The Crooked Maid (36 page)

“Rats?” Poldi asked. The notion failed to disgust her. She had been fighting vermin all her life.

Frau Seidel nodded, her face a mask of dried-in makeup. “They know it smells funny, but they eat it anyway.” She spat on the spoon, wiped it on the hem of her dress, then opened a fresh jar of jam and resumed eating. “I kill a dozen every week. They breed like—” She broke off, stuck for a comparison, then looked over at Poldi and fixed her eyes on her stomach and lap. “You’re feeling well?” she asked abruptly, the voice slipping instantly from triumph to sympathy.

Poldi shrugged, one hand to her abdomen. “All right, I suppose. Peein’ a lot. And chucking up my lunch.” She got up from her chair, walked over to the unmade cot, struck anew by the oddity of her surroundings. “But what about this room? You come here to sleep, do you?”

Frau Seidel shook her head, all sympathy extinguished. “
He
stayed here. In ’42. You can still smell him in the sheets.” Her nose wrinkled. “Have
you read the numbers? One million, five million, ten!” Frau Seidel swallowed, stuck a tongue into the pocket of one cheek, found sufficient spit to wet her venom. “You’d have thought they could have got this one. He came here the morning they rounded them all up: his wife and daughter, his father, his mother-in-law. He’d run away. Sat in our basement, sweating, saying, ‘I’ve got to go.’ Only he didn’t. Four days he stayed; the house full of servants, all those curious eyes! Seidel refused to kick him out. Not that he didn’t want to, mind. But it wasn’t
right
. Running to church every three minutes, and to the crapper. Stomach ulcer. Because we owed him, you see. Well, he left in the end, gave himself up to the police and asked to be brought to his wife. And what a disgusting face he had, such cheeks, always greasy, hanging down over his bones.” She touched her own face as though fearing she’d taken on the man’s features; took hold of the fatty tissue of her throat and stuffed it under the high collar of her blouse. “It’s been almost six years, and the room still smells of Jew.”

Poldi looked at her, rose, and slowly climbed the stairs. At the top she spoke, sadly, quietly, though loud enough to make herself heard.

“You’re mad, you are,” she said.

Back in her room the ceiling sang with mating crows. Poldi lay down, stuffed fingers in her ears, and prayed for Wolfgang.

3.

“Would you describe your duties to the court, Fräulein Grotter?”

“My duties? I’m a servant. I do what I am told.”

“Quite, quite. There is no need to grow angry. I suppose you must be nervous.”

“Must I?”

“Well, at any rate, it’s only natural, with all these people watching. But really there is nothing to it. Just tell the truth.”

“Well, get on with it, Herr Prosecutor. I have chores to see to.”

From the first, then, Prosecutor Fejn seemed a little put out by the final
witness of the trial. The person he had met to prepare her testimony some weeks earlier had been quite a different entity: taciturn, for one; dull to the point of stupidity. He recalled a working girl dressed in her Sunday best, her virgin bosom sheltered in much-mended lace. Her statement had been as colourless as her clothes.

Today she was different. Anneliese Grotter—Eva—had appeared in court in a getup that was nothing short of provocative. She wore a scarlet hat cocked at a precarious angle and an old dress that seemed too tight, too short for her: it accentuated her breasts, her hump, and invited a view of her naked calves stretched out before her in the witness chair. There were other details of her costume that drew the eye. She had painted her lips, the colour clashing with the hat, but had left her eyes naked; had brought no jacket or cardigan and sat with exaggerated stiffness in her chair, turning only her head on occasion to stare flatly at the members of the jury. When her eyes fell on the defendant, she made no effort to hide a sneering indifference to his fate.

“We won’t detain you for long,” Fejn continued, dissolving his consternation in a smile. “Far be it from the court to interpose itself between you and the household linen.” He paused just long enough for the first wave of audience titters to arrive, then waved off the joviality as though it were his regretful duty. “To business, though. I really only have a single little question. Where were you at midday on June 25, Fräulein Grotter?”

“That’s your ‘single little question,’ Herr Dr. Fejn? I was in the Seidel residence.” She made as though to rise, had to be shooed back into her chair; her expression haughty, spiteful, each movement hampered by her hump.

“And what were you doing?”

“At noon? Cleaning the toilet, I expect. Or the mirrors, perhaps. Some annoying little task.”

“You were in the bathroom, then.”

“In one of the bathrooms. Top floor. Where the young Herr Seidel has his room.”

“And while you were there, going about the cleaning, did you see the accused?”

