Entwined

Chapter 14

As Ruda prepared to begin her act, Vebekka sat at the dingy bar, its red light giving the customers an eerie pink tinge. It was only nine, the club was almost empty; three girls wearing miniskirts and tight lace tops chatted quietly at the end of the plastic-covered bar. Vebekka had gone from club to club until she found Mama's. The bouncer came out of the toilet, looked at the elegant woman sitting alone, and gave her a careful once-over; he was sure she was after young blood — male or female. She'd get it, if she had enough money. He went under an arch, its green and red beaded curtain held back by a ribbon, and started up the stairs leading to the main entrance, then flattened himself against the wall as Mama began her heavy descent. He saw the swollen ankles first, the fat rolling over her gold sandals, as the tiny feet moved down one step at a time.

Mama Magda Braun's massive frame bumped into her bouncer, but she didn't acknowledge him. She was talking loudly to a small man who was following her, clutching her poodle. "I am sick to death of those ugly bastards, I don't wanna see those bitches stealing my girls' jobs. The smell of them! Emptying the store shelves, bringing crime and bad taste, I hate them! Everything used to be under control, now, Jesus Christ what a mess!"

His high-pitched lisping voice squeaked behind her. "Now, Magda, the shops are doing a roaring trade, you know it, I know it."

He was referring to Magda's sex and porn shops in East Berlin. She was making money hand over fist, but hated it when the girls from the East tried to come to her clubs in the West. Magda was the biggest porn shop owner in the West. Now with the wall down, she had been quick to identify the new market; the sex-starved Easties, as she called them, needed an injection from the Westies, and she was giving them what they wanted — but they didn't have to come swarming over into her clubs. Magda Braun owned four nightclubs, she was a multimillionairess.

Magda's peroxide curls turned bright pink in the red light, her diamonds glittered, as did the large beaded necklace dangling over her huge bosom. She gave a bad-tempered look around at the few customers. It was early, but she hated it when it was empty. This was her main club, the one in which she had her small, cramped office. Eric, her diminutive husband, called out to the girls, waved to a few couples, followed Magda to a door marked private. The effort of walking across the small dance floor had exhausted what little breath she was able to squeeze through her nicotine-polluted lungs. Her chest heaved, and she gave a phlegmy cough. She could still be heard coughing as the door closed behind her.

Magda checked the day's earnings on the computer, a cigarette in her crimson-painted lips. Years of smoke had tinged yellow one side of her jowled face. "Our take is down again this week. You think those bitches are at it again? I tell you Eric, you have to watch them like hawks, give me a barman any day, I trust men better than those tarts..."

Eric was peering through a small peephole. "You seen the class act at the bar?"

Magda paid no attention, continued working on the accounts. The boys handling the girls over in the East were shortchanging her, she knew it. They'd have to be taught a sharp lesson.

"I'm gonna check what the deal is with this woman, be back in a minute."

Magda picked up a pencil and dialed, hooking the phone under her chin. "It's Magda, can you get over here, send a couple of the boys, yeah?... Yeah he'll do, no!.. Give me another." She listened and agreed to three of the names supplied by the caller, then she replaced the phone, sighing. They never learn their lesson, they should know you don't get to be near eighty and rich without learning every trick in the trade.

Eric scuttled back, gestured for Magda to come to the spy hole.

"She's asked for water, just sits there, she may be a fruitcake—

you want to take a look? She's wearing good jewelry, that's sable on the edge of her wrap. Magda?"

"I don't give a fuck, if she's paying, then what's the problem?"

"That's just it, she's been here for over half an hour, says she's got no money, just wants to sit. She didn't pay at the door, the bouncer wasn't on duty... Magda!"

Magda shoved him aside and peered through, her heaving breath seeming to stop suddenly. She straightened up. "I just seen a ghost... fuck me!"

She laughed, and sank down into a wide cushioned seat. "Eric, bring me a bottle of champagne, good stuff, and ask the lady to come in."

"You know her?"

Magda nodded. "I know her, she may look like class now, but honey, believe you me, that was one hell of a whore. You know something, Eric? They always come back... one day, they come back, maybe to see where they came from, or how far they've gone... but they always come back to Mama. Get her in, this one I've been waiting for so long now I can hardly remember."

Eric crossed to Vebekka, asked if she would join Madame Magda for a drink. He pointed to the office, the door left ajar. Vebekka hesitated, looked toward Magda, who was smiling, gesturing for her to come in, but Vebekka shook her head.

"Thank you, no... I don't speak German."

Eric asked if she was English, she told him she was French, and he attempted to repeat his invitation in French.

"Ruda! Come in here, Ruda!"

Suddenly Vebekka felt strange, a little faint, as the fat woman kept calling, waving her over. She slid from the stool. "Excuse me, I must go..."

Eric ordered champagne, took Vebekka by the elbow. "Please, you come."

"No, thank you, no..."

"Ruda!.. Ruda!"

Eric insisted, holding her arm firmly, as one of the girls carried a tray with a bottle of champagne and two glasses across to the office. Vebekka was ushered into the small room, and the big woman held open her arms. "Come here... Come and give me a kiss!"

Vebekka stepped back, repelled. Eric pushed her further into the room, the waitress squeezed out, and Magda waved Eric away. "You, too, get out..."

Disappointed, Eric walked out. He went to the bar and ordered a martini. He noticed she had left behind her purse.

Magda poured the champagne and handed Vebekka a glass, but she shook her head. "No, I don't..."

Magda smiled and set the glass down and lit a cigarette from a stub, offering the case to Vebekka. She took one, and Magda flicked a Zippo lighter across the desk. "You look very good, I didn't recognize you at first..."

Vebekka remained standing. "I am sorry, I don't understand, I don't speak German."

