Max flipped through the binder to the back, where he pulled a cheap notebook from its own plastic cover. “I looked at my notes, but they don’t tell me much. Bauernmarkt, where my own family lived, had been badly hit in the bombing. I know I did walk all through that area, through what they used to call the Matzoinsel, where the eastern European Jews gathered when they immigrated during the early years of the century. I’m sure I tried to find the place on the Leopoldsgasse. But the site of so much desolation was too depressing. My notes I kept for news from the different agencies I visited.”
He opened the notebook carefully, so as not to tear the fragile paper. “Shlomo and Judit Radbuka: deported to Lodz 23 February 1941 with Edith—I think that’s the name Lotty thought might be Eva—Rachel, Julie, and Mara. And a list of seven children, two to ten years old. Then I had a job tracking down what happened in the Lodz ghetto. Poland was a very difficult country then—it wasn’t yet under communist control, but while some people were quite helpful, there were also ferocious pogroms against the remnants of the Jewish community. It was the same story of desolation and deprivation that existed all over Europe: Poland lost a fifth of its population to the war. I nearly turned tail a half dozen times, but finally I did get hold of some of the records of the ghetto authority. The Radbukas all were deported to a death camp in June of 1943. None of them survived.
“Of my own family, well, I found a cousin in one of the DP camps. I tried to persuade him to come to England with me, but he was determined to return to Vienna. Where he did live out the rest of his life. At the time no one knew what would happen with the Russians and Austria, but in the end it worked out fine for my cousin. But he was always very reclusive after the war. I had looked up to him so as a child; he was eight years older than me, it was hard to see him so fearful, so withdrawn.”
I stood silent, sickened by the images he was conjuring, before bursting out, “Then why did Lotty use the name Sofie Radbuka? I—that episode—the picture of Carl going to the country, looking for her cottage, Lotty staying behind the doors and using the name of a dead person—it’s very unnerving. And it doesn’t sound like Lotty.”
Max rubbed his eyes. “Everyone has unaccountable moments in their lives. It may be that Lotty thought she was responsible for the loss or death of this Sofie Radbuka, whether it was a cousin or a patient. When Lotty thought she might be dying herself—well, we were all living difficult lives then, working hard, coping with the loss of our families. The deprivation in England after the war was still acute, too—we had our own bomb sites to clean up. There were coal shortages, bitter weather, no one had any money, food and clothes were still rationed. Lotty might have snapped under the strain, overidentified with this Radbuka woman.
“I do remember when Lotty came back from that illness. It was in winter, maybe February. She had lost a lot of weight. But she brought a dozen eggs and a half pound of butter back from the country with her and invited Teresz and me and the rest of our lot over for tea. She scrambled all the eggs up with the butter and we had a wonderful feast, and at one point she announced she would never again let her life be held hostage. She was so fierce we all rather backed away. Carl refused to come, of course; it was years before he would speak to her again.”
I told him about the bulletin board I’d found with Questing Scorpio’s entry. “So there definitely was someone in England by that name in the forties, but my feeling is that Paul Radbuka’s response was so intense that Scorpio didn’t write back. I posted a message saying Scorpio could get in touch with Freeman Carter if there was something confidential to discuss.”
Max shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. I don’t know what any of it means. I just wish Lotty would either tell me what she’s tormenting herself with—or stop carrying on in such a dramatic fashion.”
“Have you spoken to her since Sunday night? I tried talking to her last night, but she bit my head off.”
Max grunted. “This is one of those weeks where I wonder what keeps our friendship together. She’s an important surgeon; she’s sorry she was momentarily under the weather at my delightful party, but she’s fine now, thanks very much, and she needs to make rounds.”
The doorbell rang. Tim Streeter had arrived. He was a tall, rangy guy with a handlebar moustache and an engaging smile. Max called to Agnes, who quickly relaxed under Tim’s calm air of confidence, while Calia, after a momentary suspicion, promptly announced he was a “lawrus” because of his giant moustache and offered to throw him dead fish. Tim made her squeal with laughter by blowing spluttery air through his moustache points. Max, much relieved, took off for the hospital.
Tim toured the premises, looking for vulnerable spots, then crossed the street to the park with Calia so she could play with the dogs. Calia brought Ninshubur with her, proudly showing Mitch and Peppy that her dog had tags just like theirs. “Ninshubur is Mitch’s mummy,” she announced.
After seeing the skillful way Tim kept between Calia and any passersby, seeming to make it part of a game instead of alarming the child, Agnes returned to the house to set up her paints. When the dogs had run the edge off their energy, I told Tim I needed to move on.