Caroline Woods - Fräulein M.

“This, as you can see, is the parlor.” Fräulein Schmidt leaned against the long velvet divan. “I plan to bring the dining table out and convert that room to your bedchamber. The parlor wouldn’t look as empty then, nicht ?”

Berni stepped around the room, touching everything. The intricate plasterwork around the windows cracked a bit under her fingers. In the corner a cello leaned under a portrait of a woman with a rose pinned at her throat. A bowl of figs sat on an end table next to a lipstick-stained napkin and a pile of stems. “I do not think it seems empty,” Berni said. The spines of Fräulein Schmidt’s books felt worn and well used. Most were collections of sheet music, but Berni also saw volumes of poetry, Virgil’s Aeneid in the original Latin.

“They told me about you and the academy,” Fräulein Schmidt said behind her. “You don’t need to go to school to be educated, you know. You can be an autodidact.”

“Yes,” Berni murmured, more to herself than to Fräulein Schmidt, “it will be a fine place to bring Grete.” Her sister was all Berni had spoken of during the car ride, which would have been exhilarating if she hadn’t been so distracted. She’d apologized for Grete’s timidity around strangers, which she assured Fräulein Schmidt was not personal; she expected Grete to join her here in a matter of weeks.

“I’ll allow you to stay a month without paying rent,” Fräulein Schmidt said. “But after that I will begin to charge you for the room. A pittance, really. I don’t need much money; my father left me this place when he died. He didn’t want to, since I’m not married.” When she smiled, Berni noticed one tooth in front was slightly darker than the others. “He said at least I’d earn an honest living as a landlady. But so far I am running more of a charity than a boarding house. You might say I’ve created a home for lost girls of my own.”

The last part made Berni shiver. “Where will I get rent money?”

“Oh, there are plenty of things you can do. You can run a coat check, or sell cigarettes, as Anita does—you’ll meet her in a moment. And you should call me Sonje, you know. I use the informal du with everyone. Though I’m not as Socialist as some of my friends. I like chocolate and eiderdown too much. And these.” She held out her cigarette, which was wrapped in jade paper and had a gold tip. “Would you believe these little beauties cost nearly a mark apiece?”

It was all starting to make Berni’s head swirl: the smoke, the information. She felt someone’s hand on her back and moved aside so that a petite woman with a tight mop of pinkish curls could get to the table; in one sweep she cleared the fig stems and napkin. “Bernadette,” Sonje said, her hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Meet Frau Pelzer, our housekeeper.”

Frau Pelzer shook her hand so hard her shoulder popped in its socket. “Don’t tell me you’re another picky eater,” she said, showing her gold fillings when she laughed.

A housekeeper? Berni could barely stammer a greeting, she felt so overwhelmed. This woman would cook for her? Clean up after her? There had to be a catch. She put a hand to her forehead. “I’m sorry, I—I’m not feeling well.”

“Do you need the toilet?” Sonje asked pleasantly, and Frau Pelzer grunted, “I’m not finished bleaching the tiles.”

Berni stumbled into the little hallway with its worn red rug. She opened the first door on her right, which turned out to be a linen closet. Instead of holding sheets and towels, the shelves were stacked with cigarettes, cartons of cigars, tins of loose tobacco with bright labels, like tea.

“You can stay in the bedroom on the left,” Sonje called to her. “But—ah—Berni—”

Berni put her hand on the knob. What she needed to do now was cry, loudly and messily, into a pillow. But there was already a girl with bright red hair sitting on the bed reading a magazine, her long legs crossed at the kneecaps.

It was the perfume salesgirl, Berni realized in horror, from Fiedler’s. “You!” she cried.

The girl snapped her legs underneath her. “You? What are you doing here? Sonje!”

Sonje appeared on the threshold, arms crossed. “Berni, Anita, I hope you’ll at least try to be friends, or cordial roommates.”

Anita gawked. “She’s sleeping in here?”

“Only until I can convert the dining room to a third bedroom.”

“I need air,” Berni muttered, and she ran out of the room, past Frau Pelzer, who laughed throatily as she yanked open the main door to the apartment. She sat on the front steps of the building, her hands over her ears. A pile of yellow horse dung gathered flies in the road in front of her. Sonje’s street, which sloped downward at a steep angle, looked completely unfamiliar. Alien territory, though Berni had walked it with Sonje just minutes before.

For dinner Frau Pelzer served pickles, crackers, and tinned fish. “Sorry for the cold meal, girls,” Sonje said over a newspaper. She had several papers spread over the table.

Berni had to wring her hands to keep from grabbing all the food. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. She’d have bolted it down if Anita hadn’t been watching her closely.

“Something to read, Berni?” asked Sonje. “Perhaps Germania , that’s the Catholic Centre Party’s paper. Or Berliner Tageblatt , for Social Democrats. Ah, here’s Deutsche Zeitung , my personal favorite.” She smiled. “The rag of the anti-Semites.”

Berni recoiled. “Your favorite? That’s disgusting.”

Anita dabbed her mouth, leaving black cherry smudges on the tissue. “She’s Jewish, you pointy-head,” she said. “She’s joking when she says it’s her favorite.”

Berni considered this for a moment, wondering if she’d ever spoken to a Jew before. She knew better than to check for horns under Sonje’s hair; the sisters had told the girls this was a myth. It was Anita who interested Berni more. Powder coated her skin like new snow, making the landscape flawless but stark, a harsh contrast to the scarlet wig. Her eyebrows were delicate as cricket legs, her jaw broad and lips full; they became a deeper pink as she ate and abraded them with bread. She tossed her pilsner down and slammed the foam-laced glass on the table. “What the hell are you looking at?”

“Nothing.”

Anita’s laugh was a high, nervous staccato, a bird’s warning. “Your new friend needs to practice her manners,” she told Sonje.

Sonje folded back a page of her paper. “Oh, you were staring, too.”

After dinner, Berni dallied in the parlor, waiting for Anita to go to sleep. It was out of the question for Grete to join her while they still had to share a room with Anita. She’d have to put her sister off until Sonje found a bed for the dining room.

Before Sonje turned in, she handed Berni a slim red hardcover. “You should fill your mind with genius before sleep. Have you read Rilke?”

Berni opened the book to a well-read page. “Ich bin auf der Welt zu allein…” She shut the book with a bang. “No.” She was feeling “too alone in the world,” far too alone to read Rilke.

“Hmm.” Sonje looked over the titles in the hallway bookcase. “Aha! Reliable Nesthäkchen.” She handed Berni Nesthäkchen and the World War by Else Ury. “I loved these as a child. But don’t stay up late. Tomorrow Anita will take you to the Medvedev, to learn to sell.”

“To sell?”

“Cigarettes.”

Berni shrugged. She took the book into the bedroom, where she was disappointed to find Anita fully dressed, glowering at her over the mattress. Her knobby fingers hovered over her buttons. “I bet you’d like to see me nude. You wait in the hall. I’m not a lesbian like you.”