Magda smiled, shrugged her plump shoulders. "What then?"

Vebekka spoke in French, introducing herself as Baroness Marechal, asking if they had met before. Magda looked steadily at Vebekka, she observed her heavily made-up eyes, the mascara so thick the lashes were spiked. "You want to speak in French, Italian, Spanish, that's okay by me... you been away so long, huh?... that long?"

"I don't understand, I am so sorry, but I think there is some misunderstanding. I don't think we have ever met!"

Magda leaned her fat elbows on the desk. "Okay, I'll play, have a drink, sit down."

Vebekka eased herself onto the proffered chair; she felt very uneasy, but she sipped the champagne. Magda suddenly reached out and took Vebekka's left wrist and turned it over. Vebekka tried to withdraw her hand, but the old woman, for all her heavy breathing, was as strong as an ox. Her long nails scratched at Vebekka's wrist, turned her palm upward, and traced the fine skin graft with the tip of her nail. She let go, and smiled.

"Why did you do that?" Vebekka rubbed her wrist.

"So I know for sure. Drink, drink — it's good, the best money can buy," Magda answered in French.

Vebekka sipped the champagne while the old woman scrutinized her. Magda said that the work was good, she looked good, looked young. She asked where she was staying, why she was in Berlin, and Vebekka said she was with her husband.

"And you couldn't resist it? Had to come back and see Magda? And now you are a what? A baronness? Well, well — face changed, name changed, what did you call yourself? Vebekka? What kind of name is that?"

Vebekka smiled, a sweet coy smile, and sipped more champagne. Magda picked up her vodka, drank heartily. "I still take it neat, with ice, but now I have a warehouse full! Times change, huh? Times change, Ruda... little Ruda, just look at you, and married to a baron! Does he know you're here?"

Vebekka began to feel uneasy, frightened. Why did the woman keep on calling her Ruda? But all she said was that her husband did not know.

"I bet he doesn't... so you got to America? I heard you had, and then what? You met a prince and a baron — all the same thing. Is he rich?"

Vebekka drained her glass, and Magda poured her another. She asked again if her husband was rich. Vebekka shrugged. "I suppose so, I don't know, I never think about money..."

Magda laughed, her body shook. She had a coughing fit that seemed to subside after a drag on her cigarette. "You don't think of money... I do, every second of every day, I count it every night on this little computer."

The two women drank in silence. The sounds of Madonna could be heard from the club, the low murmur of voices and shrill laughter. Magda's eyes watered. "You know, it hurt, Ruda, it hurt when you ran off — I never thought you would steal from me, not after all I did for you. I never thought you would do that to Mama, maybe that's why I have never forgotten you... you forget lovers, forget husbands, forget children even, but when someone hits your pocket, you don't forget. I never forgot you, Ruda, and maybe I just guessed one day you would come back."

Vebekka listened, her head cocked.

"I don't understand what you are saying, but I know I have never met you before... I am not this — Ruda? You are mistaken..."

Yet Vebekka felt a strange sensation when she pronounced the name Ruda, it rang through her brain like an ominous bell. Magda pulled herself to her feet and looked at Vebekka with distaste. "Don't play games with me, I am a master player, honey. You don't speak German? We've never met? Who the fuck do you think you are kidding, eh? Because you got fancy clothes on, and call yourself a baroness?"

"I don't understand..."

Magda was losing patience, she slapped the desk with her fat hand. "Don't make me angry, it's been many years, a lot of changes, Ruda... I run this city, hear me? You stop this act right now — I have had enough!"

Vebekka gulped. "I have never met you before! Please, there is some misunderstanding, I must leave..."

Vebekka started to go but Magda pushed her back into the seat, looming over her.

"You want something to refresh your memory? Huh? I didn't want to do this, I was prepared to be hospitable, maybe forget, but me? Never, I forget nothing... no one, you owe me a lot, Ruda, you owe me!"

Magda waddled to a large built-in cupboard and gasped for breath as she opened the double door. The cupboard was stacked with boxes and files, she looked up and down, reached in for a box, and then withdrew her hand. Suddenly she yelled at the top of her voice: "Eric... Eric!"

The club was in full swing now, Madonna blared from the speakers.

"Just sit, sweetface, I'm gonna jog that memory of yours."

Eric came in, looked at Magda, Vebekka, then asked if everything was all right.

"There was a box, old cardboard box from the Kinkerlitzchen, taped up, big brown cardboard box..."

"What about it?"

"I want it. Where is it, it used to be stashed in here, in this cupboard, where is it?"

Eric stood by the cupboard doors. "I haven't moved anything in years; everything you wanted brought over should still be here, unless when we computerized somebody threw it out!"

"I never gave permission for one thing to be chucked out!"

Magda's chest was heaving, and Eric got down on his hands and knees to look for the box. "Shit, this place is filthy, it's dusty down here."

Magda stood behind him. "Just find the fucking thing."

Vebekka looked from one to the other, not understanding what they were saying. Eric suddenly pulled a box from beneath a stack of files. "Is this it?"

Magda peered over his shoulder, and told him to put it on the desk. Eric dumped the dusty box on the table and then restacked the files as Magda tore open the box. She rooted around, hurling things to the floor, and then took out an old torn thick envelope. "Put it all back and get out!"

"Shit, Magda, I'll have to take all the files and restack them again, it won't fit now."

Magda yelled for him to leave, she would sort it out later. Eric tripped over the dog, who yelped and scuttled under the desk, and then slammed the door shut.

Magda filled Vebekka's glass again, then settled herself back on her cushions, lighting another cigarette. "You don't remember Mama, huh? You don't remember what I did for you, what Mama did to help Ruda? Well tell me, do you remember this, sweetface?"

Magda tore the envelope and pulled out an object wrapped in old newspapers.

