City of Women by David R. Gillham Page B

Frau Schröder. Because my husband, the Herr Hausleiter, picked up no such donation. The only clothing left on the landing was that at the Frau Obersturmführer Junger’s door.”
    Sigrid gives the door a glance. “Well, then there must have been some mistake. Perhaps it was all mixed together in error.”
    “No. No error was made. I spoke personally to the Frau Obersturmführer on this subject first thing. All of her items were accounted for.”
    Sigrid heaves a breath. “Then you’re correct, Frau Mundt. It is a mystery. Since you’re so
positive
that your husband couldn’t possibly have mixed one set of coats with another, then I recommend you speak to my mother-in-law. Perhaps she can explain it.” Mundt shoots her eyes in the direction of Sigrid’s door. Maybe she’s not quite so anxious to tangle with the
elder
Frau Schröder. “
Go ahead
. She’s in the kitchen boiling diapers for Frau Granzinger. You know, in the spirit of the people’s community. But I’m sure she’ll be quite happy to discuss the matter with you. Now, you’ll excuse me, please, I don’t wish to miss my bus,” she says as she squeezes past and dashes down the steps.
    “Very well, Frau Schröder,” the woman calls after her with an arch tone. “I shouldn’t want to
delay
you. But be aware. This isn’t just about a few old coats. The Party pays very close attention to the proper expression of the National Socialist spirit. Do you hear me, Frau Schröder?
Very
close attention
.”
    Outside, Sigrid must pass Mundt’s husband, sporting his dung brown SA kepi and greatcoat, which bulges at the belly as he piles another stack of coats onto the bed of a three-wheeled lorry. He gives her a gusty whistle. “So, she reamed you good, did she?” he says, and grins. Sigrid frowns and does not answer, causing the paunchy old hog to snort. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll make sure she simmers down. No trouble. Just remember that your old Uncle Mundt always takes care of his pretty ones.” He winks and then cackles, showing a mouthful of brown teeth.
    •   •   •
    M OST B ERLIN DISPLAY WINDOWS are filled with empty boxes now. The signs above them read DECORATION ONLY . “Nur Antrappen” is how it is worded. Berlin has nothing left to sell. It has been reduced by the years of war to grinding coffee from acorns, to drinking wood alcohol mixed with chemical syrup, and to filling up shop windows with nothing but “Nur Antrappen.” The dairy shop’s window is lined with milk bottles, filled with salt. Inside, maybe a few liters of actual milk will be available for those who queue up early enough. Not whole milk, of course, but skim, a thin, bluish white fluid. By the time Sigrid gets there, the sign has already been put out. NO MORE TODAY. So much for that. Now she must hurry over to the greengrocer’s, hoping to pick up a few green onions plus a questionable cabbage head and three and a half kilos of graying potatoes. That will be dinner for the week, plus the few kilos of war bread that her red paper ration cards will allow. But before she steps into the grocer’s she sees someone stepping out. The young Fräulein Kohl, still with her wool beret stuffed over her soot-colored hair. On one side she carries a shopping sack sagging with the weight of produce, and on the other, tucked under her arm, a striped dress box from Tempelhof’s secured with twine, and two coats. A gray-blue houndstooth and a long black wool cape. Sigrid stops dead.
Fräulein Kohl,
she starts to call out, but then swallows it. Some instinct is at work she cannot quite name. The girl continues her striding progress. Sigrid hesitates for an instant longer. Glances from side to side. Then falls in a discreet distance behind, and follows the girl’s eastwardly march.
    The march ends two blocks farther, a short stretch of unremarkable pavement, at a spot where the street curves around the tall Litfass column smothered with tattered advertisements for products no