Lena retreated quickly, saying she would just remove her coat and boots.
She returned a few moments later. She wore a white high-necked blouse, a gray cardigan, and gray pleated skirt. Her only jewelry was her wedding ring.
“I must apologize for my husband, he has been very ill.”
She shook Helen’s hand, and nodded formally to the baron, gesturing for him to remain seated. She then withdrew the typist’s swivel chair, lifting Helen’s coat and placing it across the table. She seemed to perch rather than sit, her knees pressed together, her hands clasped in front of her.
Helen looked to the baron, but he gave a small lift of his eyebrows as an indication she should open the conversation. She coughed, and chose her words carefully.
“The baron’s wife, Vebekka Marechal—we are trying to trace her relatives, and as I said to you in my telephone call, we think she may have been your sister’s daughter. Your sister was Rosa Muller?”
“Yes, that is correct.”
Helen continued. “She married a David Goldberg?…and they lived in Canada and then Philadelphia, yes?”
“Yes, that is correct.”
The baron cleared his throat. “Do you have a photograph of their daughter, of Rebecca Goldberg?”
“No, I lost contact with my sister before she left for Canada. I know they emigrated to Philadelphia, but we did not keep in touch. Her husband’s cousin, a man named Ulrich Goldberg, wrote to me that she had passed away.”
Helen bit her lip. “We need as much information as you can give us about Rebecca and obviously your sister.”
Lena swiveled slightly in her seat. Her toes touched the ground, the folds of her pleated skirt falling to either side of her closed knees. She answered in English.
“I know nothing of…Rebecca, you say? I cannot help you.”
“But Rosa was your sister?”
“Yes, Rosa was my sister.”
Lena suddenly swiveled around to the bookshelf, reached over and took down a thick photograph album. She began to search through the pages of photographs. She spoke in heavily accented English, as if to prove a point—that she was aware of how uncomfortable they were.
“I find it somewhat strange that after forty years I am asked about Rosa! You say it is in reference to your wife, Baron? Is that correct?”
Helen went to stand by Lena. “The baroness is very ill, and we have come to see a specialist in East Berlin who may be able to help her. It is his suggestion that we should try and discover as much about her past as possible.”
Lena nodded. “And this is Rebecca? Correct?…But there must be some confusion. She could not be my sister’s child.” She paused, turned back two pages, and then showed Helen the photograph.
“This was Rosa when she was seventeen, 1934.”
Helen stared at the picture of an exceptionally pretty blond-haired teenager, with white ribbons in her hair, white ankle socks, and a school uniform. Next to her stood Lena, taller, fatter, and not nearly as pretty. She had been as stern-faced a teenager as she was now in middle age. Helen passed over the photograph album to the baron. Lena hesitated, her hand out, obviously not wanting the baron to take possession of the album. “That is the only photograph, there is no point in looking at any others.”
“Lena, is there some way we could contact any of David Goldberg’s friends or family, do you know if any of his relatives are still living in Berlin?” Helen asked.
“No. I did not know Rosa’s husband, they met at the university. As I said, I have not spoken to my sister for more than forty years.”
The baron turned over a few pages, and Lena got up and retrieved her book. She stared at the neatly laid-out photographs, some brown with age. “Berlin has seen many changes since these were taken. My family home—” She pointed to an elegant four-story house. “It was bombed, all our possessions, we lost everything but a few pieces, the other photographs are just my family, my mementos—nothing to do with Rosa!”
Lena held on to the book, touched it lovingly before she replaced it in the shelf, and then hesitated. “I agreed to see you, because I know Rosa was well off… as you can see, money is short—I thought perhaps she had made provisions for me. Obviously I was wrong.” She stared from Helen to the baron and then, tight-lipped, remained standing. “I am sorry, but it seems very obvious that I cannot help you.”
Helen reached for her coat, making as if to prepare to leave. “Rosa was a doctor? Is that correct?”
“She was a medical student, she did not finish her studies here, she continued in Canada, after the war.” Lena folded her arms.
“Was her husband a doctor?”
Lena shook her head. “No, my father, my grandfather were also doctors…”
“But Rosa and David met at the university?”
“Yes, but he was studying languages, I believe. When they went to Canada, I heard he went in the fur business.”
Helen looked at Louis, wishing he would say something, ask something; but he sat on the edge of his seat, obviously wanting to leave.
“Er…you said earlier that Rebecca could not have been Rosa’s daughter…was she perhaps David Goldberg’s daughter?”
“I don’t know.”
“But why are you so sure she could not have been Rosa’s child?”
Lena pursed her lips, clenched her hands. She then carefully pushed her chair under the table. “Rosa could not have children.”
Helen persisted. “Could you give me the reason?”
Lena faced her. “Because she had an abortion when she was seventeen years old, a backstreet abortion, paid for by that creature she ran off with and married. She nearly died, and she broke my father’s heart. When he discovered her relationship, he would have nothing to do with her, he begged her to give David up, but she refused. He tried everything, he even kept her under lock and key to stop him from seeing her. She was obsessed by David and so she ran away, and my father never spoke to her again.”
“This was when?”