Ruda? The name puzzled her. She suddenly looked behind her, she had the sensation there was someone else in the room, close to her; but there was no one. Ruda, she repeated to herself, no longer listening to Magda. She sipped the champagne; it was chilled, it tasted good. She had not been allowed to drink for years. She turned again, sure that someone was there, but as she did so she saw Magda watching her, and she laughed nervously.

"I have not been allowed to drink! I had forgotten how lovely it tastes. Are you all right?"

Magda was coughing, ripping the newspaper. She withdrew an old wood-handled carving knife, a knife with serrated edges, and snarled: "You forgotten this?"

Vebekka looked at the knife. "I don't understand?"

"You don't understand, and you are not Ruda?... And you didn't come crying to Mama? Didn't come begging me to help you clean up? Help you to strip him, help hide him? You couldn't lift him, you had to come running to Mama? That perverted piece of shit still moaning and begging us to save him, begging you, begging me, but you couldn't do it, so you started begging Mama — you remember Magda now, tart?!"

Magda staggered, gasping for breath again. Vebekka began to shake, both hands clasped around her champagne glass. She could hear Louis shouting at her, he was dragging her to their car while she was trying to button her blouse. Where was it? Was it here? She couldn't remember, all she could hear was his voice as he pushed her roughly into the car. "You tart!.. You cheap tart!" He had driven off fast, the tires screeching, his face white with anger. He was shouting that he had been searching for her. Then he had pulled over and had punched the steering wheel with his hands. "Why, why do you do this?"

"Answer me, tart!"

Vebekka's head began to throb, she gulped the champagne. "Did my husband tell you?" she asked Magda. She felt hot, the cramped office was stifling.

"Water, could I have a glass of water?"

Magda leaned back, clinking the ice cubes in her vodka glass. "What have you done to your face? You've done something to your face, you had a nose job? That's what's different, you had some work done, sweetface?"

Vebekka touched her face. "Yes, yes... I had, er, surgery."

Magda chuckled. "I knew it, I knew it. I can always tell... Ruda."

"Please, I need a glass of water!"

Magda reached over to the champagne bottle and banged it down in front of Vebekka. "You want a drink?"

Suddenly her fat face twisted. She leaned forward and threw the contents of her glass into Vebekka's face. The vodka burned her eyes, and she knocked over her chair as she sprang to her feet, her hands covering her face.

Magda waved the carving knife in front of her. "Get the hell out, and think about this! Think about this, Ruda, then come back and see me! You owe me, maybe now's the time to pay me off, out — get out!"

Vebekka stumbled to the door and fumbled, trying to open it. Magda pressed the button at the side of her desk. The door buzzed open, and Vebekka ran out as Magda picked up the phone and screamed for Eric to come in.

Magda was sweating, her eye makeup running. She didn't even give Eric time to walk in before she snapped at him to follow the tart, find out where she was staying and report back. "I want to know everything about that one, you understand me? Go on, get out!"

Eric straightened his silk tie, smoothed his hair, and made his way quickly to the club exit. He stomped up the stairs and looked for the bouncer. He saw him examining two kids' driver's licenses. "You see a woman come out, dark-haired woman, few seconds ago?"

He nodded, jerked his thumb along the street, and Eric took off, swearing loudly that he should have put on his overcoat. It started to pour; the bouncer cursed and huddled in the doorway.

Magda opened up the soft leather clutch bag. It contained only a gold and diamond embossed compact, a matching lipstick, and a gold cigarette case. There was no wallet, no credit cards, nothing. She sniffed the lining; there was a faint smell of perfume. "You sure it was hers?"

The bartender nodded, said the woman had left it at the bar when she went into the office. "Okay, you can go."

The bartender left as Magda took a magnifying glass from a drawer and examined the compact. She squinted, then lifted her eyebrows; it was gold, so the diamonds must be real. She checked the cigarette case; it too was eighteen-carat. Maybe the bitch wasn't lying, maybe she was a baroness. Magda laughed, lit another cigarette, then turned the cigarette case over in her hand. She'd hang on to it and the compact; they would cover what the little bitch had stolen all those years ago. Hell, she thought, nowadays the leather bag alone would cost two hundred dollars. She opened a drawer and put the bag inside, slamming it shut. It was funny, but she hadn't meant to turn nasty, she hadn't wanted her debt repaid, so much water had passed under the bridge.

Magda sucked on her cigarette. The room stank of smoke. It was the way the bitch refused to admit who she was that really pissed Magda off; who did she think she was kidding? All the handouts she'd given, all the helping hands to the young punks, yet they always turned around and slapped you in the face. She thought about the girls and the pimps she had set up, buying their trailers, even the bitches' clothes, all they had to do was stand outside them and pick up customers. She paid off the police, she, Big Mama, covered everything — and they still robbed her when they could.

Magda reached for the carving knife. The blade was eight inches long, the handle carved but worn; Ruda had probably stolen even that, or found it in one of the bombed-out houses. In those days it was surprising what you could find poking around in the rubble. Magda ran her fingers along the serrated edge, now brown with rust.

She gulped her vodka, slowly calming down as she remembered the good times. The Americans, the English... those soldier boys wanted women, young, fat, thin, they wanted them, and Magda filled their needs. She tried to accommodate every sexual preference: even for underage kids, boys and girls. Children roamed the streets, hundreds of them, hungry and homeless; they'd turn a trick for a meal, for a crust. That's how she got her nickname "Mama," even that bitch Ruda had called her Mama.