Fejn pointed, and her eyes duly followed, studied Wolfgang coldly head to foot.

“I did.”

“Doing what?”

“He was getting dressed. And talking to his wife.”

“What state was he in?”

“He was drunk.”

“Please, Fräulein Grotter. You seem rather eloquent when you put your mind to it. Describe the scene for us.”

She snorted, adjusted her hat, scratched—actually scratched—the place where her upper arm disappeared into her sleeve. “It was like this,” she said. “The accused was in his pyjamas and had just stormed up the stairs. He was pulling on his clothes, yelling at his wife. His face was flushed and he was reeling. I believe he slumped against the wall once or twice while attempting to step into his trousers. A matter of balance. He’d left the door wide open, so I could see it all quite clearly.”

“Where did the accused come from?”

“His father’s study.”

Fejn hid his surprise behind the shuffle of notes. They made no mention of this detail. “From his father’s study! You know this for a fact?”

“Yes, of course. I could hear them shout at each other. I couldn’t make out the words, but they were shouting. Then he banged the door, ran up the stairs, and yelled at his wife instead.”

“And what is it he was yelling at his wife? Surely you could hear the words this time around?”

“He was cursing his father.”

“What exactly did he say?”

“Oh, just incoherent words. ‘Bastard,’ ‘asshole,’ ‘hypocrite.’ He may have called him a cunt.”

The word froze Fejn for a moment, and he looked around him like a
man wishing to ascertain that he had not misheard. But the jurors and spectators mirrored his shock. From the ranks of the jurors came a single cackle, suppressed to be sure, but quite audible in the sudden silence of the room. Eva searched out its origin, pinpointed the youngest of the jurors, a department store clerk not much older than herself, and bestowed on him a look of frank amusement.

“I am merely quoting the accused.”

Fejn recovered, smoothed down his hair. His robes billowed with the motion. “And what, er, was the defendant’s tone as he made these remarks?”

“His tone?” She smiled up at Fejn, pursed her painted lips, deliberated. “Murderous.”

“Murderous?” Fejn repeated, gratified, appeased, his voice still ranging through the octaves. “What happened then?”

“He left. Stormed out, you would say. He banged all the doors.”

“Did he put on his shoes, Fräulein Grotter?”

“No. I saw him holding them in one hand, but then he threw one as he was yelling and dropped the other. He left sweaty marks on the stairs. The socks, I mean. They were far from clean.”

“And when was the next time you saw the elder Herr Seidel?”

“Never. Not conscious, that is. A little later there was shouting in the street. They’d found his body.”

“Thank you, Fräulein Grotter, that will be all. The prosecution is done with this witness.”

Fejn bowed to the judge, took out his handkerchief, and wiped sweat off his brow.

4.

Ratenkolb took over. He did not speak at once but rather sat at his desk, shuffling through papers, the eyes of the court upon him.

“Fräulein Grotter,” he said at last. “I notice that there are significant
discrepancies between your police statement and the report of the investigative judge.”

She did not answer but merely looked at him: naked, hostile eyes.

“What I mean to say, Fräulein Grotter, is that initially you refused to make any statement at all.”

“So?”

“You have no comment to make?”

“You have asked no question.”

Ratenkolb nodded slowly to himself as though he appreciated her precision. “Let me put it like this, then, Fräulein Grotter. What changed your mind?”

“At first, I did not want to get involved. A maid must know her place.”

“Come, come, you do not strike the court as such a wallflower.”

“Well, then, I thought the police could do their job without my help.”

“The investigative judge convinced you otherwise?”

“Evidently.”

A pause commenced, during which Ratenkolb once again leafed through his papers. “Tell me,” he asked thoughtfully. “Do you like the accused?”

“Not especially. He beat up people for a living.”

“You were afraid of him? You seem like a bold young woman.”

“My station in life necessitates caution.”

“So you are not put out that the defendant has not been in the house these past months?”

“Put out? No. For all I care, he can go to hell.”

“Well,” said Ratenkolb, “it’s beginning to look like he may.” He bowed his head, took a moment, then spoke as though to his desk. “One last question, though. A matter of a minor discrepancy. Or perhaps an oversight. In the report, I mean. The time you saw the defendant leave the house without his shoes on—the day he called his father names—when exactly was that?”

“Around noon.”

“You are certain?”

“There are several clocks in the house. I heard the chime.”

“And when was Herr Seidel’s body found?”

“At half past one.”