Lena rubbed her head. “She ran off on the second of June, it was 1934, they ran away together, we discovered they had married.”
“They went to Canada?”
“Yes, to Canada. His family were wealthy, they must have had contacts there to help him set himself up in business; they always help each other!”
Helen began to put her coat on. “Did they ever come back?”
Lena nodded. “I believe so, but not for a long time, not until after the war. The Goldbergs had property here!”
“So they came back to Berlin?”
“Yes, yes I believe so.”
“And you didn’t see him or speak to him?”
“No.”
“Did you see Rosa when she came back?”
“No.”
“And you cannot give us any clue as to any relatives?”
Lena stared hard at Helen, her eyes expressionless. “He had no one left, but a distant cousin, Ulrich Goldberg, who was already residing in the United States. Rosa never contacted her mother, never visited her father’s, her brother’s graves. As far as I am concerned, my sister died a long time ago, the day she ran away…. Now I should be grateful if you would leave.”
The baron gripped Helen’s elbow, wanting to get out, but she stood firm. “Do you think your sister could have adopted Rebecca when she returned to Berlin? Could she have adopted a child then, knowing she could not have children of her own?”
Lena pushed past Helen and opened the door. “I have told you all I know, please leave now.”
Helen snatched up her purse and walked out, as the baron folded money and handed it to Lena. “Thank you for your time, I appreciate it.”
He followed Helen to the front door. Lena watched them, her hand clenched around the thick wad of folded bills.
The stale smell of cabbage filled the hallway as they hurried along the stone corridor.
“She worked in a hospital for three months…I
don’t know where, I have told you all I know…”
The baron guided Helen down the stairs, holding her elbow lightly in the crook of his hand. “The family album was interesting! Did you get a chance to see any of the other photographs? The father was like an SS officer, the brothers were all in uniform too.” He shook his head. “Can you believe it? She wouldn’t see her sister for forty-odd years, and then thinks she may have left her something!”
Helen stopped, turned to him.
“We can get Franks to check hospitals, and we can contact someone from the Canadian embassy, see if they can trace a birth certificate—but you know something, I don’t think they’ll find one, I think they adopted a child here. God knows there must have been thousands of children needing help.”
Louis snapped angrily: “Unless Rebecca was Goldberg’s child! Don’t get too romantic about this, we may have the wrong woman.”
“You don’t really think so, do you? She was Rosa’s sister.”
Louis continued talking as they walked down the stairs. “But we don’t know if this Rosa was Vebekka’s mother, adopted or otherwise; we are just clutching at straws.”
They came out from the apartment building, and their driver tooted his car horn, having parked across the street. Louis slapped his forehead. “Dear God, I’d forgotten him! I don’t think I can stand his guided tours all the way back.”
But Louis did seem more relaxed, even good-humored, now that they had left the apartment. They got into the car and Louis asked the driver to stop at the nearest telephone booth.
They drove only half a mile before he went to call the hotel to check on Vebekka. Helen watched him from the window, and then leaned back closing her eyes. She was sure the jigsaw was piecing together. The Mullers had turned their back on Rosa not because she was pregnant, but because the father of her child was a Jew.
Louis returned and signaled for the driver to move on.
“She has eaten, she is resting, and Hilda says she is calm, sleeping most of the time!”
As they crossed into East Berlin, their driver became even more animated. “You know the communist regime may have tried to squash artistic freedom but, like the West, we always had circuses—you like the circus? At one time it was all provided for, classical music, opera, everything was funded by the state. Now we have no funds to sustain the arts, all our artists, our best talent and producers run to the West…now a leading ballerina from the East Berlin Ballet is having to find work as a stripper to cover her rent, it’s true!”
Helen leaned forward, trying to stop the constant flow of monologue, and asked if he had heard about the murder, the dwarf found in the hotel not far from the Grand Hotel.
The driver nodded his head vigorously. “Yes, yes I heard, the crime wave is unstoppable here, we don’t have enough police…maybe he was working at the Artistenschule, you know, teaching circus acts. We have many famous circus performers from Berlin, you know there is a magnificent circus about to begin a new season—if you want, I get you tickets, I have contacts…”
The car drew up outside the hotel, and still the driver talked. “I have many contacts for nightclubs, for shows, if you want something risque—you know what I mean—I can arrange…”
He had exhausted them both. Helen rang for the elevator while the baron inquired at the desk for any letters or calls. He was handed a package, just arrived by Federal Express.
Standing next to the baron was Inspector Torsen Heinz, who gave him no more than a cursory glance; he was more interested in the contents of the envelope.
Torsen was mentally adding up the cost of the small salad he had eaten in the hotel bar. He’d never have another. It had not even been fresh or served well, but it had cost more than five times his usual cheese on rye at lunch.
Torsen had been waiting patiently over half an hour for the manager to give him a list of residents who had arrived at the Grand Hotel from Paris on or near the night of Kellerman’s murder. The baron and Helen stepped into the elevator as the manager bustled across the foyer, gesturing for the inspector to follow him.