Magda closed her eyes, and saw Ruda as clear as yesterday. Ruda, no more than eight or ten years old, infested with lice, dressed in rags, her skinny legs covered in open sores. She was like a stray dog, no matter how often Magda and her boys sent her packing, she returned, hand out, begging. Magda had taken pity on her, let her scrub out the cellars Magda had started to convert into makeshift brothels. She clothed her, fed her, and the child never said a word. For weeks they didn't know her name, or was it months? She couldn't remember how long it was before the girl had started talking, and when she did she had an odd, gruff voice, and used a strange mixture of languages: Polish, German, Yiddish. They never found out her real nationality; but they could see because of the tattoo that she had survived one of the camps — which camp they never discovered.

They nicknamed her Cinders, after Cinderella, and wondered if she was deaf because she spoke so little. Then one day, she hit one of the young boys who tried to mess with her. She hit him with a broom and knocked him unconscious. Mama Magda had been called to attend to him. Ruda was huddled in the corner, clenching the broom, and then in her odd gravelly voice she said that her name was Ruda. Magda had slapped her hard, told her she had to behave if she wanted to be fed.

"My name is Ruda."

Magda asked if Ruda had a last name. She was worried about the police rounding up her kids. At every bomb-blasted corner there were long notices of missing children; Magda always read these lists in case one of the missing children was working for her. If any were, she got rid of them fast, even dragged them to the depots. The families could cause a lot of aggravation. Soldiers, doctors, and nurses from the many orphanages being set up tried to get the kids off the streets. It seemed like a hopeless mission; no sooner were some picked up and housed than others took their places — the pitiful bedraggled aftermath of war. Some kids, diseased and sickly, simply died on the streets. The ones who knew their way around landed with Mama Magda.

Magda often asked Ruda if she had a last name, but the child acted dumb. Once she had shown Magda her wrist, as if the number were a surname. Maybe it was that gesture that had touched Magda, maybe that was what made her take such an interest in the skinny wretch. Magda let her work in her own apartment, washing and cleaning. She was all fingers and thumbs, but the good thing about Ruda was she didn't talk, just got on with her work. She put on weight, her hair became free of lice, and her sores healed. She was not a pretty girl, but she had something, and Magda's men friends soon started to take an interest in her.

Magda would probably have kept Ruda on as a maid, had she not been visited by health inspectors, who regularly checked on missing kids. They had a long list of kids who had escaped from orphanages. Magda listened to the names and shook her head. "I look over the lists, I make sure none of them are around here. If I find one, you know me, I drag them to the depot, I'm known there."

Then they asked if she'd come across a girl called Ruda. They had no last name, and they were still trying to trace any living relative. Ruda had arrived at Auschwitz but had been removed to Birkenau until her release. She had been kept in a mental institution for four years right after the war. She was a survivor of Birkenau, could be recognized by her tattoo; they described her as possibly eight to twelve years of age. They had a place for her in an orphanage but she had run away.

Magda said she had no child of that age working for her. She was sorry she couldn't help, but she would keep her eyes peeled. For a moment she was scared they were going to search her apartment, but they folded their papers.

"I hope, Magda, you don't keep any underage girls, because if you do, we'll keep on coming, and we'll bring the police with us."

Magda had given them a black market bottle of scotch. Laughing and joking, she told them she drew the line at kids. "You think I'd use kids? — what kind of a woman you think I am?!"

They had no illusions about her, but what could they do? They had no search warrants, no time to really look, there were too many children... Even the threat of bringing in the police was an empty one, but they had to make a show, at least try to salvage some of the children roaming the streets. They took the scotch and left.

After they had gone, Magda had to look for Ruda, guessed she must be hiding. She went into her bedroom and opened the wardrobe. Ruda was crouching inside. "Don't send me back there, Mama, please... please don't."

"I can't keep you here, sweetface, they'll shut me down. I don't want trouble; I said I didn't know you. They find out I lied and I won't get them off my back."

Ruda had clung to her, sobbing. It was the first time Magda had seen her shed a tear. "I can't keep you here, but I'll see what I can do."

Even though she now knew Ruda's age, she got one of the older girls to take her around to the brothels, got her to break her in. But then, after a few weeks, Magda was told that there was something wrong with the girl's vagina. She couldn't have straight sex. Magda had shrugged; she was still a kid, maybe too tight. She suggested they teach her a few other tricks, to get her working. "Just don't bring her back, I don't want her here. If she can't earn her keep, kick her out."

Ruda was taught about oral sex. She was grateful it didn't hurt her insides. She would do anything not to be sent back to the mental institution or orphanage. She learned fast, and was given a small percentage of the money she earned. She ate well, and started living with a few of Magda's whores in a run-down house. The customers often asked for her, since she was exceptionally young. But she was forever stealing; no matter how often she was beaten she still stole wallets and food coupons. Magda turned her loose on the streets, to see if that would teach her a lesson — out by the bomb sites, giving head wherever there was a dark corner, a derelict truck or car. It was worse than Magda's filthy cellars, at least they had mattresses there, but now Magda never knew just how much she earned, even though she sent her thugs around to collect. Ruda could always lie, hide a percentage of her takings, even up her price.

Ruda worked the streets for almost three years, scrimping and saving money, never buying the black market clothes the other girls coveted; she couldn't care less. Over her underwear she wore the same old brown coat Magda had given her, opening it as a come-on to the soldiers. The few items of clothing she bought secondhand were neatly folded in a battered case she got as a tip. She had found a derelict house to share with a few prostitutes, girls so low down they didn't even have a Magda to look out for them. These girls fought and clawed each other to safeguard their territory, be it a lamppost, doorway, or wrecked car.

Ruda's house had no electricity or running water but her room was dry, and she slept on a burned mattress she had retrieved from the rubble. She began to bring in clients, but then one night a U.S. Marine had wanted more than oral sex. When she had said she couldn't have straight sex, he had tried to rape her. Unsuccessful, he had forced her to have anal sex. It had hurt her, made her bite the edge of the mattress to stop herself from screaming, but when it was over, he gave her a handful of dollars, tossing them onto her naked body. The pain dissipated as she counted the money. She realized she could ask more, she could do more.

