David Gillham - City of Women

Making her way along a graveled path toward the gate, with her sack of garden tools, Sigrid notices a couple occupying a granite bench near an untended landscape of forgotten graves. They are seated close to each other, yet something seems to separate them. She looks away and keeps walking. But then behind her are voices. Raised voices. She can’t help but turn back to look.

The girl is standing now, and the fellow bent forward from the bench, holding her hand as if he might have to prevent her fleeing. He looks innocuous in the drab, shapeless coat and hat that is the civilian uniform of all Berliner males these days. The girl is in a dark, too-large coat with a wool beret pulled over soot black hair. Sigrid does not immediately recognize the creature until she spots the girl’s awkwardly stiffened posture as the man jumps to his feet and kisses her full on the mouth. It’s the duty-year girl, Fräulein Kohl. Sigrid finds herself staring, oddly transfixed. The Fräulein does not exactly resist, but neither does she exactly respond. Then she turns her head toward Sigrid, and even from the distance that separates them, Sigrid can feel the grip of the girl’s glare. It chases her away. She turns quickly and starts hiking toward the street, as if it were she who’d just been caught in a moment of intimacy. The footsteps she hears crunching on the gravel behind her are hurried and growing closer.

Frau Schröder .

For several steps Sigrid does not slow, but then she hears the Fräulein appeal again, calling her name, and she stops. Turns about. The girl swallows a breath. Close up, Sigrid is reminded again how young this girl is. No lines on her brow. A touch of baby fat in the oval of her face. Eighteen, perhaps. Nineteen. Certainly no older. “Fräulein Kohl,” she says blankly.

“Frau Schröder, I must ask you, please, not to mention to anyone what you just saw.”

“And what did I just see, Fräulein Kohl?”

“That man and me.”

“You mean the man who kissed you?”

“I know that you have no reason to do me any more favors, but I ask you to please keep this under your hat. It could mean trouble for me.” Sigrid looks into the girl’s electric eyes. It’s obvious that asking for favors is a painful exercise. Sigrid blinks. Takes a breath. Why is she the one feeling cornered? Looking toward the bench, she sees that the man is still there, watching them.

“He’s married, I take it?”

“Married? I really have no idea.” Ericha pauses as if she must make a quick calculation, and then she says: “But that has nothing to do with it.”

Sigrid looks down at her in confusion. “I see. Well. In any case, Fräulein Kohl, your business is not my business. I am not a gossip, if that’s what you are worried about. So, if you’ll excuse me, I must catch a bus.” She turns and starts walking.

“Ah. Frau Schröder,” the girl begins as she catches up. “Do you mind if I walk with you?”

Sigrid keeps moving, but gives a glance to the rear. The fellow on the bench is staring after them with obvious frustration. “Won’t your friend object?”

Ericha glances back as well, but for only an instant. “He’ll survive,” she replies. And then, “You have someone buried here?”

Sigrid looks the girl over quickly. “Yes,” is all she says. And then, “My mother.”

Ericha nods. “I never knew my mother,” she volunteers flatly.

“No? I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. She didn’t die. She just gave me up. I was raised in an orphanage in Moabit.” Outside the gate, Sigrid turns and starts to follow the soot-stained wall down the Misdroyerstrasse.

“I’ll be leaving you here,” the girl tells her.

“I beg your pardon? So I continue to be your convenient shield, without a breath of explanation.”

“Don’t be offended. I’m only trying to protect you.”

“Protect me from what? It seems you have things backward. I am the one who’s been protecting you .”

“I must go.”

“And what about your duty, Fräulein?”

Blankness. “My duty?”

“Yes! Your duty . Have you forgotten about that word?”

“You don’t understand.”

“Well, at least you’re quite correct in that . I don’t understand. But what I do understand quite well, Fräulein Kohl, is that you have responsibilities to discharge. And if I recall, Frau Granzinger has not yet given up her children.” Why is she suddenly angry?

The girl absorbs this with a barely noticeable flinch. Her expression remains unchanged.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that,” Sigrid tells her.

The girl shrugs. “It makes no difference. People often behave in hurtful ways. Why try to explain it? Thank you for the morality lesson, Frau Schröder. It was most helpful. Good-bye,” she says, and turns and walks away.

“Wait,” Sigrid calls after her, but the girl only quickens her step.

SHE IS LATE returning to the patent office and is summoned by Fräulein Kretchmar into the hallway. Kretchmar scowls, her eyes hard as bullets behind the rimless pince-nez. Her graying hair tightly pinned. Her Party membership badge fastened to the lapel of her charcoal suit. “You were late , Frau Schröder, returning from your midday break.”

“Yes, Fräulein Kretchmar.”

“By fourteen minutes, Frau Schröder.”

“Yes, Fräulein Kretchmar. My apologies. Of course, I will make the time up.”

“That is not the point, Frau Schröder. We are at war here in the Reichspatentamt, just as surely as the soldiers at the front are at war, only we have our battlefields here at our desks. Now, what do you suppose would happen if our soldiers were late in responding to a call to arms, hmm?”

“Chaos, Fräulein Kretchmar.”

“ Chaos , Frau Schröder,” Fräulein Kretchmar confirms with fervor. A favorite theme of hers. “Your work has always been exemplary. We both know that. We both know that you are a cut above most of these young women, who are only marking time till they reach the wedding altar. But that does not excuse you from the rules. If it happens again, I’ll have no choice but to report you to Herr Esterwegen. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, Fräulein Kretchmar.”

Silence. Fräulein Kretchmar’s scowl remains unaltered. But then she says, “Very well, you may return to your desk.”

“Yes, Fräulein Kretchmar. Thank you.”

But no sooner does Sigrid turn than Fräulein Kretchmar calls her again. “I am aware of the general opinion of me, Frau Schröder.”

Sigrid looks back at her.

“Among the women. That I’m a shriveled-up spinster.” Fräulein Kretchmar’s expression is still hard as granite, but the muscles in her jaw twitch slightly. “No, you needn’t deny it. Its something I’ve come to terms with long ago. But from you , Frau Schröder, from you I expect better. It’s not easy being a female in my position. My work must be perfect. Better than perfect. I am the sole female in authority in this office, and if one of my stenographers comes back fourteen minutes late from her midday break, it not only reflects poorly upon her , it reflects poorly upon me, and upon every woman here. Upon every woman in the Reich. We are all responsible to each other for our actions, Frau Schröder. As one woman is judged, so all women are judged. “

Sigrid holds her gaze for a moment, then nods once. “Yes, Fräulein Kretchmar,” she says. “I understand.”

RAIN COMES IN the afternoon, but dwindles by the time she leaves her bus. Marching down the Uhlandstrasse toward her block, Sigrid can see that the soggy band of clouds is breaking up, revealing a sheet of blue steel sky. Good weather for Tommy. Bad weather for any Berliner trying to get a decent night’s sleep. Untying her scarf, she passes the bombed-out apartment house. The collection of salvaged belongings has long since been hauled away from the curbside, but the family pictures still hang askew on the exposed walls. Grandma and grandpa in their frame, staring out at a world they never imagined possible.