A Woman in Berlin : Eight Weeks in the Conquered City: A Diary (18 page)

‘Come on,’ she yawned. ‘He just wants to stay here alone and then try his luck with you himself.’

Herr Pauli makes frequent mention of the widow’s feminine intuition and ‘feminine wiles’. But in this case I don’t think she’s right, and I just laugh at the idea.

Finally the major leaves, after repeated glances at his watch. (A Russian make, as he proved to me when we first met by showing me the manufacturer’s mark.)

Scarcely is he out of the door but who appears in the hall, well rested and smartly dressed but Mr. Uzbek himself!

He moves in my direction, looking at me with his swollen little eyes, now strangely clouded over, and pulls a pair of silk stockings from his coat pocket, still in their paper wrapping. He hands them to me, saying in broken Russian, ‘You want? I give to you. You understand me?’

Clear as day; my chubby dear! I fling the front door wide open and show him out. And now be gone,’ I say; in German. He understands and saunters off, giving me a last reproachful look as he stuffs the stockings back in his pocket.

One up for female intuition.

AT NIGHT, BETWEEN THURSDAY 3 MAY AND FRIDAY 4 MAY

A little after three in the morning, still dark. I'm all alone, in bed, writing by candlelight - a luxury I can aff ord because the major has provided us with an ample supply of candles.

All through Thursday our apartment was bustling with activity. “Three of Anatol's men showed up without warning. They sat round the table, chewing the fat, raucous as ever, smoked, spat on the floor and mucked around with the gramophone. They couldn't get enough of the C
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Textile company advertising jingle. When I asked - in a panic - about Anatol, they merely shrugged their shoulders, but hinted that he was likely to be back. before I forget: the regimental baker reappeared wearing his· white smock and repeated his stock question. Didn't I know of a girl for him? He'd give us flour, much flour.

No, I don't know of a girl for the baker. The drink-and-be-merry sisters are clearly spoken for by the officers. Stinchen is safely hidden away. Lately I haven't heard or seen a thing about either of the concierge's daughters; I assume they've found shelter somewhere. One_ of the two bakery salesgirls has left us, and is said to be hiding in another basement. The other is being kept out of sight in the small room behind the shop - so the widow has learned - where they blocked the door with a large chest and covered up the Window with Venetian blinds. It must be pretty dark and gloomy for her. In theory that leaves the young woman who looks like a young man - 24 years old and lesbian. From what we've heard she's managed to escape the !vans up to now. She goes around in a grey suit with a belt and tie and a man's hat pulled down over her face. As it is, she's always worn her hair short at the back. So she slips right past the Russians, who think she's a man; they aren't familiar with such borderline types. She even goes for water and joins the queue at the pump, smoking a cigarette.

Pauli keeps cracking jokes about her, how he hopes she gets a proper reschooling, how it would be a good deed to send some of the boys her way, Petka, for instance, with his lumber jack paws. Slowly but surely we're starting to view all the raping with a sense of humour - gallows humour.

We have ample grounds for doing so, too - as the woman with the scabby eczema discovered this morning, contrary to my prediction. She was on her way upstairs to visit some neighbours when two men jumped her and dragged her into one of the abandoned apartments. There she had to take it twice, or really one and a half times, as she explained, rather enigmatically. She told us that one of the men pointed to her cheek and asked if she had syphilis; the silly girl was so shocked at the idea that she just shook her head and shouted no. A little later she staggered into our apartment. It took a few minutes before she could speak; we revived her with a coffee cup full of burgundy. Finally she recovered, then grinned at us and said, 'So that's what I've spent seven years waiting for. ' (That's how long she's been separated from her husband.) She shuddered as she told us about the apartment they had dragged her into. 'Does that place stink! They do their business anywhere and everywhere!' Despite this she's diligently learning Russian. She's got hold of a little dictionary and has been writing out words. Now she wants me to teach her the proper pronunciation. Her eczema is right in front of me. She's smeared it with some kind of salve, it looks like a piece of rotten cauliflower. But these days I've become a good deal less squeamish than I used to be.