Ruda would buy a bath a week at the local bathhouse. She paid for a private, number one bath — this meant she was the first to use the water. This was her only luxury; she hoarded her earnings, dreaming of going to the United States one day. She plied any American soldier she met with questions about America. She was naive enough to believe that when she had enough money saved she would simply buy a ticket and go.

When Ruda discovered that without documents, visas, and a passport she would never go anywhere, she remained secluded in her hovel for two days, then went to talk to Magda.

"You want papers? Visas? You any idea how much that kind of thing costs, sweetface? There's lines, hundreds, thousands lining up waiting... go find somebody with papers, marry him — that's the fastest way you can get a legitimate passport. You'll have to wait, but you'll find one eventually."

Ruda begged Magda to help her — where was she going to find anyone who would marry her? Magda asked how much she had saved, Ruda admitted to half the amount she actually had; she knew that Magda would be suspicious. Even so, Magda accused Ruda of holding out on her, it was a lot of money. Ruda had opened her coat. "I have no clothes but these, I don't cheat on you, not anymore. I don't smoke, I don't drink, Jesus Christ, Magda, I hardly fucking eat, I save every cent, I wanna go to America."

"What's so special about America?"

Ruda buttoned her coat. I need some surgery, I have trouble peeing straight, it hurts all the time. I'm not going to a hospital here, they'd drag me off to a mental hospital, but in America they can help me."

Magda arranged for Ruda to meet with Rudi Jeczawitz, a cabaret artist who knew people dealing in forged papers. Jeczawitz had survived Auschwitz, maybe he'd be prepared to help her.

Magda made a deal with him; he needed a girl to help him with his act, and she made a deal with Ruda. She asked for half of her savings. Ruda was pleased she had not told Magda the right amount she had stashed away. In some respects, Magda was relieved she had got rid of her. Within the hour, she had found another girl to work Ruda's territory. She knew Jeczawitz had contacts, but whether he could get Ruda to her beloved America or not didn't concern her. Magda just pocketed the money; she did nothing for free.

Jeczawitz worked the clubs, and those in need of forged papers went through him. He then forwarded the requests to a man named Kellerman, a dwarf.

Jeczawitz took Ruda into his act and for the rest of her savings agreed to marry her. That way she would have a marriage license and a last name. Ruda paid, believing that it would be only a matter of time before her husband got the visas and documents necessary for her to leave for New York.

Rudi Jeczawitz was in his late sixties, and crippled with arthritis. He had lost his wife and children at Auschwitz. He made no sexual advances toward Ruda. She cooked for him, and washed his tattered belongings, and he moved into her derelict room. He owned a battered cardboard suitcase filled with hoops and magic tricks, which he had been allowed to keep even in the camp. He had stayed alive by entertaining the officers; they had found him a cloak, and a wizard's hat. The suitcase represented everything to him, and he guarded it obsessively. He kept his hat in the case and always wore his cloak.

It was Ruda's job to hand him the hoops, hats, and silk handkerchiefs he dragged from his sleeves, night after night. The clubs were seedy and run-down; most of them employed him only because of his contact with Kellerman. If they were caught trafficking in illegal papers, they could be closed down; but by using Jeczawitz as the go-between, they could always plead innocent: He had agreed to take the blame. After every show there would be a number of desperate figures waiting to speak to him.

One night, just before a show, he had been arguing with Ruda about the order of the handkerchiefs, when she had grabbed them, called out the colors, and stacked them in a heap. He began to notice how quickly she had caught on; he tested her a few times, holding them up to her, then behind his back — she was always able to guess the order of the colors. If he spread them on a table, she needed to look only once before telling him each color in rapid succession. He asked how she did it. She had shrugged and said they used to play games in the camp. It was a test they did...

He stared at her. " You played games?... My babies died, my wife died, thousands died — and you played games?"

That was the first time he beat her; he took a stick and kept on hitting her. She took the beating, she was used to it. She simply shut her mind off and waited for the old man to exhaust his rage. Bruised, she had gone on stage, hating him, and holding him to his promise of papers.

From then on Jeczawitz beat Ruda regularly; afterward he would weep inconsolably, calling out the names of his wife and children.

Jeczawitz was as pain-wracked as Ruda; his mental wounds would never heal. He had no peace, but he lived somehow, day to day, dragging his old suitcase to clubs and brothels. Every night he heard the pitiful pleas, collected the folded money, remembered the names. Some nights he became so drunk she had to help him to their room.

On one evening when he was too drunk even to make it to the club, Kellerman arrived at their hovel in his flashy clothes, and Rudi offered Ruda to the dwarf for the night.

"I don't want your whore, hear me? I want names, the money that's been paid to you."

Ruda had followed Kellerman out of the house and offered herself. He turned and spat at her; he never paid for women, he didn't want a whore.

"I want papers," Ruda said. "Can you get them for me? My husband said you could, I have money..."

He had stuck his thumbs into his suspenders. "I can get anybody anything they can pay for. You got the money, I'll get you the visas, passport — anything you want."

"I've got my marriage license, I've got proof of who I am."

He had laughed in her face, told her he needed only money. He would supply a name, get tickets for anywhere in the world — all she had to have was money!

When she learned how much, her heart sank; still she tried as hard as she could. But then Jeczawitz's drinking got out of hand, they lost two cabaret spots, and she had to get him sober enough to keep the third. That night their audience was a rowdy bunch. They were performers from the big circus, she was told.

Ruda had found out who the big man in the audience was, and she even tried to pick him up after the show, but he had virtually knocked her off her feet before his taxi drove off. Later, she had gone looking for him because she was certain he could get her out of Berlin. She had pushed her way into his trailer and he had given her money, told her he was leaving, that he couldn't get her a job.

