David Gillham - City of Women

“What?”

“The revolver, Sigrid.”

“What are you doing to do with it?”

“Nothing. Just hand it over.”

She hesitates. Her stomach crawling. “What if I need to shoot you later?” she asks.

“Then you can always ask for it back,” he tells her, and holds out his hand.

She shifts, finally, and passes over the shiny piece of nickel plating and watches him stuff it into his pocket. “Don’t wait for me,” she tells him. “Tomorrow. I won’t be coming.”

“We’ll see,” he replies. “A lot could happen between now and then. The world could shift on its axis, Sigrid. Mountains could spring from the seas. Pigs could fly. A woman could change her mind,” he says, and exits the seat beside her.

Outside in the street, she searches for the monkey-eared Kommissar, and spots him at the news kiosk buying a paper from an old veteran. Only this time he’s exactly the man she wants to see. It actually takes some effort to make sure she doesn’t lose him in the crowd on the U-Bahn platform. Inside the carriage, he takes a seat on the opposite side of the aisle and glowers at his newspaper. Not a good Nazi rag like the Völkischer Beobachter , but a spicy illustrated known for its salacious stories and its “beauty” adverts featuring undressed women. The front page features a pile of muddy skulls with the headline RUSSIA’S GUILT!

She stays on past her stop. Far past her stop, in fact. Past the stop for the Deutsche Opernhaus-Bismarckstrasse, past the stop for Sophie-Charlottenburg-Platz, past the stop for Kaiserdammbrücke and the circumference of the Ringbahn. At one point, as the train is pulling away from the platform at the Adolf-Hitler-Platz, the monkey-eared Kommissar stretches his neck and frowns out the window with a perplexed expression. He must wonder what sort of a ride this woman is taking him on. Finally, two stops later, it’s getting a little embarrassing. They are quite nearly the only ones left in the carriage when it heaves through the tunnel for the Reichssportfeld platform. Sigrid stands and he buries his nose in his newspaper, but when she suddenly crowds into the seat beside him, he jumps as if she’s shocked him with a bolt of electricity.

“I’d like you to look inside my bag, Herr Kommissar,” she tells him with polite force. Her handbag is open, and inside, her hand is gripping the handle of her fish knife. She watches his expression freeze. “Please believe that I don’t wish to hurt you,” she assures him. “Just the opposite, in fact. I want you to remain very healthy. And least for another day.”

He says nothing, only stares at her with blank stupefaction.

“I see you wear a wedding ring,” she observes. “That’s very good. What is the date of your anniversary?”

His eyes narrow. “My what ?”

“Your wedding anniversary,” Sigrid repeats.

Eyes still narrow, a glance down at the knife, but now perhaps he’s a bit curious. “April twenty-seventh,” he answers.

“Not very far away,” she notes as she brings out something enclosed in her fist from her coat pocket. “Show me your palm, Herr Kommissar,” she tells him.

He hesitates.

“Go on.”

His frown deepens, but covertly, he opens his palm. “And has your wife ever received a diamond from her husband?” Sigrid inquires. The small stone she releases from her fist gleams for an instant, before the Kommissar’s hand closes over it. Quickly it disappears into his pocket, and he turns a page of his newspaper.

“You have a leak in your bucket,” he tells her.

“A leak ,” she repeats.

“A Judas, gnädige Frau,” says the kommissar. “In your little group. You’ve been betrayed.”

She stares blankly at him, but he only frowns at his paper. “Who?” she whispers darkly. “Did you have a name ?”

“Yes,” the kommissar answers, and rattles the paper as he turns another page. “I have a name.”

“And?”

A sniff. “My wife’s birthday is May fifteenth.”

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” her mother-in-law demands to know.

“Packing a suitcase.”

“I can see that. Where do you think you’re going ?”

“On a holiday.”

“A holiday ?” The old woman nearly swoons at the very idea. “And what about your job ?”

“What about it?”

“You cannot miss work. It’s illegal.”

“I don’t have a job, Petronela. I was dismissed.”

“ Dismissed? Oh, my God in Heaven,” her mother-in-law bleats mournfully, “I knew it would come to this. Your defeatism and quick mouth finally caught up with you.”

“That’s right.” Sigrid stuffs a pair of shoes into the sides of the case and closes the lid. The snaps don’t work properly, so she finds one of Kaspar’s belts to strap it securely. In the other room, the wireless plays a tune by Charlie and His Orchestra. “You Can’t Stop Me from Dreaming.”

“And what about me ?”

“You?”

“Off you go, leaving me behind to live on a widow’s pension?”

“I’m sure that the Party won’t let a devoted dues-paying member starve.”

“ You see! You see, that is exactly the sort of remark that lost you your position, I’m quite sure of it.”

“Just think, Petronela, of the freedom you’ll have. You can play your radio whenever you like.”

“You can’t do this.”

“Can’t I?”

“You can’t just leave .”

“You’ll miss me?” she inquires, throwing on her overcoat.

“I won’t be left alone here. I’m warning you.”

“What are you going to do? Ring up the police? Denounce me for packing a suitcase?”

“There’s plenty more I could talk about, I assure you.”

“Maybe that’s true.” She picks up the case by the handle and jiggles it to test the binding job. “But if the police arrest me, then I’ll still be gone, and you’ll still be alone.”

In the next room, Charlie and His Orchestra are suddenly interrupted by a sharp, syncopated beeping.

“I’m going,” Sigrid declares.

“You can’t. There’s an air raid.”

“Churchill sent me a telegram. He said I’d be safe.”

“You can’t go outside, you’re insane. You won’t be allowed .”

But Sigrid is not listening. The voice of the Portierfrau Mundt is sharply audible in the stairwell . “Into the cellar. Everyone into the cellar.” When she spots Sigrid, her voice gains an edge as the sirens yowl. “Frau Schröder. What do you think you’re doing ?”

“Getting out, Frau Mundt.”

“That is not permitted. All residents—” she begins, but Sigrid cuts her off.

“Oh, please. Won’t you just shut your hole, you dried-up old bitch?”

“How dare you speak so to a member of the Party!”

“Yes. You think you’re the Führer’s favorite, do you? You think he gives the slightest shit whether you live or die? Whether any of us do? He doesn’t .”

“That’s treasonous !” Mundt actually sounds shocked . “ Insulting the Führer .”

“Get out of my way.”

“Oh! My God ,” they hear a woman gasp painfully, and turn to see Brigitte, with a belly as big as a drum, waddling down the steps, hugging her air raid blanket. Mother Schröder grips her arm. “It’s coming soon. She could drop at any moment,” the old woman announces. A bolt of guilt strikes Sigrid squarely in the chest. Her promise to Carin had flown out the window.

“Don’t just stand there gawking,” Mother Schröder chides. “ Help me with her!”