I’m not in a position to hide, although I know of a hole in the attic I could crawl into. But I don’t have anyone to bring me food and water. Once, when I was nine years old, on vacation at my grandparents’ house, I hid in the attic with my cousin Klara. We climbed into a comer beneath the straw dolls in the rafters, which were warm from the sun, and had a secret conversation about where babies come from. Klara, who was younger than me but knew more, whispered something about women being cut open with big knives so the babies could get out. I can still feel the horror that crept up my throat,.until finally I was saved by our grandmother’s sedate voice calling us for a snack. I clambered down the stairs and breathed a sigh of relief when I saw my grandmother in her satin apron, uncut and intact, broad and round as always, her metal–rimmed spectacles perched on the tip of her nose. The house smelled of coffee and apple cake, and I’m sure the cake was dusted with powdered sugar, though in those days a pound of that cost several million paper marks. As I chewed away I forgot all about Klara’s knives and my own fear. But these days I think children are right to be afraid of sexual things – there really are a lot of sharp knives.
The Russians at the pump don’t spend much time sizing up us water carriers. They’ve already caught on that it’s mostly old, gnarled women who are sent to the pump. When I’m there I, too, wrinkle my forehead, pull down the comers of my mouth and squint in order to look as ancient and wretched as I can.
At first, before I started sticking out like a sore thumb, our Russian guests often asked me how old I was. If I told them I’d just turned thirty they would grin and say, Aha, she’s a sly one, pretending to be older than she really is.’ Then I’d show my ID and they had no choice but to believe me. They can’t really tell with us: they’re used to their Russian women, who have lots of children and are quickly worn out; they can’t read how old our bodies are – even if most of us look miserable compared with how we looked in peacetime.
A red–cheeked Russian walks down our line, playing an accordion, and calling out to us: ‘Gitler ka putt, Goebbels kaputt. Stalin ist gut.’ He laughs and cackles one of their mothercurses, slaps a comrade on the shoulder and shouts in Russian, even though the people in line won’t understand a thing. ‘Look at him! A Russian soldier. And he’s marched from Moscow to Berlin!’ They’re all so proud of their victory they’re bursting their buttons. Even they are amazed that they made it this far. We swallow it all, stand in line and wait.
I come home with two buckets full of water. A new commotion inside the apartment. Two soldiers we don’t know are running through our rooms looking for a sewing machine. I show them our Singer in the kitchen. Ever since Petka the bristle–haired Romeo played catch with it the machine seems a little bent. What do these two need a sewing machine for?
It turns out they have a package they want to send to Russia; they’d like to have it sewn up in a cloth cover – which of course should be done by hand. With great eloquence consisting mostly of repetition, I convince the boys that current technology isn’t up to the task, that this is more a job for grandmother’s simple handiwork.
Finally they nod their round heads and agree. They’re carrying a whole loaf of bread as payment. The widow thinks for a moment and decides to pass this princely commission to the bookselling wife, who is skilled at sewing and short on bread. She hurries over to fetch her from her triply secured apartment.
And the woman actually decides to come. She’s mistrustful, hesitant... and at the same time eagerly considering the bread. She and her husband are living off beans and barley. She takes her place at the kitchen window and carefully sews white linen doth around the bundle. The contents remain a mystery. It feels soft – probably clothes.
I try to imagine what the Russians think about all these things lying around unprotected and abandoned. There are deserted apartments in every building that are theirs for the taking. Basements with whatever is stowed in them. There’s nothing in this city that isn’t theirs if they want it – the problem is there’s simply too much. They can no longer take it all in, this abundance; they nonchalantly grab whatever objects catch their eye, then lose them or pass them on; they haul things away and then discard them as soon as they become a burden. This is the first time I’ve seen them take the trouble to pack up and mail some of the plunder. For the most part they have no ability to assess the value of things. They grab the first thing they see and they have no concept of quality or price –why should they? They’ve always just worn what they’ve been allotted; they don’t know how to judge and choose, ·how to figure out what’s good, what’s expensive. When they steal bedding, for instance, they’re just looking for something to lie down on right away. They can’t tell eiderdown from shoddy. And what they value most of all is liquor.