When she got back to her room she found Rudi huddled on the bed.

"Kellerman's been here. He's not coming back, they kicked me out of the club, Ruda." He opened his arms up to her, wanting comfort, but she slapped his face.

"He was my only hope. You've ruined everything, where is he? Tell me where I can find him!"

Rudi lay down again, said there was no way Kellerman would do business with her, he hated whores.

She went to her hiding place, to look for her tin box. It was gone, as was all the money she'd saved.

"Oh no, please... please tell me you didn't take my money, please tell me you didn't."

He hung his head, shamefaced. "I owed Kellerman, I had to give him money, it had been paid to me... I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."

She punched him, and he tried to fend her off. He screamed out that Kellerman lived in the Kreuzberg district, that was all he knew. He never went to his place, Kellerman always contacted him. He started to cry, covering his face with his hands, blubbering his children's names.

"Shut up. I don't want to hear about your fucking children, your wife, your mother, you survived, you're alive!"

He sat up. "No. I am dead, I wish to God I were dead, like my babies, my wife... Oh God help me, why did they have to die?"

Ruda smirked at him. "You made them all laugh, didn't you, playing out your stupid tricks, Mister Wizard? What else did you do, huh? You had to do something else at the camps. You think I don't know? You named names... You gave those bastards names... You killed your own babies, you bastard!"

"So help me God I did not!"

Ruda danced around him. "Liar, why would they let an old man live?"

He reached for his stick, but she snatched it from him, started thrashing him, and he fought back, kicking at her. He raged at her, screaming: "You played games, you were his children, in your pretty frocks. I saw you all, I saw you all fat and well fed... my babies died, but you..."

Her rage went out of control. How could he know what they had done to her, what they had forced her to do? She kept on hitting him with the stick, over and over. She hit his head, his weak, bent body. She was panting, gasping for breath. At last he was silent, and she began to panic. She felt for his pulse — and then ran.

Magda could hardly understand what she was saying. Ruda was on her knees, begging her to help, asking what she should do. She had to have somebody help her. "Mama, please, he lied to me... he took all my money, and he never got me papers... all my money... please, please help me. He said he would go to the police, tell them about you, tell them about the forged papers, he's really sick."

Magda sighed, threw on her coat, said she would come and see the old bastard, get a doctor if he needed one. "This is the last time Ruda, you don't come to me for anything, understand?"

Magda took the old man's pulse. He was alive, just, but she doubted that he would last long. She told Ruda to strip him and stuff his clothes into his case. Ruda did as she was told. Magda collected all the pitiful possessions around the room, scooping everything into an old sack. She then opened a cupboard. Jeczawitz moaned, his eyes opened, and he begged Magda to help him; she gestured for Ruda to grab his legs, and they heaved him into the closet, drawing his legs up, pushing and shoving him into the tiny space.

"He's alive, Magda, he's still alive, what if he gets out?" Magda snatched a piece of rag, stuffed it into his mouth. "Hold his nose, hold his nose so he can't breathe, you stupid bitch!"

Ruda pinched his nose as he twisted and made weak attempts to push her away; then his chest heaved, once, twice... Still Ruda held on to his nose, then he gurgled, and there was no more movement. He was dead. Magda looked around the room, saw the old knife, and picked it up. "Use this, cut it out."

Ruda was panic-stricken, not understanding.

"The tattoo, his number, they can trace who he is, cut it off his arm, and hurry up. I'll take his case, dump it, just clean everything up, cover him up, shut the door."

Ruda averted her face as she sliced into his frail arm, hacking at the skin. The knife was serrated, it seemed to take a long and terrible time. Magda tied a knot to close the sack, and shouted for Ruda to hurry. "Gimme the knife, come on!"

Magda left Ruda, telling her to make sure to leave nothing that could be traced back to her. Ruda pushed the cupboard door shut, pressing her body against it. But his hand was caught, and she had to open the door again. It was then that she saw his old cloak and threw it over his head, slamming the doors shut. She got a block of wood and dragged it against the cupboard, then bricks, anything she could lay her hands on. She scrambled in the filth and dirt. Ripping up newspapers, she lit a fire, stacking wood on top of the papers. She closed the heavy door to the room, and prayed the fire would ignite.

The fire smoldered, and it was the smoke that eventually drew the attention of a passerby. The fire was put out, having only partly gutted the room. Anything of value still intact was swiftly taken. A new occupant was ready to take over the squalid room, but the police boarded it up. The dead man remained undiscovered for weeks.

Magda was almost surprised when Ruda showed up; she poured her a vodka, straight. Ruda was still shaking as she thanked Magda. She told her she would work for free, she would do anything Magda wanted. Magda laughed, told her she just wanted her gone, and to clear out fast.

"I've no money, I've nothing."

"That's how you came sweetface, so that's how you leave. I reckon I have done more for you than for anyone else in my life, why I dunno, but I'm a Gemini... what star are you?"

"I dunno, I don't know when I was born, we were in hiding when they took us, my sister..."

Magda cocked her head. "You got a sister, sweetface?"

Ruda felt icy cold, as if her body were slowly freezing. She couldn't speak, the room began to spin. "Sister?... sister?"

When she came to Magda was sitting next to her, on Magda's red satin bedcover.

"Jesus Christ, sweetface, where in God's name have you been? You went out like a light. I've had smelling salts under your nose, even lit a feather... you gave me a fright, I thought you were dead!"

Ruda smiled weakly, and reached for Magda's hand. Magda held the dirty skinny hand in hers. "You got to go, Ruda, I can't let you stay here, I want no more troubles than I got. You can have a bath, get some food from the kitchen, but then you are out!"

