David Gillham - City of Women

For a moment, he seems to be making an appraisal of her, until suddenly he drops his face close to hers. “Have you been informed of the clan penalties for crimes committed against the state, Frau Schröder? If you are guilty, then, by law, so is he. Do you wish his fate to be on your conscience?”

“My husband is a soldier .”

“Yes, and his mother is a Party member, and all of that will mean exactly nothing. The law is the law. It is very clear on this point. A criminal’s family is considered equally as culpable as the criminal, regardless of circumstances.”

“I have done nothing wrong, Herr Kommissar,” she says stiffly. “You are not frightening me.”

The man stares deeply at her for a moment, an unmoving stare as if he is trying to turn her inside out with his eyes. And then he says suddenly, in a quite level tone, “I’ve been married three times, Frau Schröder. So, I am aware of how the female mind works. It’s not your fault,” he says. “You have certain frailties built in, it’s part of nature. And if you fall victim to certain misplaced maternal sentiments for a troubled girl, that would only be natural as well. There is no crime in it. Your crime is the enshrinement of those sentiments above the laws of the Reich,” he says, and his gaze closes in on her. “Now, I’m going to ask you a question. A very important question, and I want you to think very hard before you answer,” he tells her, smoke ribboning upward from his cigarette. “Are you in contact with Ericha Kohl?”

“No,” she answers immediately.

“Let me rephrase the question, and, again, I urge you to weigh your answer very carefully. Are you in contact with the criminal Ericha Kohl?”

Sigrid’s eyes are level. “Call her what you like, Herr Kommissar. I am not in contact with her.”

The Kommissar stares at her vacantly, and then lets out a long, slow exhale of smoke. “Very well. You’re free to go, Frau Schröder,” he announces. When she does not budge, he repeats himself. “I said you are free to go.” He tells her this, grinding out his cigarette in Herr Esterwegen’s overflowing ashtray, as if he has lost all interest in her presence. Sitting down behind the desk, he picks up the telephone receiver. “Yes, this is Kriminal-Kommissar Lang, I need to place a call. One moment,” he says, and covers the mouthpiece with his hand. “Is there something else you wish to say?” The question is blank, edged only with impatience.

Sigrid blinks sternly. Shakes her head. “No.” Her voice is hollow. “No, Herr Kommissar. Nothing else.”

“I WOULD HAVE FAINTED were I you,” Renate tells her. They are in the cellar of the building, by a window that opens onto the sidewalk. Shelves and shelves, laden with filing boxes, surround them, as well as warning placards: SMOKING FORBIDDEN IN THIS AREA. But it is still a favorite place to steal a quick cigarette. Traffic noises drift in from the window.

“What? Why fainted?”

“Because men cannot abide women fainting. Tears they can withstand, but faint and they’ll be on their knees beside you, patting your hand and calling for a glass of water.”

Sigrid shakes her head. “I don’t think fainting would have changed a thing. There wasn’t room to faint.”

“And all this was because of your husband?”

“My husband?”

“You said he was asking questions about Kaspar.”

“He was. Yes.”

“Is it the black market? What has he done ?”

“Nothing. He’s done nothing except serve his country.”

Renate frowns. “Then I don’t understand.”

She asks Renate for a drag from her cigarette. Inhales deeply. Shakes off the sharp touch of light-headedness.

“They’re very strong. Ukrainian or something. Heinz smokes them.”

Sigrid can tell that Renate’s also observing her closely now.

“Thanks,” Sigrid says, and returns the smoldering cigarette. “I have something I have to say. Something I have to ask you.”

Renate stares. Her expression shrinks slightly. “What?”

“I need to find a doctor.”

“A doctor?” Confused. “ Why? Are you sick ?”

“No. Not that sort of doctor,” she answers.

A small twist of a smile, as if perhaps this is some kind of humorless joke. “What are you talking about? What other kind of doctors are there?” she asks, but even as the question leaves her mouth, Sigrid can see that she has the answer. “Oh, good God.” She covers her mouth with her hands, to prevent the words from leaving. “Good God, no.”

Sigrid keeps her face straight.

“I gave you condoms,” Renate scolds in a crushed whisper. “Dammit, I gave you condoms . Why didn’t you use them?”

“Do I really need to explain?”

“Could it be Kaspar’s? I mean, is that a possibility? You’ve been with him, too.”

Sigrid knows that she must remove Kaspar from the question in Renate’s mind. Aborting an illicit lover’s child is different from aborting a husband’s. “I was with him, but not in that way,” she says. “He wasn’t inside of me.”

“You’re sure?”

“Renate, if I wasn’t sure whose it was, would I even be considering?”

“All right. All right. You understand why I must ask these things. I’m sorry, but I must.”

“So you’ve asked. Will you help?”

“I don’t know. I have to think.”

“This has never happened to you?” she inquires with a tad too much incredulity that Renate seizes upon.

“You mean even though I’ve screwed every man in sight ? Is that what you’re implying?”

Sigrid shrugs. “I apologize. You don’t have to tell me.”

“I’ll tell you it hasn’t happened to me, because I’m not stupid . I don’t make stupid mistakes. You do , by the way, realize that it is illegal . Abortion is a crime. You could end up with two years in Barnim Strasse. And if I help you, I could end up joining you there.”

“Please forget it,” Sigrid tells her. “Please forget I ever mentioned it. I shouldn’t have. This is my problem.”

Renate smokes solemnly. “That’s right. Your problem ,” she says, dropping her cigarette onto the floor and crushing it vigorously with the toe of her shoe. Then shakes her head. “I have to get back to work,” she says, and frowns. “And you should, too.” Saying this, she retrieves the crushed cigarette butt. “After all, there’s still a war going on.”

Back in the stenographers’ pool, Sigrid reinserts herself behind her desk. A glance to Renate yields nothing. The room fills with the chatter of typewriters.

But then the next time she passes by Sigrid’s desk, Renate drops a cigarette card beside her typewriter. On the face is a photo of the Reichsminister for Popular Enlightenment and Propaganda, Joseph Goebbels. A simian little man in a brown uniform, posed with his wife at the center of a large brood of golden-haired children. On the back, an address of a clinic in Berlin-Kreuzberg, inked in Renate’s neat script. Identify yourself , she has written, as an old friend of Frau Breuer.

THAT EVENING, she hurries up the stairs of her building. At the fourth-floor landing she can hear the drone of Mother Schröder’s wireless through the door. So she knocks on the opposite door instead. This time it is Carin Kessler who answers. “Come in,” she says with a weight to her voice.

Inside, Sigrid glances about. Something in Carin’s tone has started the acid in her stomach bubbling.

“If you’re waiting for him to appear, he won’t. He’s gone.”