While she sews, the bookseller passes on what she knows. Yes, eighteen–year–old Stinchen is still being kept by her mother in the crawl space, lately during the day as well, ever since two Russians came back with the designated water carriers, burst into the apartment, brandished their pistols and shot a hole in the linoleum floor. The girl looks pasty. No wonder. But at least she’s still intact. The bookseller also tells about some new residents, two young sisters, one a war widow with a three–year–old son. They moved into one of the empty apartments, where they carry on with the soldiers, sometimes by day, sometimes by night, rumour has it things are very merry there. We also learn that a woman across the street jumped out of a fourth–storey window when some Ivans were after her. She’s buried in the little yard in front of the cinema. A number of people have apparently been buried there. I can’t say, since I take a different path to get my water. And that’s the only place you go outside these days.
So the bookseller stitches away and recounts what ·she knows. Rumours – the goddess Fama. I’ve always pictured her as an old woman all shrouded up and murmuring away. Gossip. We feed on it. Years ago people got all their news through hearsay and word of mouth. It’s impossible to overestimate how this affected ancient cultures, how unclear and uncertain their view of the world must have been – spooky; nightmarish, a swamp of murmured horrors and fears, of malicious men and resentful gods. These days, too, there are times when I feel I can’t be sure of anything, that nothing is true, that Adolf may have long ago escaped by submarine to Spain and that Franco is putting him up in a castle where he’s sketching plans for Truman about getting the Russians back to Russia. But one thing is beyond doubt – the deep–down feeling of defeat, the certainty of our being at the mercy of the victors.
The two Russians come back, are very pleased with the sewing, take the package and give the woman her fresh bread. I talk with them and find out that neither one is actually an ethnic Russian. One comes from around Kuban and is of German descent; the other is a Pole from Lvov. The German is named Adams, his ancestors came from the Palatinate two hundred years ago. The few German words he produces are in that local dialect, for example, ‘Es hat gebrannt’ –it burned – for Es hat gebrennt. The Pole is strikingly handsome, with black hair and blue eyes, quick and lively. He breaks up a crate for our firewood and exchanges a few words with the widow, who as a child used to visit relatives on an estate in East Prussia, where she picked up a few phrases from the Polish field hands. He offers to go with me to get the water.
I accept, though reluctantly. During my first trip this morning I discovered a poster by the door proclaiming that, effective immediately, Russians are no longer allowed to enter German homes or to fraternize with German civilians.
We set off. I’m glad because this way I’ll save at least an hour of standing in line, since if a Russian does the pumping for me I’ll have priority. But no sooner are we outside than an officer calls out after my Pole, ‘Hey, you! What are you doing, going with a German?’ The Pole winks at me, hangs back, and meets up with me at the pump, where he serves himself ahead of everyone else. The people in line stare at me with bitterness and contempt. But no one says a word.
The Pole has a violent temp
er. On the way home he picks a fight with some soldier over nothing, snorting and roaring and swinging his fists. Then a spasm runs through his entire body, and he calms down, catches up with me and points to the back of his head, explaining that he took a bullet there during the fighting at Stalingrad. Ever since then he’s been prone to these rages and violent fits. He often has no idea what he does in his fury, he never used to be like that. I look at him, uneasy, and hurry ahead with my two buckets. He really does have the thick, copper Stalingrad medal, hanging from a colourful ribbon wrapped in cellophane. I’m happy when we get to our building and he slips away. Clearly the new order won’t take effect as long as their soldiers are billeted in abandoned apartments right next to our own.
THURSDAY, 3 MAY 1945, WITH THE REST OF WEDNESDAY
Something comical: while I was at the pump with the Pole, the widow had a visit from Petka, my ex-rapist with the blond bristle, the man who threw our sewing machine around. But he must have forgotten all about this drunken exploit; the widow says he was exceedingly friendly. He showed up lugging a beautiful yellow leather, Petka-sized trunk that another man would have had trouble lifting. Spreading out the contents - mostly clothes - he indicated to the widow that she could take whatever she wanted, that everything was meant for her - while ‘nothing, nothing, nothing’ was to go to me, as he made clear. But that was more for show than anything else. After all, what was to prevent the widow from giving me whatever she liked the minute he was gone? He had probably wanted to play Santa Claus for me, to snatch some more of what he calls love, one final, hasty attempt because he let the widow know that his whole troop was moving on and actually said farewell - ‘Dosvidanya.’
