A Woman in Berlin : Eight Weeks in the Conquered City: A Diary

by Marta Hillers

  We go into Herr Pauli’s bedroom – and find Russians there as well: the sullen lieutenant with his hiking pole covered in badges, and someone else he’s evidently brought along whom he introduces offhandedly as Major –ovich So–and–So. (They have a way of whispering and mumbling both their patronymics and their last names. They want to keep their identities secret, so they never say more than a typical–sounding first name and their rank, which you can figure out anyway if you know what to look for.)

  I stare at the blond lieutenant, full of loathing, and wish him elsewhere. He acts as if he doesn’t know me – distant and formal and flawlessly polite. The major he’s brought along is even more polite, leaping to his feet when we enter, bowing as if at a dance lesson, greeting each of us individually. Tall and slender, dark hair, clean uniform. One of his legs drags a little. After a moment I notice a third person in the room, another new face. He has been sitting motionless by the window; now the major calls him over and he steps our way, blinking in the candlelight – an Asian with thick jaws and narrow, swollen eyes. They introduce him as the major’s orderly, and then the man immediately withdraws to his corner by the window where he turns up the collar of his grey woolen coat to help against the wind blowing in from outside.

  Now four of us are sitting around Pauli’s bed: the widow, me, the surly blond lieutenant and the major, who does all the talking. He asks me to translate his polite flourishes and carefully weighed words for Herr Pauli and the widow. He thinks they’re married. As we carry on our exchange, the major and I size each other up furtively. I don’t know what to make of the man, so I keep an eye on him. He offers some cigars that he’s been carrying loose in his jacket pocket. Pauli thanks him, takes two and lights one, puffing away, with help from the major. They smoke a while in peace and quiet; now and then the major holds the ashtray out for Herr Pauli, very politely. All of a sudden he jumps up and asks if he us disturbing us, in which case he’ll leave right away, at once! And he makes a show of getting ready to leave. No, no, we beg to differ, he’s not bothering us. He sits back down immediately and goes on smoking in silence. A perfect model of etiquette. Another completely new sample from the apparently inexhaustible collection the USSR has sent our way. What’s more, he’s visibly nervous: his hand with the cigar is shaking. Or maybe he has a fever – we’ve just learned that he’s been wounded in the knee. He was in the same hospital as the lieutenant, which is how they know each other. (So the Russians are in the hospital as well. I’d like to know how they managed to squeeze in and where they sent our people who as of last week had filled every bed in every available space.)

  Meanwhile, the glee club has taken its accordion and moved on out of our apartment. Things quieten down, I steal a peek at the lieutenant’s watch. The hands are nearing eleven. The widow, Herr Pauli and I swap glances, unsure what to expect from these guests.

  Now the major gives an order to the Asian by the window, who reaches in his coat pocket and barely manages to pull out... a bonafide bottle of the best German champagne! He places it on the stand next to Pauli’s bed, in the pool of candelight. In no time the widow is off for glasses, and we clink and sip champagne while the major and the surly lieutenant carry on a quiet conversation that’s evidently not meant for me. Finally the major faces me directly and asks: ‘What do you know about Fascism?’ His voice is as stern and strict as a schoolmaster’s.

  ‘Fascism?’ I stutter.

  ‘Yes, please. Explain the origin of the word. Name the country where this political movement originated.’

  I think desperately for a moment, then blurt something about Italy, Mussolini, the ancient Romans, fascio as a bundle of rods, which I try to illustrate using the lieutenant’s badgecovered stick... –and all the while my hands and knees can’t stop shaking, because I suddenly think I know what this major represents and what he’s after. He wants to subject me to a political exam, ferret out my belief s, my past – all in order to draft me into some Russian job, as an interpreter or army helper. Who knows? I see myself being dragged off and enslaved somewhere in some war–torn town... Or are these GPU men hoping to recruit me as an informer? A hundred horrible thoughts flash in my mind I can feel my hands turning to lead and dropping, I can hardly finish what I’m saying.

