David Gillham - City of Women

“Of course,” Sigrid answers.

Carin takes a breath. “Thank you,” she says, with a touch of awkwardness. “I really have no one else to ask.”

“I’m sorry, you said you were going to a funeral, and I didn’t offer you my condolences. Was it someone close?” She asks this and then realizes that perhaps the question is too large for a small exchange. Carin shakes her head.

“No. Not any longer , at any rate. A woman I once knew,” she says, straightening her coat. “Or thought I did. We lived together for a year.”

“I’m sorry,” Sigrid repeats.

“Ancient history.” Carin sighs dimly, and reopens the door. “Really nothing more.”

THE U-BAHN IS CROWDED and gray with the standard silence of the commute. Only the rumble of the rails fills the carriage. Sigrid takes the undercoating of noise into herself. She looks at her hands covertly. No blood. But if she closes her eyes, she can still see it there, her fingers drenched in red.

At her job, no one speaks to her any longer beyond what is absolutely necessary. News travels fast, and Kommissar Lang’s visit has turned her into a pariah on the scale of Frau Remki. She doesn’t mind. Mostly she prefers to be left to herself, except for Renate. It stings that Renate also seems to have forgotten her name. Finally at the filing drawers, she whispers, “So you are never going to speak to me again? Is that it?”

Renate gives her a close glare. Then turns back to her filing. “I have a suspicion about you,” she says, and frowns.

“Do you really? What kind of suspicion?”

“Why were you sent to Esterwegen’s office?”

Sigrid inserts a file firmly in place. “There’s a girl in my building who’s gotten into some trouble. Too many stoop transactions, I think.”

“So why was the Geheime Staatspolizei interested in you ?”

“Because I was foolish enough to befriend the child. She seemed lonely.”

“That’s all? A girl in your building?” Her voice is bluntly skeptical.

Sigrid responds with a direct look. “What else you would you like me to say, Renate?”

Renate shrugs. “I don’t know. The truth, perhaps.”

A frown as she continues filing. “And what does that mean?”

“Who was the man?” Renate asks evenly.

“What man?”

Only a tick of her eyes suffices for the German Glance. “The man you were bedding.”

“I told you.”

“No. No, you didn’t tell me. In fact you made a point of not telling me.”

“Perhaps I thought it was my business.”

“Or perhaps there was something about him you didn’t want me to know. Something that shamed you.”

And now Sigrid’s eyes ignite. “I think that this conversation is over,” she says, gathering her folders together.

“Is he a Jew?” Renate asks bluntly.

Not a blink. Not a breath of hesitation. “Of course not, that’s absurd.”

“Is it?”

“Where would I meet a Jew, Renate?”

“I don’t know. But I’ve been giving it some thought, and it all makes sense. Why did you have to get the condoms? Why couldn’t he get them? Why wouldn’t you answer me when I asked if he was in the army?”

“Renate, listen to yourself. You’re not making any sense at all. Why would I look for such trouble?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you wouldn’t. But it would explain things. Like why you’ve been so edgy about him.”

“I’m a married woman, Renate,” she points out.

Renate shakes her head. “It’s more than that, and you know it.” And then she says, “I think that you and I should discontinue our friendship for a while, Frau Schr��der.”

“Because I don’t brag about the details of my bedroom escapades?”

“Like me , you mean? No. That’s not it. Because you won’t tell me the truth. And what good is a friend if there is no truth between them?”

Sigrid picks out a file and sticks it under her arm. “Now, that’s funny.”

“You think so?”

“And if I do tell you what you want to hear, just to satisfy you? If I pretend your ‘suspicion’ is correct, then what do you say?”

Renate’s eyes are fixed on her. “Then I would say I am ashamed for you. I would say that you have polluted your body, polluted your womb with some Jew’s dirty spunk. And I would say that, were it me, I would sooner abort such a growth with a table fork than give birth to a half-breed.”

Only the smallest of shrugs as Sigrid absorbs this. “Then what good is the truth?”

“ Is it the truth?”

“No.” Sigrid shoves the filing drawer closed. “It’s not.”

IN THE KU’DAMM there’s a weinstube, a wine restaurant, with a view of the tall spire of the Gedächtniskirche. It’s the sort of place that Kaspar might have taken her for a birthday or anniversary years ago. The sort of place where Sigrid would have dressed to patronize. Gloves, her good dress. A stylish hat with a veil. But since the total war decrees were issued by the Propaganda Ministry, the windows have been shuttered, the awning rolled up, and the door locked. And she is dressed in the out-of-fashion coat from the doctor’s office. She knocks, as instructed, as a splash of rain spatters the sidewalk. No answer. But when she knocks again, the door cracks open and an old uncle pokes out his head with a pair of soggy, looming eyes.

“Closed,” the old uncle tells her.

“Yes. But I was told to come here,” she tries to explain quickly. “By the Herr Leutnant.”

“The Herr Leutnant?” A thick, boggy voice.

“Yes. He said I should knock and that you would let me in.” A German Glance, and the old uncle opens the door just wide enough for her to squeeze through. Inside, she finds the dining room gloomy and lit only by the daylight that filters through the shutters. The bar is covered by a long canvas tarp, and chairs are stacked on tabletops. The old man is wearing a dirty apron over a wool pullover.

“Is that her, Otto?” a voice calls.

“It is, Herr Leutnant.”

“Good. Show her over, won’t you?”

The cover has slipped to reveal a bit of glass on a shrouded mirror. She pulls off her scarf and runs her fingers through her hair, covertly peering into her reflection.

“This way, please.” The old man frowns.

She spots Wolfram first through the forest of chair legs, seated at the single table in the room set with linen. He is dressed in mufti, a cashmere coat and well-blocked roll-brim hat on the table beside his elbow. He doesn’t exactly smile at the sight of her, but she likes the light in his eyes. “You made it,” he observes. “You’ll pardon me if I don’t stand. My leg is killing me today.”

“I’m sorry,” says Sigrid, “but Wolfram shrugs it off.” The old uncle suddenly adopts a proper hausherr’s bearing and offers Sigrid a seat. She accepts, listening to the delicate scuff of the chair. “Thank you.”

A correct nod for the gnädige Frau.

“Do you want something to drink?” Wolfram asks, screwing out a cigarette in an enameled ashtray that he’s already dirtied.

“Oh, um. A coffee would be nice.”

“Nothing stronger?”

“Coffee.”

“You’ll regret it,” he says, putting aside the copy of the Vossische Zeitung he’d been smoking over. “A coffee for the lady, and I’ll have another Gilka.”

The old uncle shows them the shadow of a bow, then quickly removes the empty glass and the dirty ashtray. There is no fussing with ration cards .

“So, such an extraordinary establishment, and it serves only you,” she notes. “I’m very impressed.”