We, too, consider the abandoned apartments fair game. We take whatever we need and steal whatever we can eat. I went to the apartment next door (w here they've . been using the kitchen sink as a toilet, among other things) and walked off with an armful of briquettes, a hammer and two jars of cherry preserves. We're living well, and keeping the drone Pauli well fed on his bed of pain to the point where his cheeks are getting chubby.

Towards evening, out of now here, Anatol bursts into our room, unexpected and practically forgotten. I'm terrified, my heart leaps into my throat. But Anatol laughs, puts his arm round me, doesn't appear to know anything about any major. It seems he really has been transferred to staff headquarters, since he's so well informed. He tells us that the centre of Berlin is in ruins, that Soviet flags are fluttering over the wreck of the Reichstag and on the Brandenburg Gate. He's been everywhere. Although he doesn't have any information about Adolf, he confirms that Goebbels killed himself along with his wife and all their children. Anatol heads to the gramophone, but no sooner does he touch the cover with his strong hands ... then it breaks into five pieces, leaving him standing there holding them, bewildered.

Confused images, scraps - it's all mixed up in my brain, I can't keep it straight any more. Another evening with lots of vodka, another night. Anxiously I keep one ear cocked, listening for the door, starting each time I hear a noise, a footstep. I am afraid the major might show up, but he doesn't. Maybe the surly lieutenant told him that Anatol was back; after all, the lieutenant also knows Anatol and his entourage. In any event, Anatol has heard a rumour about the major and wants to know whether I've ... I brushed off his question, saying that we just talked about politics, and Anatol is satisfied, or at least he pretends to be. For his part he assures me that he hasn't touched any girl in Berlin but me. Then he pulls out some mail 1 from home. Fourteen letters, thirteen of them addressed by women. He smiles bashfully; but acts as if the reason were completely obvious: 'What can I say, they all love me.'

Anatol was careless enough to let me know that he had to leave by three o'clock in the morning to get back to his new billet in the centre of the city, and that he probably wouldn't be coming back, so I tried to deprive him of as much time in bed as I could. I fussed over his letters one by one, asking as many questions as I could think of, getting him to tell me things, explain the map of Berlin, show me the progress of the front. I encouraged his men to drink and play records, asked them to sing, which they were happy to do, until Anatol kicked them out. In bed I stalled some more and finally told him, after he'd had his way once, that that was it, for the moment. I was tired and exhausted and needed to rest. I gave him a sermon, told him I was sure he was no 'hooligan' but a considerate, refined man of tender feelings. He accepted it, though more than a little. reluctantly, with occasional relapses into bullishness, which I managed to put a stop to. Naturally I didn't sleep a wink. Even so it finally turned three, and Anatol had to leave. A friendly parting from the hot stallion, but then relief, a chance to stretch my legs. I stayed awake a while, since I had this idiotic feeling that I was being spied on, that everything I did was being reported, and that the major would show up any second to take over. But so far no one has come. Now the rooster is crowing outside and I want to sleep.

Looking back on Friday, 4 May. Recorded on Saturday, 5 May

The major showed up around 11 a.m. He gathered that Anatol was back in the area, and wanted to know if I had... I said no, that Anatol had just brought his men over for fun and drink. but that he’d had to hurry back into town. The major swallowed it. I felt rotten. Sooner or later they’re going to bump into each other. What am I supposed to do? I’m nothing but booty, prey - that has to stand back and let the hunters decide what to do with their game, how to parcel it out. Still, I very much hope that Anatol won’t be coming back.

This time the major brought all sorts of sweets, Luftwaffe provisions, concentrated foodstuffs. We ate some for dessert, just the three of us, because the major couldn’t stay long. He didn’t know whether to laugh or get angry when I told him about his Uzbek and the offer of stockings.