“Yes,” said Ratenkolb. “That agrees with the other witness statements. A whole hour and a half after his son threw him out the window. How do you explain the lag?”

“How do I explain it?” Eva sneered. “I suppose nobody passed the house. Or they did pass but had their noses in the air. One would have to look over the little fence.”

“Quite.” Ratenkolb waited, smoothed his jacket and waistcoat, consulted his papers. “Do you remember what you did after you had cleaned the upstairs bathroom?”

“I swept the stairs.”

“And then?”

“Windows. Front parlour, then dining room, then kitchen.”

“You are certain?”

“I follow a routine, Herr Ratenkolb. The twenty-fifth was a Friday. I swept the stairs then cleaned the downstairs windows.”

“Bathroom, stairs, windows. An odd routine, if you’ll excuse my saying so.”

“You want to tell me how to clean house? Come over sometime. You can give me lessons.”

Ratenkolb smiled thinly at her joke. “Please, Fräulein Grotter. This is a murder trial after all. Can you tell us at what time you cleaned the windows in the parlour?”

“At twelve-thirty.”

“You sound very certain.”

“I am.”

“Well, in that case you have lied to us, Fräulein Grotter. You told the court that you did not see Herr Seidel’s body until some passersby drew your attention to it by the noise they made out on the street.”

“That is correct.”

“But surely the windows of the front parlour look out onto the front lawn.”

“They do.”

“Is it possible that you could have cleaned the windows in the front parlour at half past twelve in the afternoon and not seen the body of your employer lying broken and bleeding right in front of you?”

A whisper went through the audience, a sort of collective bracing.

“Is it possible?” she repeated lightly, lazy with the words. “No, of course not. He fell not five steps from the window. I assure you, the front lawn was quite empty at the time.”

Pandemonium broke out, was stoked rather than soothed by the drumming of Judge Bratschul’s gavel. Fejn had leapt out of his chair and was gesticulating wildly. The word “perjury” was heard from a variety of corners; for once, all sides of the audience seemed equally outraged. Eva sat through it all with exceptional calm; was a little flushed, it is true, and held her hands knotted against her stomach, but made no other movement, her chin held high, poking from the shadow of her hat.

Eventually the judge’s entreaties brought some semblance of order to the room. Cautioning Fejn to return to his seat, he addressed the witness directly.

“Fräulein Grotter. You will have noticed that your statement has thrown the court into quite a state—yes, yes, quite a state. You see, the sequence of events on June 25 is a matter of great importance. We have a witness, one of the neighbours, who discovered Herr Seidel’s body at around half past one. And other witnesses who saw the defendant—barefoot—at around two. It was assumed—that is, the prosecution has assumed—that he left the house in the wake of—
after
, you understand,
after
—Herr Seidel was thrown—or let’s say fell, one mustn’t influence the jury!—out the window of his study. Now you tell us the defendant left the house while his father was still inside. May I point out that there are, um, grave penalties for lying in court, very grave penalties, and that, if you are mistaken, this, perhaps, is the last point at which you can correct, that is take it back, and,
in short, enlighten the court …” He trailed off, exhausted, sat kneading his gavel between nervous, blue-veined hands.

Eva looked at him with an air of total unconcern. “Herr Judge,” she answered quietly. “On the day of Herr Seidel’s accident, a policeman came to the house to ask me questions. He was rude and I was upset, so I did not answer his questions. He did not try very hard. I heard him tell his colleague that I was an imbecile and a cripple. Six weeks later an investigative judge requested my presence in the courthouse. He made me wait in a shabby little corridor. There was a long line of people and only one chair. When it was my turn, I went in and closed the door. He was sitting behind his desk, nose buried in some papers. I wondered would he say “Good day” at least, but he never even looked at me, just sat there thumbing through his papers for the whole duration of the interview. He asked me a whole ream of questions, some of them quite personal. I answered them, though he talked too much and did not listen. Whenever he liked what I said, he nodded to the typist to fire away. You have the report in front of you. He read it back to me at the end. It sounded accurate, so I signed it. Then, last month, the prosecutor came by the house, to ‘inspect the crime scene’ and to read my statement out to me again. He came in, drank three cups of tea, and ate all our biscuits. ‘Just stick to the truth,’ he said in between bites, and waved the paper at me. And so I have. I think you will find that nothing in the report contradicts anything I’ve said in court. I assumed the goal of the questions was to ascertain that the defendant was angry with his father. He was. He called him names. I have related some of his language for you. I cannot be held responsible for questions that the investigator omitted to ask.”