David Gillham - City of Women

Sigrid looks up. “Yes,” she answers with a politely blank expression.

“I am the Frau Obersturmführer Junger,” the girl announces, and glides forward with an outstretched hand.

“Very pleased,” Sigrid tells her, and moves forward as well, but not a hair farther than is required to take the Frau Junger’s plump white hand. It takes a certain type of female to introduce herself to a new neighbor by her husband’s rank in the SS. The Frau Obersturmführer . “Welcome to the building.”

The Frau Obersturmführer gives her a single military shake. “Thank you,” she responds without inflection. “Your husband is serving, isn’t he?”

Sigrid stares, her eyebrows arched. “I beg your pardon?”

“I asked if your husband is serving.”

“Well, yes. He is.”

“On the front line?”

Her teeth clench lightly. She feels her face heat. “In the East,” she answers, “with the Ninth Army.”

The Frau Obersturmführer nods. “Ah. Very good.” And her lips pucker into a tight little smile. Very good. As it should be. “ My husband is also in central Russia. Eighth SS-Kavallerie-Division,” she announces, as if this obviously trumps Sigrid. “He commands an anti-banditry company, and is a holder of the German Cross in gold.”

“I see,” says Sigrid, stretching her face into a pleasant mask.

“I’m really so proud of him,” the Frau Obersturmführer declares, her round face glowing. “Really so very proud.”

Escaping into the flat, Sigrid thumps the door behind her, only to discover her mother-in-law crouched down on the floor in the living room with her ear pressed against the speaker of Frau Remki’s wireless. This is the standard position for listening to the forbidden broadcasts of the British Broadcasting Company. Sigrid clears her throat loudly and takes no small pleasure in watching the old crone jump out of her skin. “That’s a crime, you know,” she says.

“ What’s a crime?” The old woman quickly snaps the radio off and lights up one of her cheap Aristons. The air goes bitter as she expels smoke. “Going deaf or growing old?”

Sigrid drops her bags on the sideboard. “Hörsig’s had our number on the board, so I got some carp. Doesn’t look too bad.”

“Still no codfish?”

“No, you’ll have to wait for Army Day for that.”

“Fine,” Mother Schröder responds flatly, distancing herself from the radio as she stands. “I’ll put water on for the potatoes. We should get them prepared,” she announces, crossing into the kitchen, cigarette still poking out from between her lips.

Sigrid slips off her coat and shivers. The flat is chilled. She crosses to the coke stove and dumps a few briquettes into the firebox from the scuttle, taking advantage of the temporary weakness of Mother Schröder’s position. “I met our new neighbor,” she says, picking up the day’s mail. Nothing unusual. An invitation from the German Association of Music Lovers. Something from the Dairy Society of Mark Brandenburg. “Just now,” she says, “on the landing. She’s very young.”

Mother Schröder glares at the coke stove, but makes no protest. Resting her cigarette on the edge of the counter, she frowns as she dumps a few shrunken potatoes into the metal colander. “Yes, and I understand she is with child.” This fact is tossed at Sigrid like a hand grenade tossed by a soldier. “Unless I’ve heard incorrectly,” the old woman adds.

Sigrid swallows and walks over to the sink, opening the hot water tap, though the water still runs cold. “Don’t worry. Your hearing is still good enough for gossip. She’s really quite the ripe little plum.” She plops the fish on the cutting board. Brownish blood has soaked through the newspaper in which it’s been wrapped, and colors Sigrid’s fingers.

“When is she due?” her mother-in-law asks with mock innocence. “Did she mention?”

“She did not, nor did I inquire. All she wanted to know was if Kaspar is at the front.”

Mother Schröder’s face suddenly tenses. “She asked about Kaspar?”

“She asked if my husband is serving on the front line.”

“And what did you tell her?”

Sigrid squints at the intensity of her mother-in-law’s question. “I told her the truth. Why? What should I have told her?”

But Mother Schröder only shakes her head and turns back to the potatoes. “Just watch your words, daughter-in-law,” the old woman warns, scrubbing the potatoes roughly. “The wife of an active-duty officer in the SS. She may look ripe, but that’s the kind of plum that bites back.”

For a moment they are quiet as Mother Schröder dumps the last potato into a bowl. Sigrid removes a knife from the drawer and slices a grayish fillet in half. “So,” she ventures, “what did they have to say?”

Her mother-in-law scowls. “What did who have to say?”

“You know who. The radio.”

The old woman looks hunted. She shakes her head. “Nonsense,” she says. “Pure nonsense.”

Sigrid takes a step closer. “Pure nonsense of what sort?”

“The same sort of ridiculous rumors one can hear in the queue at the fishmonger’s,” the old woman says, facing the sink. Then her eyes dart to either side, a reflex so involuntary and commonplace that Berliners have given it a name: the German glance. “They say that the Bolsheviks have launched an offensive against our forces outside of Moscow,” she admits in a low voice, meeting Sigrid’s eyes for only an instant. “But surely it will be repulsed. His generals may have failed him at Stalingrad, but the Führer will not permit such a thing to happen again. We can, I think, be most certain of that.”

THAT NIGHT THEY’RE down in the cellar again, but the Brits have targets in the northern districts in mind. The true purpose of the raid seems to be to establish the young Frau Obersturmführer Junger as the new queen of the block. The rain of bombs is only background music. She beams beatifically at one and all. Shares her bratwurst. Coos at Frau Granzinger’s child and cradles the infant like a Madonna. Even goes so far as to read aloud a portion of a letter from her SS-Obersturmführer husband at the front. “‘My treasured wife,’” she begins . “‘You must remember that regardless of how painful our separation may be, at this most sacred time in a woman’s life, that we are fighting to create nothing less than a new world. And that the sacrifices we make at home, as well as here on the field of battle, shrink to triviality when compared with the Führer’s Great Purpose. We fight not for mundane conquest but for the very survival of all that is good and true and pure.’”

By this point Sigrid is praying for a bomb to hit. Fortunately the all-clear sounds before her prayer is answered. The residents gather themselves together and shamble toward the steps with the usual post-raid prattle. “Looks like the Tommies will have to try harder next time; we’re still among the living.” “Who knows? Maybe they ran out of bombs.” Sigrid notes that Fräulein Kohl has appeared in the cellar tonight, holding the restless little Granzinger infant as if it were a lit bomb while squeezed into the benches. She glares at Sigrid as if this is somehow her fault .

I HAVE SOMETHING for you.

Her mother-in-law has uncorked a bottle of peach brandy to share with Marta Trotzmüller, but does not bother to invite Sigrid to join them. Just as well. Unlike the harried Frau Granzinger, Marta is of the same generation as her mother-in-law. The Kaiser’s generation. And after a few snorts of brandy, they begin to unravel the spiderweb of their past. Back in days when the Pariser Platz was filled with smartly appointed carriages, and Berlin was the stomping ground for the mustachioed officers of the imperial guard regiment.