David Gillham - City of Women

“Thank you,” Sigrid tell her, and the woman grunts. “And my clothing?”

“Into the incinerator,” the matron says, frowning. “The Herr Doktor is not running a laundry service.” With that, she exits, thumping the door shut.

Sigrid opens her bag. Everything looks in order. She opens the envelope of photographs and meets Kozig in his postal uniform, his camera stare unblinking. Then thumbs through the rest. All there. Behind the screen she changes into the clothes. They are very baggy, but she covers them with a putty-colored raincoat and binds the belt tightly. She turbans her hair with a blue flannel scarf like factory women do. There is a rectangular mirror hanging on the wall above a chair, and the reflection it displays is of an anonymous Berliner Frau. There’s a knock, and the taxi man sticks his head in.

“You are decent?”

“Come in,” Sigrid tells him.

“Good. You have replacement clothes,” he says, his face drawn, running his fingers through his hair. “I’m going to have to dispose of the body. The bastard doctor won’t help me, not even for cash.”

“How?”

“I don’t know yet. I covered him with a blanket and parked the taxi behind the building. But it can’t stay there long, it’ll draw too much attention.”

“I’ll help you.”

“No. No, the Fräulein would have my nuts if she knew I put you in further danger.” He says this with a kind of smile.

“The Fräulein?’

“You know the one I mean. Skinny as a stick, with eyes like Judgment Day. Besides, you have your own work cut out for you.”

“Yes. The photographs,” Sigrid says.

The man tugs on his cap. “I’m sorry we couldn’t save him.”

Sigrid nods blankly, thinking of those two plump children. “Yes.”

“And too bad about Franz. He was always a very good source for very bad cigars,” the fellow laments, but only briefly. “Well. I shall say good-bye, gnädige Frau. And wish you the best,” he says, shaking her hand.

“Good-bye,” she answers. “I don’t know your name.”

“Call me Rudi.”

“Then good-bye, Rudi. Thank you. You probably saved my life.”

“No. Thank Franz. He’s the one who saved you,” Rudi says, and turns to go. But Sigrid stops him. “I have to ask you,” she says. “The Grosse Hamburger Strasse.”

Rudi’s expression dims.

“When you went there, did you ever deal with a man named”—and she must dig out from her memory the name of the Gestapo man whom the Russian claimed ran the Search Service—“with a man named Dirkweiler ?”

“Dirkweiler?” Almost a smile, but not a nice one. “Oh, yes. A genuine hangman. Doesn’t have shit for brains. Why? You have an interest?”

She doesn’t answer. Instead she asks, “Do you also know of a man called Grizmek?”

And now the smile gains a trace of bitterness. “Sure. He was a catcher,” Rudi replies. “And if you know his name, then you know what that means.”

“You say he was ?”

“He was until he escaped.” Rudi shrugs. “Grizmek was privileged.”

“Privileged.” The same word the Russian has used.

“Because he was so talented at what he did. Plenty of tobacco, plenty of food. Dirkweiler had started rewarding him with nice clothes, silk ties, watches, even cash. All confiscated from the Jews he was netting,” Rudi points out. “He was partnered with this tasty redhead named Freya. A sweet piece of pie, if you’ll pardon me. Together they were quite a successful couple. But then something happened. The last time Franz and I arrived with the lorry, the whole operation was in an uproar, and Dirkweiler was through the roof. Grizmek had vanished along with a sack full of diamonds from the safe. Not only that, but he had stuck a knife into his Gestapo handler. Killed him while they were on the U-Bahn, and then just stepped off at the next stop.” He says this, and then gazes thickly at Sigrid. “That’s all I know. Does it answer your question?”

Sigrid swallows. She picks up her handbag from where she has left it under a chair. She’d given Ericha all the money from the diamond sale, but there was still the envelope from Fräulein von Hohenhoff. She opens its flap and removes half of its contents. “Here. Take this,” she tells Rudi. “This is three hundred marks.”

“Well. That’s impressive,” Rudi observes.

“Maybe you can give it to Franz’s wife. Or just use it as you see fit.”

Stuffing the money into his pocket, he tells her, “Good luck to you, gnädige Frau,” and climbs behind the wheel of his cab.

“Wait,” Sigrid calls. “Rudi. One more thing.”

Rudi looks up from the steering wheel. She had never noticed before the kindness in the man’s eyes that the scar tended to mask.

“If I need to. I mean to say, if it’s essential. Is there a way that I can contact you?”

“Not directly,” Rudi says. “But if it’s essential, you can always get in touch through the blind man.”

“The blind man,” Sigrid repeats.

“Zoo Bahnhof, under the clock. You’ll find him there every afternoon, rain or shine.”

THAT NIGHT, she takes a long soak in the bathtub. As hot as she can make it. As hot as she can stand. Her mother-in-law bangs on the door, complaining, “Are you drowned in there?” but Sigrid ignores her. In a little while, music from the wireless floats by. Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 21. She can recall her mother playing Mozart on her phonograph on a Sunday afternoon. Those pearly notes rippling through the piano’s harp, and sweetening the air with its placid melancholy.

Sigrid closes her eyes, opens herself to the music, and lets herself drown in the memory of something exquisite.

SHE AWAKENS, SEEING the dead man’s face. Herr Kozig’s half-eyed stare into death. The sight of Franz as his head splinters red. The images flicker inside her mind. They spot her vision as she dresses, as she fills the coffeepot, as she scrubs her teeth with powdered tooth cleaner, as she tries to insert death into the routine of her life.

“I was just about to knock on your door.” Carin says, dressed in a sensibly cut coat and felt hat, coming out of her flat as Sigrid is leaving hers. She does not inquire about Sigrid’s “friend.” She does not even inquire about her brother. She only says, as she buttons her coat, “Would you mind stepping in for a moment?”

Sigrid hesitates, but then does as she is asked. Carin shuts the door behind them.

“I have a favor to ask of you,” she announces in the sheepishly painful tone adopted by people who never ask favors. “I have to go to a funeral on Thursday out of town,” she says. “I should be back by nightfall, but could I ask you? That is, would you mind looking in on Brigitte?”

Sigrid blinks . It’s not helping. He’s still bleeding! “Mind?”

“I find I’m somehow concerned about the silly cow,” Carin admits. “She seems unwell. Nothing serious, of course. On and off with a fever, and a bit of nausea. That’s common enough, considering how far along she is. Only, her color isn’t good,” she says. And then, “Now that I mention it, your color doesn’t look so good, either. Is something the matter?”

“No. Just a lack of sleep. Isn’t she seeing a doctor?”

“Yes, but the old quack thinks the cure for all ailments is a chorus of the ‘Horst Wessel Lied.’ You know the type. Pictures of the Führer in every room. Party pin on his medical coat. Belligerently condescending toward his female patients. I think, honestly, she’s afraid of the man.”

“Afraid?”

“That she’ll be discovered ,” Carin whispers with arch confidentiality. “That he’ll see the invisible J stamped over her private parts. Something .” Carin shrugs. “Spending a week with her mother has addled her brain. I should have anticipated that, I suppose. I may have mentioned, her dear ‘Mutti’ is not only a heinous human being, but has become an equally heinous anti-Semite, ignoring the fact at she was once married to man of Jewish blood. That’s what makes her company so enthralling. She thinks she’s Goebbels in a dress now, and sometimes so do I. But I should have anticipated that a delicate piece of porcelain like Brigitte would go to pieces after a few days. In any case, if you could just look in on her.”