  I must have blanched because the widow looks at me, though she doesn’t understand a word we’re saying. She’s obviously concerned, puzzled. Then I hear the major speaking to the blond lieutenant. He sounds satisfied: ‘Yes, she does have a decent knowledge of politics.· And he raises his glass and drinks my health.

  I breathe with relief, my heart stuck in my throat. Apparently I’ve passed the exam, which was only designed to test my basic knowledge. I finish my glass, which is refilled with the last of the champagne. The widow’s eyes are drooping. It’s time for the guests to leave.

  Suddenly there’s a new tone, an open proposition. The lieutenant sums it up in two sentences: ‘Here is the major. He wants to ask you, citizen, if you find him pleasant.’

  Out of the clouds and back to earth, I stare at the two men, dumbfounded. All of a sudden the major is fiddling with his cigar, carefully stubbing it out in the ashtray; as if he hadn’t heard what the lieutenant asked on his behalf It’s so dark I can’t make out the orderly who’s still sitting mutely by the window. No champagne for him.

  Silence. The widow looks at me, lifting her shoulders enquiringly.

  Then the lieutenant, toneless, calm: ‘Do you find the major pleasant? Can you love him?’

  Love? That damned word, I can’t hear it any more. I’m so shaken, so dishearted, that I don’t know what to say or what to do. After all, the lieutenant is part of Anatol’s circle, so he knows about the taboo. Does this mean Anatol is no longer around? Could this major be his successor in the field? And does he think that means he can inherit me as well? He can’t be thinking that – he’s just told us that he’s been staying in the hospital, that he has a bed there.

  I stand up and say; ‘No. I don’t understand.’

  The lieutenant follows me through the room, limping on his stick, while the major goes on sitting by Pauli’s bedside, seemingly detached, looking right past the two Germans frozen there in silence, helpless and scared.

  I murmur to the lieutenant: And Anatol? What about Anatol?’

  ‘What Anatol?’ he shouts, coarsely; loudly. ‘What do you mean, Anatol? The man’s long gone. He’s been transferred to staff headquarters.’

  Anatol gone? Just like that, without a word? Is it true? But the lieutenant sounds so certain, so superior, so scornful.

  My head is spinning. Now the major gets up as well, says goodbye to the widow and Herr Pauli with great ceremony. I hear him thanking them repeatedly for their hospitality. Neither Pauli nor the widow has the faintest idea of the procuring being conducted. And I don’t dare speak to them in German, right in front of the other two. I know from experience that the Russians don’t like that – they immediately suspect conspiracy; treason.

  The major heads towards the door, bowing to all of us. The Asian comes waddling over from the window. I hold my candle up to light the way out for all three. The major traipses very slowly through the hall, his right leg dragging slightly; he’s clearly doing his best to minimize the limping. The lieutenant shoves me with his elbow, asks rudely; ‘well? You mean you’re still thinking about it?’ Then there’s a short discussion between him and the major about where to spend the night, whether in the hospital, or... And once again the lieutenant asks me, coldly but politely, ‘Could we possibly spend the night here? All three of us?’ And he points to the major and to the Asian standing beside them half asleep.

  All three? Yes, why not? That way we have protection for the night, so I lead the three of them to the back room, next to the kitchen. There’s a broad couch there with several woolen blankets. The lieutenant and the Asian push past me into the room. The lieutenant quickly pulls the door shut. Before it closes I see him shining a torch.

  I’m standing in
the kitchen, candle in hand. The major is standing next to me, in silence. He politely asks me where the bathroom is. I show him the door and hand him the candle. While I wait for him by the kitchen window, looking out into the dark, the door to the back room opens again. The surly blond lieutenant, already in his undershirt, hisses at me: about us – yesterday – nobody needs to know about that.’ And then he’s gone. I have to think a moment. What does he mean, ‘about us?’ Then I remember the previous night: the dogs’ love, his spitting next to my bed. It seems an eternity ago, repressed, nearly forgotten. I’ve lost all concept of time. A day is like a week, a gaping abyss between two nights.

  The major is back; he goes with me into my room. By now Pauli and the widow in the next room will have realized what’s going on. I can hear their muffled voices through the wall. The major pulls a tall, new candle out of one of his bags, drips some wax onto an ashtray, secures the candlestick and places it on the little table next to my bed. He asks quietly, still holding his cap, ‘May I stay here?’

