Read Online City of Women by David R. Gillham - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David R. Gillham
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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had deadlines, and simply could
not
leave the office unsupervised. Her mother was a slop bucket of tears spilling over, while Sigrid hid hers.
After that, it was her mother’s job to cook, but that didn’t work out well, so it became Sigrid’s job instead. Meanwhile, business for her father’s firm died, too, when AEG canceled its contracts. Sigrid somehow linked the two events in her head. Her father started spending evenings at the office, then some nights stopped coming home altogether. Then one morning in late March, the day after a terrible rainstorm, he left his key to the flat on the kitchen table and never came back.
There were certain formalities to observe after a certain period of time. Telephone calls placed to his embarrassed secretary at the firm. A visit to the local police precinct, where the Wachtmeister at the desk treated her mother like a foolish woman who had just lost her husband. A solemn discussion with her father’s partner in the firm. A solemn discussion with the manager of their bank. A solemn discussion with their landlord. Sigrid blamed her mother’s cooking.
“Why couldn’t you have cooked better for him!”
she’d bellowed. It was the first time she had ever raised her voice to her mother in her life. But her mother only gazed back at her flatly. “Why couldn’t have you been a better daughter?” she asked. The same day, her mother cleaned out her father’s wardrobe, and gave everything to Winter Relief. Soon after, she started selling things off. Every day, when Sigrid came home from school, there would be another empty space somewhere in the flat. The furniture went first. The fancy dresses went next, and then the pots and pans, dishware, flatware, knickknacks, Meissen, books, everything her mother could lay her hands on. Though, only as a last resort did she empty the contents of her jewelry case, her eyes filling.
That,
thought Sigrid with a mix of bitterness and satisfaction, seemed to pain her mother more than parting with her husband. And, of course, the garden flat in Südgelände was now far out of their reach, so her mother found a dustbin in the Salzbrunner Strasse where the WC was down at the end of the hallway and was often clogged. There they lived alone. And that’s how it felt. Both of them together. But both of them alone.
Making her way along a graveled path toward the gate, with her sack of garden tools, Sigrid notices a couple occupying a granite bench near an untended landscape of forgotten graves. They are seated close to each other, yet something seems to separate them. She looks away and keeps walking. But then behind her are voices. Raised voices. She can’t help but turn back to look.
The girl is standing now, and the fellow bent forward from the bench, holding her hand as if he might have to prevent her fleeing. He looks innocuous in the drab, shapeless coat and hat that is the civilian uniform of all Berliner males these days. The girl is in a dark, too-large coat with a wool beret pulled over soot black hair. Sigrid does not immediately recognize the creature until she spots the girl’s awkwardly stiffened posture as the man jumps to his feet and kisses her full on the mouth. It’s the duty-year girl, Fräulein Kohl. Sigrid finds herself staring, oddly transfixed. The Fräulein does not exactly resist, but neither does she exactly respond. Then she turns her head toward Sigrid, and even from the distance that separates them, Sigrid can feel the grip of the girl’s glare. It chases her away. She turns quickly and starts hiking toward the street, as if it were
she
who’d just been caught in a moment of intimacy. The footsteps she hears crunching on the gravel behind her are hurried and growing closer.
Frau Schröder
.
For several steps Sigrid does not slow, but then she hears the Fräulein appeal again, calling her name, and she stops. Turns about. The girl swallows a breath. Close up, Sigrid is reminded again how young this girl is. No lines
not
leave the office unsupervised. Her mother was a slop bucket of tears spilling over, while Sigrid hid hers.
After that, it was her mother’s job to cook, but that didn’t work out well, so it became Sigrid’s job instead. Meanwhile, business for her father’s firm died, too, when AEG canceled its contracts. Sigrid somehow linked the two events in her head. Her father started spending evenings at the office, then some nights stopped coming home altogether. Then one morning in late March, the day after a terrible rainstorm, he left his key to the flat on the kitchen table and never came back.
There were certain formalities to observe after a certain period of time. Telephone calls placed to his embarrassed secretary at the firm. A visit to the local police precinct, where the Wachtmeister at the desk treated her mother like a foolish woman who had just lost her husband. A solemn discussion with her father’s partner in the firm. A solemn discussion with the manager of their bank. A solemn discussion with their landlord. Sigrid blamed her mother’s cooking.
“Why couldn’t you have cooked better for him!”
she’d bellowed. It was the first time she had ever raised her voice to her mother in her life. But her mother only gazed back at her flatly. “Why couldn’t have you been a better daughter?” she asked. The same day, her mother cleaned out her father’s wardrobe, and gave everything to Winter Relief. Soon after, she started selling things off. Every day, when Sigrid came home from school, there would be another empty space somewhere in the flat. The furniture went first. The fancy dresses went next, and then the pots and pans, dishware, flatware, knickknacks, Meissen, books, everything her mother could lay her hands on. Though, only as a last resort did she empty the contents of her jewelry case, her eyes filling.
That,
thought Sigrid with a mix of bitterness and satisfaction, seemed to pain her mother more than parting with her husband. And, of course, the garden flat in Südgelände was now far out of their reach, so her mother found a dustbin in the Salzbrunner Strasse where the WC was down at the end of the hallway and was often clogged. There they lived alone. And that’s how it felt. Both of them together. But both of them alone.
Making her way along a graveled path toward the gate, with her sack of garden tools, Sigrid notices a couple occupying a granite bench near an untended landscape of forgotten graves. They are seated close to each other, yet something seems to separate them. She looks away and keeps walking. But then behind her are voices. Raised voices. She can’t help but turn back to look.
The girl is standing now, and the fellow bent forward from the bench, holding her hand as if he might have to prevent her fleeing. He looks innocuous in the drab, shapeless coat and hat that is the civilian uniform of all Berliner males these days. The girl is in a dark, too-large coat with a wool beret pulled over soot black hair. Sigrid does not immediately recognize the creature until she spots the girl’s awkwardly stiffened posture as the man jumps to his feet and kisses her full on the mouth. It’s the duty-year girl, Fräulein Kohl. Sigrid finds herself staring, oddly transfixed. The Fräulein does not exactly resist, but neither does she exactly respond. Then she turns her head toward Sigrid, and even from the distance that separates them, Sigrid can feel the grip of the girl’s glare. It chases her away. She turns quickly and starts hiking toward the street, as if it were
she
who’d just been caught in a moment of intimacy. The footsteps she hears crunching on the gravel behind her are hurried and growing closer.
Frau Schröder
.
For several steps Sigrid does not slow, but then she hears the Fräulein appeal again, calling her name, and she stops. Turns about. The girl swallows a breath. Close up, Sigrid is reminded again how young this girl is. No lines
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