"Don't throw me out Mama, please... please, I need you."

Ruda had reached up, held the big fat woman, smelled her heavy perfume. She wanted to lie in this woman's arms, wanted her to comfort her, and Magda rocked her gently. "I can't let you, it's too much of a risk, just get yourself cleaned up, like a nice good Mama's girl."

Magda had cupped Ruda's face, and then on an impulse kissed her lips. She thrust her tongue into Ruda's mouth. She started smothering her. She took Ruda's hand and put it under her skirts, between her big fat thighs. "Oh yes... yes, push your fingers inside me, Ruda, yes... yes!"

Magda sweated and moaned, and Ruda pressed and could feel the wetness dripping from Magda, seeping down her thick thighs. She began to moan and groan as she climaxed, and then she sighed... her body shuddered. Ruda prayed it was over, she could hardly breathe.

Ruda had to wait for Magda to finish bathing before she could wash. Magda tossed her a few clothes from a trunk, and told Ruda she could have them. They were good clothes, hardly worn, and Ruda clutched them tightly. Magda dressed in one of her tents, slipped on some gold bangles, and redid her makeup. "Go on, sweetface, get yourself all cleaned up and out of here. When you're through, come into the office. I'll give you some money, don't expect a lot, I need every cent I earn, but I'll see you have enough to get to another big city, maybe give you a few contacts."

Ruda slipped into Magda's bathwater, it was still quite warm. She soaped her body and leaned back. She dreamed of the lion tamer, Luis Grimaldi. She had to get to America, she had to find Kellerman, she had to find Luis Grimaldi wherever he was.

Ruda buttoned up the dress, it was too short, and the neckline gaped on her thin shoulders. She had been given a pair of underpants, the crotch hung very low, they were many sizes too large, but they were silk. She put on a nice plaid coat with padded shoulders, then she went to the dressing table to brush her hair and see if she could find a safety pin to close up the neckline of the dress.

She looked over the dressing table dusted with powder, there were pots of cream and makeup jars everywhere. There was a large box full of beaded necklaces and cheap bangles, but no safety pin. Ruda inched open the small drawer under the mirror; in a leather jewel box she saw rows of rings. She picked one up and squinted; it was gold. She looked over the rings again. They were Magda's famous diamonds, the rings she wore on every finger.

Ruda took a handful and started for the door. Then she went back and took a necklace, stuffing it into her pocket. Her heart was pounding. She opened the door and crept down the stairs, past the kitchens and the rest rooms. She saw no one, but as she reached the entrance to the club, she heard voices. Magda was giving the barman hell because he was not watering the drinks enough.

Ruda ran out and down the street in a panic, not sure which way to go, or where. She kept putting her hands into her coat pockets, making sure the rings were there.

She went to a club she had worked at with Rudi and spoke to the manager, who gave her the once-over. She was looking very classy... he touched her coat. "Found yourself a rich American, have you?"

Ruda smiled. "No, something better, I got people, a family with money, and they want a contact for passports."

The manager shrugged and said he couldn't help her, he knew of no one dealing in foreign documents or currency.

"Kellerman. I want to talk to Kellerman, I know you know him, and I know he's somewhere in the Kreuzberg district. Now you tell me, or I tip off the authorities, I know this club is a contact drop."

Ruda found Kellerman sitting in a bar playing poker. It had been a long walk. She didn't have money for a taxi, even for a bus.

Kellerman didn't recognize her, and she didn't remind him where they had last met. He took her into a back room and looked her over, leaning against the wall as if he were some American movie star — all three feet of him.

"So what do you want?"

"Visa, passport, tickets to America."

He laughed out loud. "Oh yeah... what makes you think I can get them?"

Ruda sat down and swung her leg, her legs were good, and she inched up her skirt.

"Friend told me, I got something to trade!"

Kellerman touched her knee. "Baby, if it's your cunt, forget it. What you want costs a lot more than a fuck!"

"Maybe I've got a lot more."

Kellerman shoved his hands into his tiny pockets. "Let's see what you got."

Ruda was no fool, she had stashed the bulk of the stones under a broken-down truck outside the bar. She took out only a couple of rings, and held them in the palm of her hand. Kellerman picked one up, examined it, then prodded her palm with his short squat finger. "Good stones... but this isn't enough."

"I have more, a lot more, and I've got a marriage license."

"You'll need birth certificates, inoculation, visas, passport, then tickets..."

Ruda felt her heart drop. How much was this going to cost? She held out her hand again. "I've got more, a necklace, diamonds... how much do I need?"

Kellerman touched her palm again, and then he pushed back the sleeve of her coat and saw the tattoo. She tried to withdraw her wrist, but he held on to her. "S'okay, I won't hurt you... where were you?"

Ruda bowed her head. "Does it matter?"

"I guess not, all that matters is you survived, eh? I'm not prying — see, I got one too."

He lifted his sleeve. Then he flushed and pulled his cuff down. "I don't show it to anybody... I was at Birkenau."

She virtually whispered it. "So was I."

He looked up into her face, and reached to touch her cheek with his short stubby hand. There was no need to speak, there was mutual understanding in their eyes, it was not compassion, or love, it was a kind of solidarity. Ruda kneeled, and Kellerman cradled her in his arms. Still they did not speak, and it was Kellerman who broke the embrace. Stepping back he said, softly: "Never get down on your knees for anyone. Look at me, show me a fist, show me some fire in those eyes... I'll get us out of this shit. Get up, up on your feet, girl." He began to pace up and down, short, blunt steps.

"We got to find a buyer first, sell the stones, turn them into cash, then we can do the deal. If you got more like the ones you showed me, we can get enough."

"We? I don't understand, why we?"

He gave her a cheeky wide smile. He had perfect white teeth, and his face was cherubic under the thick black curly hair. "Yeah, that's the deal — Ruda, you said your name was?"