  I wave my hands and shrug my shoulders in signs of helplessness.

  At that he lowers his eyes and says, ‘You should forget the sub lieutenant. By tomorrow he’ll be far away. That’s what I’ve heard.’

  And you?’

  ‘Me? Oh, I’ll be here a long time, a very long time. At least another week, maybe even longer. ‘ He points to his leg. ‘There’s a fragment inside. I’m being treated.’

  I actually feel sorry for him, the way he’s standing there. I ask him to sit down, take a seat. He answers awkwardly; ‘You must be tired. It’s so late. Perhaps you’d like to lie down?’ And he moves over to the window of scraps and cardboard and acts as if he’s looking outside –where you can no longer hear any sounds from the front, none at all. In a flash I take off my outer clothes, throw on an old robe that belongs to the widow, crawl into bed.

  Then he comes closer, pushes a chair next to the bed. What is he after? More conversation, more etiquette manual, see under ‘Raping enemy demoiselles’? But no, the major wants to introduce himself He takes all his papers out of his pockets, spreads them on the quilt and moves the candle closer so that I can get a better look. This is the first Russian who’s revealed himself that way; with all the details. I soon know his full name, date and place of birth, even how much he has in his bank account, because there’s also a savings book from the city of Leningrad with over 4000 roubles. Then he gathers up his papers. He speaks a sophisticated Russian; as always I can tell by the fact that whole sentences go by without my understanding a word. He seems to be well read and quite musical, and he’s clearly taking pains to behave like a gentleman even now. Suddenly he jumps up and asks, nervously; ‘Is my company not pleasing? Do you despise me? Tell me frankly!’

  ‘No, no.’ No, not at all, you can go right on being the way you are. I just can’t force myself into this role, to feel at ease so quickly. I have this repulsive sense of being passed from hand to hand; I feel humiliated and insulted, degraded into a sexual thing. And then once more the thought: And what if its true? What if Anatol really has disappeared? What if my taboo is gone, this wall I’ve taken such trouble to erect? Wouldn’t it be good to create a new taboo, one that might last a little longer. To build a new wall of defence?

  The major takes off his belt and puts aside his jacket, all in slow motion, with sideways glances at me. I sit, wait, feel my palms sweating. I want to help him and I don’t want to. Then suddenly he says, ‘Please, give me your hand.’

  I stare at him. More etiquette manual? Is he trying to grace me with a kiss on my hand? Or is he a palm reader? He takes my hand and clasps it firmly with both of his, then says, with pathetic eyes and trembling lips, ‘Forgive me. It’s been so long since I had a woman.’

  He shouldn’t have said that. Next thing I know I’m lying with my face in his lap, sobbing and bawling and howling all the grief in my soul. I feel him stroking my hair. Then there’s a noise at the door. We both look up. The door is ajar, the widow is standing there holding a candle, asking anxiously what the matter is. The major and I both wave her away. She undoubtedly sees that nothing bad is being done to me, I hear the door closing once again.

  A little later, in the dark, I tell him how miserable and sore I am and ask him to be gentle. He is gentle and silently tender, is soon finished and lets me sleep.

  That was my Tuesday; the first of May.

  On to Wednesday. For the first time in all these nights of men I sleep into the morning and when I wake up the major is still by my side. Evidently he doesn’t have any duties; he can make his own assignments. We talk a bit, very friendly and rationally. Out of nowhere he confesses to me that he is not a Communist, not at all – he’s a professional officer, trained at the military academy, and hates the young stool pigeons from the Komsomol. By which I understand him to mean that even higher-ranking officers have reason to be afraid of party watchdogs. I’m amazed at how openly he speaks to me. On the other hand, there are no witnesses. Then, just as abruptly, he wants to know if I really am healthy. ‘You understand, I mean, you understand what I’m saying.’ (The first ‘you’ is formal; the second time he uses the familiar form– as a rule he mixes the two when he talks to me.) So I tell him the truth, that I’ve never had anything like that, but of course I can’t be sure that I haven’t caught something from one of the Russians who violated me. He shakes his head and sighs. ‘Ach, these hooligans!’ (Pronounced khuligan, a loan word very common in Russian, used for scoundrels, louts, ruffians.)