With a good deal of self -restraint, the widow declined Petka’s largesse and sent him on his way, together with his trunk. Not that she’d been plagued by moral scruples: ‘Why should I be? After all, they carried off my trunk, too, didn’t they?’ And that from a woman of proper bourgeois breeding, from a good German home. No, her reservations were of a purely practical nature: ‘I can’t wear those things. The trunk was obviously taken from one of the neighbouring buildings. If I went out with those clothes on, I’d risk running into their rightful owner.’ So she limited her take to two pairs of shoes -she couldn’t resist, they were exactly her size. Brown street shoes, nondescript and easy to disguise with.a little black polish, according to the widow. She wanted to give one of the pairs to me; goodness knows I could use them, since the only shoes I have are the ones I’m wearing. Unfortunately they’re too small.
The afternoon passed quietly. We didn’t see any of our acquaintances, not Anatol or Petka, Grisha, Vanya, Yasha or Andrei the schoolteacher. The major, however, showed up promptly at sunset, along with his chubby Uzbek shadow and someone else - thank God not the surly lieutenant with the hiking pole. No, this time it was a little red-cheeked boy in a blue sailor’s suit, eighteen years old, Soviet navy. Apparently they’ve taken Berlin by sea as well. We certainly have enough lakes around. The sailor looks like a schoolboy; he smiles innocently from ear to ear as he tells me quietly he has a favour to ask.
Please, go ahead! I call him over to the window, through which we can still smell the stench of burning. And then the little sailor asks politely and very like a child whether I would be so kind as to find a girl for him, a nice clean girl, respectable and kind. He’d bring her food, too.
I stare at the boy, trying not to laugh out loud. Isn’t that the limit - now they’re demanding that their sexual spoils be tidy and well-behaved and have a noble character to boot! Next thing they’ll be asking women to present a police affidavit testifying to their clean record before they’re allowed to bed down with the victors! But this one just gazes at me with hopeful eyes and looks so tender-skinned, so much like mama’s little boy, that I can’t be mad at him. So I shake my head with the proper regret, and explain to him that I haven’t been living in the building very long, that I hardly know a soul, and that, sad to say, I don’t know where he might find such a nice girl. He takes it all in, visibly disappointed. I have an urge to check behind his ears to see if he’s still wet. But I know that even the most seemingly gentle Russian can turn into a savage beast if you rub him the wrong way or off end his self -esteem. I just want to know why they keep expecting me to play matchmaker, probably because I’m the only one around who understands them when they say what they’re after.
My sailor boy held out his little paw to thank me and then took off. But why are these youngsters so eager in their pursuit of anything female? At home they’d probably wait a little longer, though it’s true that most of them marry earlier than our men. They probably want to prove themselves in front of their older comrades, like sixteen-year-old Vanya, the stairwell rapist, to show that they’re real men, too.
Anyway, the unbridled raping sprees of the first few days are over. The spoils are now in short supply. I hear that other women have done the same thing I have, that they’re now spoken for, and therefore ta boo. The widow has more details concerning the two drink-and-be-merry sisters: evidently they’re for officers only, who don’t take kindly to low-ranking poachers trespassing on their private preserve. As a rule, those who don’t have marching orders in their pockets look for a more permanent arrangement, something exclusive, and they’re prepared to pay. They’ve realized how badly off we are when it comes to food. And the language of bread and bacon and herring - their principal gifts - is internationally understood.
