David Gillham - City of Women

“How much?”

“How much is he asking?”

“He said that you would offer a fair price.”

The old Russian snorts. “Then, I suppose I must,” he says. “You know, I knew him, before the war, our friend Grizmek. By a different name back then, though,” he says, and winks. “I did business with his father and older brother. They were both good men. You know, honest . More honest than me,” he concedes. “But the young one?” he says. “Like a razor. If you weren’t careful? Slash , right through to the bone. And then he’d leave you bleeding, but do so with a most disarming smile.”

“Yes,” Sigrid admits. “I’m familiar with the process.”

Melnikov shrugs his understanding. “He has always relied upon his women,” he tells her, but then says nothing more about it. Instead he grunts as he bends over to a heavy black safe, which looks as if it has been through more than one war. “You’ll excuse me,” he says, “if I must ask you to turn your back.”

She does, staring at the icons on the mantel, gilded but dust-laden, and listening to the trip of the tumblers and the heavy thunk of the safe’s iron door.

“This is what I am prepared to offer,” the man tells her, and proffers a kraft paper envelope. She takes it. Inside is a stack of Reichsmarks. She glances at him. What is the protocol? Should she count it? But Melnikov can read her mind, it seems. “Go ahead. Count it. It’s no insult.”

So she does. Then gazes back at the old man’s face with some small anxiety. She has never held this much money in her hands before.

“I am not by nature a generous man,” he explains with a shrug. “But there are times when one does what one can do. Tell him it’s in honor of his father, God preserve his soul.”

“Thank you,” Sigrid whispers. Then buries the envelope in her bag. “Thank you, Herr Melnikov.”

Sigrid turns, but at the door Melnikov adds a parting thought. “And tell him, please. Tell him I offer my condolences.”

“Condolences?”

“Forgive my poor taste for asking you to play as messenger in this case, but please tell him that I was very grieved to hear of his wife.”

The words turn Sigrid into cement. She cannot move from the doorway. “His wife,” she repeats.

“Yes. I knew her when she was a girl in St. Petersburg. I was partners, briefly, with her uncle in export business.”

“St. Petersburg.” Sigrid shakes her head. “But that’s not possible,” she explains.

A blink. “Pardon? What is not possible?”

“His wife is very much alive. And she’s not from St. Petersburg, she’s from Vienna.”

“No,” Melnikov corrects in a patient tone. “Vienna is where they met . Perhaps,” he suggests, “perhaps you’ve misunderstood.”

“No. No, Herr Melnikov. I haven’t misunderstood. And I saw his wife only days ago. You’re offering condolences , but she is very much alive .”

And now Melnikov’s face is starting to darken with caution. He gives the corridor another glance, then clears his throat so that his tone is level and blunt. “Meine Frau,” he begins thickly, formally. “Your relationship with Grizmek is your business. I don’t know what he has said to you, or what you believe. But I can assure you, I am not so old or so senile that I cannot recall the facts of my own life. I can also assure you that what I’m telling you is true. A terrible thing, but true . His wife was killed last month on the day she and her daughters were to be transported to Poland.”

Sigrid searches the sagging face for some fissure in its certainty, just a small enough crack for her to slip through. But his face is a wall. Finally, she forms the question. “How do you know this?”

Melnikov frowns. “I dislike dealing with the SS, but times being what they are, I have more than one business associate at a certain address in the Grosse Hamburger Strasse. I was aware of Grizmek there. I was aware, too, that they valued his services. Also, perhaps, they were a little frightened of him. I know this sounds absurd, the SS frightened of a Jew? But that was my sense of it. They were very concerned that he never discover the truth about his wife. Especially that durák Dirkweiler.”

“Who is Dirkweiler?”

“Untersturmführer Dirkweiler. He’s a handler.”

“A handler ? What does that mean ?” she asks, then presses him when he shakes his head. “Tell me, please. What does that mean?”

“It means what it means.”

“What about the Grosse Hamburger Strasse? He was a prisoner there. What do you mean, they valued him? The Gestapo gave him beatings.”

“No doubt. In the beginning.”

“The beginning? What are you saying, the beginning ?”

The Russian frowns. “You’re telling me you don’t know? Quite seriously?”

“Know what ?”

Suddenly he shakes his head. More worried. “I have said enough. A little brandy,” he tells her, “and a pretty woman has loosened my tongue. That’s all.” He’s trying to crowd her out, but she becomes immovable.

“ No , Herr Melnikov, I will not allow you to simply shoo me on my way.”

“My dear, you have your money, more than I should have paid. What more do you want from an old man?”

“I will not leave until you answer me.”

“Answer you? But I have answered you.” The door across the hall cracks open. No eye is visible, no listening ear. But it is enough to deepen the frown on the old man’s face.

“Shall I scream? I will,” Sigrid whispers, her voice gone raw. “I’ll scream my head off.”

His eyes loom. “You want the police here?”

“Do you ? I’m sure that I am not the first ‘pretty woman’ who’s come to do business at this door. I’m sure they would wonder just what kind of brothel the old Ivan is running.”

The Russian’s scowl goes black. But then he yanks her back inside with surprising strength, and shuts the door. He glares into her face. “Grosse Hamburger Strasse 26. It’s a detention center for Jews in transit. Only there are some Jews, like our ‘Grizmek,’ who have taken up residence there. Some who are engaged in a very specialized line of work as a member of what the Gestapo call their ‘Search Service.’ Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“No. You’re not making sense.”

“You Germans have a very good word for it. ‘Umsatteln,’” he tells her. “To resaddle in midride. Seamlessly so. Search Service Jews are given green permits that allow them to travel freely about town. They sit at café tables,” he explains. “They ride the S-Bahn. They don’t wear the Judenstern. They sit on a bench in the park, they go to the cinema. And they watch.”

“Watch?”

“For other Jews.” He shrugs blandly. “And when one is spotted, it only takes a nod. A wave. There’s a Gestapo handler nearby who does the rest.”

She can hear Ericha’s voice in her head. Jews who hunt Jews . “Catchers,” she breathes.

“So, the gnädige Frau knows more than she lets on.”

Sigrid says nothing. There are no words available to her.

“Yes, catchers. ” Melnikov nods. “Some are trying to save their own lives. Others, the lives of their family, perhaps. And others? I think such work can be very addictive. As a Jew in Gestapo custody, what are you? Nothing. Vermin to be trod upon. As a catcher you have value . Catchers are privileged. They have independence. They’re given special rewards,” he says, rubbing his fingers together, displaying the lucrative friction of booty.