It was almost twelve, but Ruda worked on. She cleaned around the sides of the sink, then rinsed out the cloths, filled a bucket of water, and carried it to the chopping table. She scrubbed the surface, shaking the brush, dipping it into the boiling water. Her mind raced. Had she covered all possible tracks, all possible connection to the murder? As hard as she tried to concentrate, she knew, could feel something else was happening. It had begun in the hotel, when she was sick in the toilets. Why did she feel the compulsion to return to that hotel? She hurled the brush into the bucket, yanked the bucket up, slopping water over the floor and herself as she tipped it down the drain... white tiles, splashes of red, bloody water... white tiles. The same tingling started. Her hands, the nape of her neck, the dryness in her mouth. She rubbed her hands dry on the rough towel, then, as she threw it into the skip used for the laundry, she saw the bloody towels and cloths and caught her breath. It wasn't Tommy, it wasn't the murder, it was something else.
She swore, muttering louder, she must not allow this to happen. She had controlled it her whole life, she would not allow it to break into her mind, not now, and she punched out at the walls, punched with all her strength. But nothing would make the memory subside, return it to the secure, locked box in her mind. Her fists slammed against the wall, and she turned her fury to Kellerman: It was his fault, all his fault... Why did he have to come back? Why now? But Ruda knew it was not Kellerman who was back. It was the past.
Louis was sitting in a comfortable chair, a magazine in his hands; he was wearing half-moon glasses, but he had been unable to concentrate. The glasses took Helen by surprise, she had never seen him wearing them. It was a moment before he realized she was in the room.
"Can't you sleep?" he asked softly.
Helen glanced at the clock on the mantel — it was after twelve, she hadn't thought it was so late. "No, no I can't. I'm sorry, it's very late but..."
He put his fingers to his lips, then indicated Vebekka's room. He gave no indication of his surprise at Helen's intrusion, but he was nonetheless taken aback; she was wearing only a rather flimsy nightgown, her robe was undone, and her feet were bare.
"She's sleeping, she looks very well."
"Good, I'm glad."
Helen sat on the edge of the sofa. "Louis, I need to ask you something, I am just not sure how to phrase it..."
"Do you want a brandy?"
"No, nothing thank you." She stared at his slippered feet, suddenly aware that in her haste she had not put on her own slippers. "Vebekka has said repeatedly that she is afraid of hospitals, nurses, and doctors in white coats, yes?"
He nodded, pouring a glass for her. He went over to the sofa and held it out. "Here. It'll help you sleep."
Helen took the glass, cupping it in her hands. "So even though she was afraid of needles, of doctors, she had plastic surgery — to her nose, her face? I read it in Dr. Franks's reports."
He frowned. "Yes. It was not extensive, and I suppose when she had it done she was well. I never thought of it. It was done in a private clinic in Switzerland, the first time, and then I think in New York."
"Were you with her on these occasions?"
He touched his brow, coughed lightly. "The first time, but not the second. She had no adverse effects; quite the contrary — she was very pleased with the results. She's always been very conscious of her looks."
Helen sipped the brandy. "The photograph is of Vebekka, Louis, the girl may be plump, fat, but her eyes — I recognize her eyes. She could never change her eyes."
He slowly stubbed out his cigar, his back to her. Helen took another sip of the brandy; she licked her lips. "But that is not what I wanted to ask you."
As he turned to face her, he removed his glasses, carefully placing them in a case.
Standing up, she put her glass down. "I think you were, to begin with, prepared to try and discover everything about her background until..."
He moved closer. "Until what?"
She looked at him, met his dark blue eyes. "Until you heard the name Goldberg..."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Helen backed further away from him. "I know how important your family is, your family heritage, I know you have put up with your wife's illness because they would not approve of a divorce."
"They?" He said it quietly, but with such sarcasm. "My dear Helen, I am the family, I am the head of the family, and I can't for the life of me think what you are trying to say."
"I think you know, Louis."
He shook his head in disbelief, and then walked to the windows, drawing the drapes to one side. "You really think I would care?"
Helen cleared her throat. "I think the old baroness would have, perhaps your father; it was common knowledge he allowed the Gestapo to take over your villas."
He patted the curtains into place. "I think, Helen, you should try and get some sleep, before you say or insinuate anything else."
"You have not answered me."
He was at her side, gripping her arm so tightly it hurt. "You know nothing, nothing, and your inference insults me, insults my family."
She dragged her arm free. "It's always your precious family. I think you, Louis, hate the thought of your precious family being Jewish, as much as you hate the thought of producing more insanity!"
His slap sent her staggering backward, she cried out more with shock than pain. He rushed to her, touched her reddened cheek. "Oh my God, I'm sorry... but you don't understand."
Helen put her hand up to indicate for him not to come close. He flushed, and gestured another apology with his hands. "I am so sorry."
She watched as he took out his handkerchief, touched his lips, the brow of his head, and then crossed to the window and unhooked the shutter. He remained with his back to her as he reached through the half-open shutter to the window.
"I don't care if Vebekka is Jewish, how could I? She's the mother of my children, I care only about their future." He opened the window, breathed the cold night air, but still seemed loath to turn and face her.
Helen twisted her ring around her finger. "Then surely you can understand my confusion — why don't you want to try and find out as much as possible, Louis? Please, look at the photograph, look at it."
He walked briskly to the table and snatched up the photograph where Helen had left it. He turned the photograph over, then let it drop back onto the polished wood surface. He saw the childish looped writing, the name Rebecca.
"Helen, if she is this little girl, if she is in some way connected to that dreadful woman this evening, to these people in Philadelphia, then we must do whatever you think is right. But please don't ask me to show enthusiasm. Show this photo to my wife, if you wish, or preferably ask Franks to, because if she looks at it and admits it is her, then she has lied to me, to everyone. Let Franks do it, but don't ask me to..."
"Don't you see, Louis? It is the reason why she has lied that may be important — it has to be, and when we discover why, maybe..."
He snapped then, his face taut with controlled anger.
"Maybe what? Everything will fall into place? Have you any idea, any knowledge of how often I have hoped for that? Let Dr. Franks handle this photograph and any further developments."
"As you wish!"
As Helen crossed to the door, he said her name very quietly, making her turn.
"I obviously appreciate all you are doing for my wife, and any financial costs to yourself will be met. I had no conception of how, well, how much we would be seeing of each other, or how much my own personal life would be placed under scrutiny. I ask you, please, to realize at all times you are privy to very private emotions, traumas — whichever terminology you wish to use. But please do remember that you are my guest, and that you are here because my wife asked you to accompany us. You are therefore free to leave at any time you wish to do so."