"Yes, Ruda—" She could not say her recently acquired last name.

"The deal is, Ruda, I get the documents, make all the arrangements, but I want to come with you. We both go to America, and I'll get us a license. We get married, you go as Ruda Kellerman, it'll make it a lot easier. I already got my papers, I just never had enough dough to get out of this shithole."

She hesitated, then smiled. He looked up at her. "You know when you smile, it changes your whole face."

"Same could be said of you."

He chuckled. "I guess maybe we've neither had too much to smile about, but have we got a deal?"

She nodded, but then held her hand up. "But it's just a marriage of convenience, right? And where the stones go, I go? Agreed?"

He laughed, and then swung the door wide with a flourish. "Let's go, partner. America here we come!"

It had taken two nerve-wracking months. Ruda and Kellerman stayed in his small rented room. He never made any advances toward her; instead they played cards and he taught her how to read and write. They felt safe together and they liked each other. He found out about the magician, and said she would come to no harm, he would take care of her. And he did. He pocketed a lot of the money for himself, but he kept his promise, he got them to America.

Magda had sent all her boys searching for Ruda, sure she would turn up on some street corner. The days turned into weeks, months, and Magda had to admit she was wasting her time searching for the little bitch. But she never forgot Ruda; every time she slipped a ring onto her finger she remembered her. She had never told anybody of her part in the murder, but she had kept the knife — as a memento, a warning never to turn soft on any of her tarts, or on anybody else for that matter. The knife had traveled from apartment to apartment, club to club, until she had stowed it away. Somehow she knew that one day Ruda would come back, one day she would see her again... and when she did, she would think about cutting her throat open.

Magda ran her nail along the serrated edge. She had been right, she had come back. But when she had seen her, it was strange... she hadn't hated her, she had really wanted to talk to her. She had been ready to forgive, but Ruda had played a stupid game, pretending she couldn't understand German, that she didn't know Magda. Well, the baroness, or whoever Ruda pretended she was, would be sorry. This time she wouldn't be able to hide, there would be no place in Berlin where she could take refuge. Remembering it all made her head throb, she searched for aspirin.

Eric rushed back into the office. He was soaked. "I lost her, she was going from club to club, she was very drunk. Then I went in one door, and she must have walked out another; she disappeared."

Magda hurled papers from her desk. "You fucking little queen... all you had to do was follow the bitch!" Her face was puce with rage.

"I followed her up and down the fucking streets. I'm soaked — it's comin' down in torrents out there!"

"Get out of my sight, you useless piece of shit!"

Eric leaned on her desk. "I'm all you've got, you big fat cow. You haven't got a friend in the world, Magda. I am the only person who can put up with you."

"There's the door, Eric, and that thing attached is the handle. Turn it and walk. Go on, I don't need you, I don't need anybody — I never have. I have never depended on anyone or anything but me! Because that's all I've ever had, me, I made me and my money is mine."

Eric hesitated, and she laughed — her heavy phlegmy laugh. How many years had he put up with her? But he had no place to go, and he did have an easy life. Besides, she couldn't last many more years. She was eighty, maybe even more. So he laughed, and she held open her arms, her mammoth body shaking.

"Come on, make up, give me a hug."

He let her embrace him, her beads clanking against his head. He could hear the rattle of her chest, the hideous breathing he had lain next to for fifteen years. She settled back on the cushions and said she'd start calling the clubs, she'd soon trace her.

"Who is she? I mean what's so important about her?"

Magda dialed, and waited. "She stole from me, Eric. I was like a mother to that girl, and she pretended she didn't know me. Well — she's going to know who I am."

Eric eased off his tie, removed his Gucci loafers. They were encrusted with mud around the edges. Magda made call after call, club after club, getting angrier as she described Vebekka in minute detail, down to the cape with the sable trim. She kept on saying it was urgent, she had to find her.

Eric took off his socks, his feet were cold. He was so intent on inspecting his feet he didn't even observe anything strange; he only looked up because the room was so quiet. She sat well back in her chair, her head almost touching her bosom, a cigarette still burning in her fat hand.

"Magda?... Magda?"

Eric walked around the desk, peering at her. The poodle suddenly started pawing at her leg, wanting attention. Eric took the cigarette from her fingers, stubbed it out. He called her name again, then felt her pulse. He withdrew his hand, and gave her body a small push — she slowly sagged to one side, and her arm slid from the desk and hung limply over her chair.

He gave a small, dry laugh like a hiccup, and quickly covered his mouth. He shooed the dog away and it scuttled beneath the desk. He was about to rush out of the office when he remembered he was in his bare feet.

As he slipped his feet into his loafers, he had another good look at Magda, and giggled. It was his club, all his now, and he wanted to hug himself.

The phone rang. He hesitated, deciding whether or not to answer, and in the end he snatched it up. It was the barman at the Vagabond Club returning Magda's call. The woman she wanted to know about had just walked in. "It doesn't matter, Magda's dead," said Eric. He heard the shocked voice asking how and when, and he beamed, but kept his voice to a hushed whisper. "I have to go, I have to get the police."

"Jesus Christ, what happened?"

"Heart attack, I think..."

"My God, when?"

"Oh, about five minutes ago."

"Oh shit, will you be closing the club?"

"No... no I don't think so, she wouldn't have wanted that. Nothin'll change, just that I'll be running the show from now on... so, if you'll excuse me..."

Eric carefully replaced the receiver, looked at the peroxided head of his wife. He couldn't see her face, he was glad about that. He whistled to the dog, and grabbed it by the scruff of its neck. "Your life, sweetface, hangs on a thread. You had better be very, very nice to me." Eric didn't even notice the carving knife on Magda's desk as he walked out of the office.