The manager ushered Torsen into his private office, then closed his door. “I have had to speak to the director of the hotel about this matter, I am afraid you place us in a very difficult situation. We do have guests, and they are from Paris, but whether or not I can ask…”
Torsen opened his notebook officiously. “I have been able to gain a positive identification of the murdered man, sir, and I will require from you the date these guests arrived. Does it coincide with the dates I gave to you?”
‘‘Yes, yes, but these guests are Baron Marechal, his wife, a nurse, and I think his wife’s physician, a Dr. Helen Masters.”
Torsen closed his book. “Could I speak with the baron?”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, his wife has not been well, and she is resting in their suite. I really don’t like to disturb them. Perhaps if you return in the morning, I will speak to the baron; he is not available right now.”
“He just came in.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said the baron just arrived at the reception desk, I saw him.”
The manager tightened his lips, referred again to the conversation he had just had with the director, and suggested Torsen return in the morning. In the meantime, he would speak to the baron.
Torsen was ushered out into the elegant foyer, and checked the time on the clock behind the reception desk. He wondered whether he could squeeze in a quick visit to his father before interviewing the janitor at Kellerman’s hotel. It had started to rain again, and the inspector decided he would treat himself to a taxi. He asked the doorman to call him one, but then he saw that one was waiting by the door.
The baron and Helen’s driver was snoozing, but he jumped to attention when Torsen tapped on his window. Torsen gave the address of his father’s nursing home, and was treated to a detailed account of the rise in price of facilities for the elderly. “This city will be in deep trouble—you know why?”
Torsen made no reply, knowing it would make no difference.
“The avalanche of poverty-stricken immigrants is heading this way. Our young have all flown to the West. I was telling the baron, he was in my cab today, I was telling him about the circus, the Artistenschule, once the most famous in the world for training circus performers. It’ll close, mark my words, it’ll close.”
Torsen frowned. “Did the baron ask about the circus?”
The driver nodded. “We were discussing the murder, the dwarf, he was asking about the murder!”
Torsen listened, interested now, and instructed the driver to change direction, he wanted to go to the Artistenschule.
The driver did a manic U-turn in the center of the road. “Okay, you’re the boss…I said to the baron, I said, they’ll never find the killer.”
“Why is that?” asked Torsen.
“Because we’ve got a load of amateurs running our Polizei, they never made any decisions before, they were told who to arrest and who not to, you can’t change that overnight…This is it…main door is just at the top of those steps.”
Torsen fished in his pockets for loose change, then asked for a receipt. The driver drew out a grubby square notepad, no taxi number or official receipt. “How much do you want me to put on this? Traveling salesman are you?”
Torsen opened his raincoat to reveal his uniform. “No…I just need to give it to my Leitender Polizei Direktor!”
The driver said nothing, scribbled on his notepad, and shook Torsen’s hand—too hard, too sincerely. For a brief moment Torsen saw a fear pass over his face, and then it was gone—so was the Mercedes in a cloud of black exhaust fumes. In the old days he could have been arrested for slandering the state!
Torsen knocked on the small door marked office private underlined twice. He waited, tapped again, and eventually heard shuffling sounds; then a rasping voice bellowed to an animal to get out of the way. The door opened, and To
rsen was confronted by a massive man wearing a vest and tracksuit bottoms. Clasping his hand was a chimp, they rather resembled each other, the vest hardly hiding the man’s astonishing growth of body hair.
Fredrick Lazars beckoned Torsen to follow him, saying he was just eating his dinner. Torsen was motioned to sit on a rickety chair, covered in dog hairs, as Lazars sat the chimp in a high baby chair. He brought a big tin bowl and a large spoon. He tipped what looked like porridge into the bowl, and then took out of the oven a plate piled with sausages, onions, and mashed potatoes. He offered to share his dinner with Torsen. It looked as if the man had already started dinner; the sausages were half eaten. Torsen refused politely, saying that he had just dined, and then added, “at the Grand Hotel!” He did not mention that it was just a small salad, and as Lazars didn’t seem impressed, he dropped the subject. Lazars opened two bottles of beer and handed one to Torsen as the chimp flicked its spoon, splattering Torsen’s uniform with porridge.
The chimp, only two years old, was called Boris, but was really a female—all this was divulged in a bellow from a food-filled mouth.
“Did Tommy Kellerman come to see you?”
The big hands broke up large hunks of bread, dipping them into his fried onions. “He did…the night he died.”
Torsen took out his notebook, asked for a pencil, and Lazars bellowed at Boris, who climbed down and went to an untidy desk. The chimp threw papers around. “Pencil…PENCIL BORIS!” Torsen was half out of his seat, ready to help Boris, when a pencil was shoved at him, but Boris wouldn’t let go of it and a tug of war ensued. Finally Lazars whacked Boris over the head and told her to finish her dinner. Boris proceeded to spoon in large mouthfuls of the porridge substance, dribbling it over the table, herself, and the floor.
“Kellerman came to see me about six, maybe nearer seven.”
“Why have you not come forward with this evidence?”
“He came, he ate half my dinner and departed, what’s there to tell in that?”
Torsen scribbled in his book. “So what time did he leave?”
Lazars sniffed, gulped at his beer. “He stayed about three quarters of an hour, said he had some business he was taking care of, important business.”
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