City of Women (33 page)

“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.”

•   •   •

T
HAT 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.

EIGHTEEN

S
HE 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.”

“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.”

•   •   •

T
HE
U-B
AHN 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.”

•   •   •

I
N THE
K
U’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.”

But Wolfram reacts as if perhaps he’s only now noticed that he’s the only patron and that he does not find this astonishing in the least. “Not me, personally, but it does serve my office,” he says, lifting a leather briefcase from the floor beside his false leg and setting it on his lap. “I have a gift for you,” he says, thumbing open its clasp. Out of the case comes a box the size of a book, wrapped in colored tissue and ribbons.

The old uncle arrives. “Gnädige Frau,” he says, and sets the coffee on the linen tablecloth, with a sugar bowl and small cream pitcher filled with a chalky liquid that is nothing like cream. “And for the Herr Leutnant,” he says, setting down the glass of Gilka with a clean ashtray.

When he shuffles away, Sigrid looks down at the package, then up at Wolfram. “Shall I open it?”

“That’s normally the procedure with a gift,” he says.

Carefully, she removes the tissue from the box and opens the lid. It is a book. A newly minted edition, bookshop fresh, with the author’s Charlie Chaplin face glowering up at her from the dust jacket. His eyes like pellets of coal. The fetlock of hair slicked over his brow. The postage-stamp mustache. Sigrid stares into the face. The title is in heavy script: Mein Kampf.

“I thought this was an appropriate choice. Have you read it?”

“No.”

“Then I won’t tell you how it ends,” he says, and then assures her, “You should find everything required within.”

She gives Wolfram half a glance, trying unsuccessfully to read his face. Then lifts the book’s cover only long enough to see the thick envelope fitted securely into the hollowed-out pages.

“I see. Very clandestine.”

“I think you’ll find that all is in order,” Wolfram tells her. “Except I was expecting a man with a Jewish face. You left him out.”

“He’s dead.”

“Really? What happened?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she says as she replaces the book into its box, then inserts the box into her bag. “He’s dead. That’s all.”

“How different you’ve become,” Wolfram observes. “So much tougher than you were.”

But Sigrid only shakes her head. “No. Not tougher. Just numb.” Then she frowns at her cup. “This coffee is terrible.”

“I tried to warn you. The Kümmel, on the other hand, is very smooth. Smoke?”

“I’ll share one,” she tells him, and watches him light up. The patrician’s profile. The damage reflected in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Wolfram,” she suddenly says, observing him.

He exhales smoke, and lifts an eyebrow. “Sorry? For what are you sorry?”

“I don’t know. Something.”

“For breaking my heart?”

Almost a smile. “Is your heart broken? I doubt that. I hear you go through women like you do cigarettes,” she says, cheating a drag.

“Again. You cannot believe everything my sister tells you,” he repeats. “So you haven’t mentioned.”

“Mentioned what?”

“Our friend the chess player. I hope he has been improving his game.”

“He’s playing well enough to beat me,” she tells him, staring archly at a spot on the table linen. Then shakes her head. “I don’t know what to do about him.”

“Then I think that you had better drop him.”

She lifts her eyes.

“Please understand, I say this not out of jealousy, Sigrid,” he tells her. “I don’t believe in jealousy. But he is dangerous. Dangerous because he has nothing to live for. And even more dangerous, because he doesn’t yet know it.”

She takes a breath. “And you can tell all this, Herr Leutnant, from a chess game?”

Wolfram shrugs, and taps his cigarette ash. “You will do what you will do, Frau Schröder. That much I have learned about you. But remember, you ignored my warning about the coffee.” Picking up his snifter of Gilka, he clinks it against Sigrid’s coffee cup in a toast.
“Prost,”
he offers efficiently, taking a deep swallow, sets down the glass, and removes a creamy white envelope from his coat, sliding it across the table.