He flushed pink, unable to tell her what was bothering him. He was sure he had seen Kellerman the day he died, but he said nothing. She continued heaving out the hunks of meat. "Maybe you can feed Sasha and the two buggers with her."
"Okay," he said, already carrying out the second batch of feed. Ruda picked up Kellerman's hat and put it into her bag, then continued heaping the meat into the trays. Mike was still watching her and she banged down a tray.
"Okay, I married Tommy Kellerman — I needed a marriage certificate for a visa for the United States. Tommy offered it, I accepted, I went to the United States. End of marriage — or is that fertile imagination of yours working overtime?"
He laughed, and then paused at the open door.
"More kids arriving for the tour of the cages! Look at the little gawking creeps."
Ruda walked with Mike to the loaded trolley. Stacking the last of the big trays, she chatted nonchalantly. "There was one of those kids hanging around the cages the other afternoon, did you see me talking to him? Only came up to my waist, trying to put his hand into Mamon's cage. I had to give him a ticking off. Did you see him?"
Mike grinned. "I remember, yeah. It was a kid then, was it? I wondered, you know..." He went on with his business and called to her that he would return as soon as he parked the trays. Ruda returned to the freezer. Mike was now sorted out, he hadn't known it was Kellerman with her, and now that she had the little bastard's hat, she was safe.
Ruda stared at her hands, her red-stained fingers, the blood trickling down almost to her elbows. She was thinking of Tommy, seeing his crushed, distorted face on the morgue table, and she whispered: "I'm sorry I broke our pact, Tommy, but you just wouldn't stop."
It was as if he were calling out to her from the cold marble slab in the morgue, calling to her the way he used to when she teased him, but hearing his voice in her mind, hearing it now, made her feel a terrible guilt, like a burning heat it swamped her.
"Don't turn the light out, Ruda, please leave the light on!"
Chapter 8
The rain had started again, and the traffic jams built up, the journey to Charlottenburg becoming a long and tedious drive. The baron looked from his rain-splattered window and checked his watch. It was after six. Helen spoke to their driver in German. "I have never seen so many dogs!"
Their cab driver looked into his mirror.
"We Berliners love animals, bordering on the pathological. There are more dogs in Spree than anywhere else in Germany — they say there's about five dogs to every one hundred inhabitants."
The baron sighed, resting his head back against the upholstered seat. Helen stared from her window.
"Why is that? I mean why do you think there are so many?"
The driver launched into his theory, welcoming the diversion from the inch-by-inch crawl his car was forced to make.
"Many people living in the anonymous public housing complexes, many widows, a dog is their only companion. A psychologist described the Berliners' love of animals, dogs in particular, as a high social functional factor."
Louis grimaced, taking Helen's hand, and spoke in French. "Don't encourage him! Please... the man is a compulsive theorist!" Helen laughed.
They passed by the Viktoria-Luise-Platz, heralding the West Berlin Zoo, and their driver now became animated.
"The zoo, you must visit our famous Tiergarten. In 1943 the work of one hundred years was destroyed in just fifteen minutes, during the battle for Berlin. When the bombing was over, only ninety-one animals survived, but we have rebuilt almost all of it. Now we have maybe eleven or twelve thousand species — the most found in any zoo in the world!"
At last, they were near the center of Charlottenburg itself.
"Bundesverwaltungsgericht," the driver said with a flourish, and then he smiled in the mirror. "The Federal Court of Appeal in Public Lawsuits."
Helen passed over the slip of paper with the address of Rosa Muller Goldberg's sister, a Mrs. Lena Klapps. The driver nodded, turned off the Berliner Strasse, passing small cafés and ale houses, and rows and rows of sterile apartment blocks, their shabby facades dominating the run-down street, before he drew up outside a building. He pointed, and turned to lean on the back of his seat.
"You will need me to get you back, yes?"
The baron opened his car door, said in French to Helen: "Only if he promises to keep his mouth shut!"
Helen instructed the driver to wait, and joined the baron on the sidewalk. They looked at the apartment numbers painted above a cracked wide door leading to an open courtyard. The numbers read 45-145. Their driver rolled down his window, pointing.
"You want sixty-five, go to the right... to the right."
The elevator was broken, and they walked up four flights of stone steps. Dogs brushed past them, going down, and one bedraggled little cross-breed scuttled ahead, turned and yapped before he disappeared from sight. There were pools of urine at each corner, and they had to step over dog excreta. Helen muttered that perhaps the residents were all widows. "Dogs are... what did he say? A social function? More like a health hazard."
There was a long stone balcony corridor, the apartments numbered on peeling painted doors... sixty-two, sixty-three was boarded up, and then they rang the bell of apartment sixty-five.
An elderly man inched open the door; he was wearing carpet slippers, a collarless shirt, and dark blue suspenders holding up his baggy trousers. Helen smiled warmly. "We are looking for Lena Klapps, nee Muller? I am Helen Masters, I called..."
The old man nodded, opened the door wider, and gestured for them to follow him. They were shown into a room where good antique furniture was commingled with a strange assortment of cheap modern chairs and a Formica-topped table. The room was dominated by an antique carved bookcase, covering two walls, its shelves stacked with paperbacks and old leather-bound books.
The old man introduced himself as Gunter Klapps, Lena's husband, and gestured for them to be seated. He stood at the door with his hands stuffed into his pockets.
"She is late. The rain — there will be traffic jams. But she should be here shortly, excuse me!"
He closed the door, and Helen unbuttoned her coat. Louis stared around the room, looked at the threadbare carpet, then to the plastic-covered chairs. Helen placed her purse on the table. "Not exactly welcoming, was he?"
The baron flicked a look at his watch. "Maybe we should call the hotel?"
Helen nodded, and crossed to the door. She stood in the hallway, calling out for Lena's husband. The kitchen door was open, and he glared.
"Telephone — do you have a telephone I could use?"
"No, it's broken."
He continued to stare, so Helen returned to the room. The baron was still standing, his face set in anger.
"I hope this is not a wasted journey, I am worried about Vebekka, leaving her alone!"
"Their telephone is broken, shall I go out, make a call?"
He snapped: "No!" and then sat in one of the ugly chairs. Helen took off her coat, placing it over a typist's chair tucked into the table. She looked over the bookcase; some of the leather-bound volumes were by classical authors, but many of the books were medical journals. She was just about to mention the fact to Louis when they heard the front door open.
Lena Klapps walked in. She was much younger than her husband, but wore her hair in a severe bun at the nape of her neck. The gray hair accentuated her pale skin, and pale washed-out blue eyes. She spoke in German.
"Excuse me, I won't be a moment, my bus was held up in the rush hour traffic. May I offer you tea?"
The baron proffered his hand. "Nothing, thank you. I am Baron Louis Marechal."
Lena retreated quickly, saying she would just remove her coat and boots.