As for me, the major has brought all sorts of things; I can’t complain. First he brought a pack of candles under his coat. Then more cigars for Pauli. Next the Uzbek showed up, heavily loaded down, and started pulling out one thing after another: a can of milk, a tin of meat, a side of bacon covered with salt and a lump of butter wrapped in cloth - at least three pounds of it, all smeared with tiny wool fibers that the widow picked out right away. Then, when we were sure n9thing more was coming, he fished out a pillowcase filled with sugar, probably five pounds’ worth! Princely wedding gifts indeed. Herr Pauli and the widow were astounded.
The widow dashed off to the kitchen cupboard to squirrel away the presents. Herr Pauli and the major had a friendly smoke, and I sat there brooding. By no means could it be said that the major is raping me. One cold word and he’d probably go his way and never come back. So I am placing myself at his service of my own accord. Am I doing it because I like him, or out of a need for love? God forbid! For the moment I’ve had it up to here with men and their male desire. I can’t imagine ever longing for any of that again. Am I doing it for bacon, butter, sugar, candles, canned meat? To some extent I’m sure I am. I didn’t like having to sponge off the widow. I’m happy to be able to give her something of mine - through the major, of course. That way I feel more independent, can eat with a cleaner conscience. In addition, I like the major, and the less he wants from me as a man, the more I like him as a person. And he won’t be wanting much, I can tell. His face is pale. His knee wound is causing him trouble; He’s probably not so much after sexual contact as human companionship, female company - and I’m more than willing to give him that. For out of all the male beasts I’ve seen these past few days, he’s the most bearable, the best of the lot. Moreover, I can actually control him, something I didn’t dare do with Anatol, not that easily, though Anatol was extremely good-natured with me. But he was so avid, such a bull, so strong! Without meaning to he might give me a little box on the ear... and I’d end up spitting out a tooth - just like that, from sheer excess of strength, sheer bearishness. But I can actually talk with the major. Which still isn’t an answer to the question of whether I should now call myself a whore, since I am essentially living off my body, trading it for something to eat.
On the other hand, writing this makes me wonder why I’m being so moralistic and acting as if prostitution were so much beneath my dignity. After all, it’s an old, venerable line of work, practised in the highest social circles. Actually I’ve had only one conversation with a bonafide member of the professio
n. It was on a ship in the Mediterranean, not far off the coast of Africa; I had got up very early and was wandering the deck as the sailors were scrubbing the planks. Another woman was up as well, someone I didn’t recognize; she was plump, modestly dressed and smoking a cigarette. I joined her at the railing and started a conversation. She knew a little English and addressed me as ‘Miss’. Smiling she offered me a cigarette. Later the head steward informed me in a dramatic whisper that the woman was a ‘bad person’, that they’d had to take her along but only let her on: deck early in the morning before the passengers were usually up. I never saw her again, but I can still see her plump, friendly, female face. What is that supposed to mean anyway - a bad person?
But morality aside, could I actually slip into that profession and still be pleased with myself? No, never. It goes against my nature, it wounds my self -esteem, destroys my pride - and physically it makes me miserable. So there’s no need to worry. I’ll be overjoyed to get out of this line of work, if that’s what I have to call my present activity, as soon as I can earn my bread in some more pleasant way; better suited to my pride.
Around 10p.m. the major deposits his Uzbek in the room behind the kitchen. Then once again a belt rattles against the bedpost, a revolver dangles down, a soldier’s cap crowns the post. But the candle goes on burning; and we talk at length. That is, the major talks, telling me about his family and showing me some small snapshots he carries in his wallet: There’s one of his mother, who has wild, slanting black eyes against a white head of hair. She comes from the south of the country, where the Tatars settled ages ago; she married an ash-blond Siberian. Judging by appearance, the major takes after his mother, but now I realize that his general demeanour comes from this mix of northern and southern temperaments: his mercurial character, the alternation of speed and gravity, of fire and melancholy, the lyrical upswings and the sudden dark moods that follow. He was married but divorced a long time ago - he himself admits he was a difficult partner. No children, which is unusual for a Russian. I know this because they always ask if I have any, then shake their heads in wonder, amazed that there are so few children here and so many childless women. They also have a hard time accepting the fact that the widow has no children.
A Woman in Berlin : Eight Weeks in the Conquered City: A Diary Page 13