truth come out. It’ll be better that way.”

  For a second it looked as if Wolfgang might be swayed. Then he slowly shook his head. “I might as well take a look,” he muttered. “One hundred grand, little brother. I could be in Brazil by Christmas.” He turned to leave. “Just watch my back, Robert. Will you do that for me?”

  Again Robert held him back. “Promise that you won’t—”

  “Just as we agreed, Robert. Not a hair on his head. I swear it on my mother’s grave.”

  Without another word Wolfgang started walking down the street.

  6.

  It was less than fifty yards to the gateway. Wolfgang walked, his hand stuck into his coat pocket, his head thrust forward, peering into the mist. As he went, the feeling stole over him that Poldi was there, walking with him, a half step behind. He turned, cursing himself for his stupidity; walked on, and again felt her there, right past his shoulder, matching him stride for stride. Five yards on, Poldi was replaced by his father, then by Fejn, the prosecutor, shadowing his every step. He caught himself listening for their footfall; changed his pace to catch them out.

  Then, as suddenly as it had come on, the feeling lifted. It was as though he had been abandoned. Startled, Wolfgang looked about himself and realized that he was still less than halfway to the gateway. Behind him the darkness had swallowed Robert. The street was empty, devoid of movement other than a ripple in the puddle he had just crossed. Wolfgang squared his shoulders and hurried on.

  But the closer he drew to the gateway, the more his haste abandoned him. He got to one knee when he arrived at its entrance, to retie his shoelace; made a hash of it with trembling fingers. Annoyed, he jumped up and stormed on, only to stop again some three steps later, lean against the wall, and stare at the courtyard ahead. In the dark one could make out piles of rubble; moonlight clinging to the mist. Another step, another hesitation. The gun pulled at his wrist; he was not sure when he had drawn it. Disgusted, he shoved the Walther back into his pocket, all the while thinking, I mustn’t use it, Robert will hear, thinking of him standing there, at his street corner, waiting for his return.

  Perhaps it’s a sort of trick, it came to him. Robert’s waiting back there so he can wash his hands of things. Afterwards, he will be grateful.

  He pictured Robert’s face mouthing the word “atone” and felt his own face freeze into a sneer. And anyway, what if the stranger attacked him first? If he tore open the envelope, saw there was no money inside, then launched himself at Wolfgang? It’d be self-defence. Even Robert would not be able to object.

  The main thing is, Wolfgang reminded himself, I mustn’t tell Father.

  He had, at that moment, quite forgotten that his father was dead. An enormous thought seemed to be growing in him, just beyond the threshold of consciousness; he groped for it in irritation, the way a man gropes for the light switch in the dark. Abruptly he began wishing he had brought a knife.

  With a knife, I could kill him in silence.

  He remembered a friend of his instructing him, a fellow police officer, sitting in their tea kitchen over some sandwiches and making small talk. “Aim for the throat or face,” he’d said
. “A thick coat will deflect your blade.” Stolzfuss—that had been his name; a lad so skinny it was impossible to picture him in a fight. The next moment Stolzfuss was forgotten, and the thought of killing someone seemed nothing short of preposterous.

  The war is over after all.

  What Wolfgang would do was this: he would smile at the stranger and talk to him quite openly, the way Robert did, holding nothing back.

  “You’re a crook,” Wolfgang would say. “Go on, tell the world all the secrets you like, it won’t make any difference. Just do this, friend: wait a week. So I can get my money and leave. Look here, I’ll give you ten thousand. A week from Monday. Ten grand for waiting one little week. That’s not bad, friend, is it now? So let’s shake on it and go have a drink. I know a darling little place nearby. There’s a waitress there, oho! And besides, I’ll pay, for the booze and for the girls too, if the mood takes you. My little brother’s given me some spending money. We can have a right little orgy.”

  But even as he was thinking this, his hand once again moved back into his pocket and wrapped itself around the butt of his gun. He remembered the interrogations he had performed, their simple brutality, the frightened faces of the prisoners and the calm assurance of his superior sitting next to him, giving orders.

  If it’s to be done, it’s best done quickly, at once, before he even opens his mouth.

  He pictured it, the man in the yard, going down after a quick blow (with the butt, the butt, there need be no noise!), then realized that he was picturing Rothmann just as he’d been, a fat, genial man with long, curling eyelashes that gave a special warmth to his eyes. It took an effort to remind himself that the man he would meet was an imposter.

  All the better, he thought. I won’t know him. It’ll be easier that way.

  But again he stopped in his tracks, shoved the gun back in his pocket. Perhaps, it occurred to him, he had taken too much of his stepmother’s drug. He wished he had brought along some brandy, something to wet his throat.