  He gets up, dresses and calls for his orderly, who waddles in, still in his stockinged feet, carrying his shoes. The lieutenant is nowhere to be seen; he is probably gone for the day. From the room next door I can hear the widow.

  Outside, the May morning is chilly. Chains are clinking, horses neighing; the rooster has long since crowed. But no katyushas, no gunfire, nothing. The major limps around the room and stretches his leg, singing one song after the other in a beautiful voice, including the magical ‘Linger with me, my lovely one’. Then he sits on the edge of the bed, pulls a little harmonica out of his pocket and plays a march, with amazing verve and skill. Meanwhile the Asian – who when I ask tells me he’s from Uzbekistan –helps his superior put on his soft leather boots. Taking pains to spare the injured leg, he gazes adoringly at his musical major and sighs in foreign–accented Russian: ‘Ech, is so beautiful!’

  Later, after both are gone, the widow hears in the stairwell that Berlin surrendered around 4a.m. – someone heard it on a crystal set. ‘Peace’ – so we think, and are happy. Until we find out there is still fighting going on north and south of the city.

  Still Wednesday, the hours are creeping along. People are constantly interrupting me as I write. But no one has. objected; the most I’ve heard was one soldier saying, ‘That’s right. You all need to study hard and learn Russian.’

  A steady stream of Russians, liquor, kitchen work, fetching water. We hear there’s a wooden beam lying around somewhere. I rush to get it before someone beats me to it. Two of Anatol’s men come running out of the abandoned apartment they’ve commandeered for the past few days, carrying mattresses and bed covers. Where are they moving to? Not a trace of Anatol himself. Evidently the lieutenant wasn’t lying. And the major promised in parting that he would take good care of me, bring me something to eat. Fine with me. For days I’ve had misgivings about the butter Herr Pauli brought from the Volkssturm. This is definitely a different life from my hungry existence in the attic, where everything had been stripped bare and eaten. First we had the end of the German rations, then what I managed to steal – the loot from the police barracks, the potatoes. And the widow had a few stores of her own –potatoes, beans and peas, bacon. Next we had everything that Anatol and his men left in the way of bread, herring, pork rinds, canned meat. (though the alcohol was always drained to the last drop). And the two cans of meat from the white hands of Stepan–Alyosha. A life of plenty. Actually I haven’t eaten this richly in years; it’s been mo
nths since I was so full after eating. It can’t go on like this. But for the moment I’m stuffing myself, to build up my strength.

  Outside it’s cold and overcast. Today I stood at the pump for a long time in a fine rain. Little fires burning all around in the trampled gardens, men’s voices singing to an accordion. A woman in front of me is wearing men’s shoes. She has a scarf on her head covering half her face, her eyes are swollen from crying. But for the first time since I’ve been standing in line for water, things are calm. No katyushas. The sky is still smouldering yellow. The previous night had been full of fires. But there’s no more gunfire in Berlin; things are quiet. We stand there in the pouring rain, speaking quietly and saying little. The pump creaks, the lever squeals, Russians fill canister after canister. We wait. The pathetic figure in front of me reports in monotone that, no, she hasn’t been raped yet, she and a few neighbours managed to lock themselves in the basement, but now her husband has come back, from his unit, you understand... So she has to take care of him, hide him, find food and water for him, she can’t just think about herself any more. And a dishevelled woman behind me is moaning about furniture: ‘My good couch, with the royal blue velvet, I had two matching armchairs – they broke them into pieces and used them for firewood!’ And f mall y a scrawny man, all bones, with a face no bigger than a fist, tells us a story about a family in his building who hid their daughter under the chaise longue. They pulled the cover all the way down to the floor, and the Russians even sat on it without any idea the girl was lying underneath. I can’t tell whether the story is fact or fiction. It’s entirely possible. Our lives are all rumours and melodrama, one big kitschy novel.