Finally he decided to laugh. He promised to return in the evening. There was an edge to his voice, and he gave me a sharp look. Now I’m not so sure that I can control him, I have to watch myself, and not forget that they’re our masters.

Herr Pauli and I are eating like there’s no tomorrow, much to the annoyance of the widow. We spread our butter fingerthick, are extravagant with the sugar, want our potatoes browned in fat. Meanwhile the widow is counting every one of those potatoes. And she’s not entirely wrong to do so. Our small stock pile is dwindling. We probably have one more basketful of potatoes in the basement, but we can’t get to it. A group of residents took advantage of the quiet hours between five and seven in the morning and barricaded the entrance with a mountain of rubble, chairs, spring mattresses, chests and wooden beams - all lashed down with wire and rope. It would take hours to undo - and that’s the whole point. No plunderer would have the patience. We won’t dismantle it until ‘afterwards’, though no one can say when that will be.

What a crazy day! Anatol turned up after all, in the afternoon, this time on the passenger seat of a motorcycle. He showed me the bike, which was waiting downstairs along with the driver. He claimed that this really was his last visit, that he was being transferred out of Berlin along with the general staff. Where to? He wouldn’t say. Was it a German city? He just shrugged his shoulders and grinned. It’s all the same to me; I only want to know for sure if he’s going to be far away. The widow’s greeting amicable but measured. She sees things in terms of the larder, and prefers the major, who leaves more of a mark on her cupboard shelves.

I sit with Anatol on the edge of the bed and have him tell me all about ‘his’ motorcycle -he’s very proud of it. The door is blocked by the usual chair. But suddenly it’s pushed open, and Anatol looks up, annoyed. There’s the widow, all red in the face, her hair dishevelled. She squeezes inside, pursued by a Russian. I recognize him as the handsome Pole from Lvov; with the head wound from Stalingrad and the special talent for getting enraged. He looks like he’s on the verge of having a fit right now. He immediately starts shouting, appealing to me as well as Anatol as referees: he’s young, what’s good for others is good for him too, it’s been a long time since he had a woman, the widow’s husband (meaning Herr Pauli, who’s having his afternoon nap in the next room) doesn’t need to know anything - it won’t take long at all! His eyes flash, he waves his fists, his hair is flying. He seems utterly convinced that the widow is his by right - her bits of field-hand Polish must have lodged in his ear and struck a chord in his heart. He even tries some on her now, tosses a few Polish words her way, all the while greatly agitated. The widow keeps wiping away the tears that are streaming down her face.

Anatol looks at me, then at the widow. It’s clear he doesn’t want to have anything to do with this. He turns to me, saying it isn’t such a big deal, I should talk to the widow, everything will soon be over, she shouldn’t make trouble for herself. Then back to the Pole, waving him away: kindly leave me out of it, I’m in a hurry, I have to go soon. And he makes as if to shove the chair back against the door. I whisper a few quick words to the widow, remind her of the head wound, the Pole’s tantrums. The man is capable of doing anything, goes crazy if he doesn’t get his way. Anatol will soon be gone, and won’t be able to help... Or does she want to wake Herr Pauli, so he can take care of the frenzied man from Lvov? She dismisses that idea. No, what for? And she cries. The Pole, once again calm, strokes her. Then they both disappear.

A quarter of an hour later the motorcycle rattles off with Anatol on the passenger seat. He looks back up at the apartment, sees me by the window and gives a lively wave. Then the bike vanishes round the comer. The widow was angry and didn’t speak to me the whole afternoon. In the evening though, she told me what happened. Apparently the young devil turned out to be so tame and docile he was downright boring by the time he let her go. It seems he left her with a compliment. At first she didn’t want to reveal it, but finally she told us: ‘Ukrainian woman -like this. You -like this.’ The first ‘like this’ he illustrated with a circle formed by both his thumbs and forefingers, the second ‘like this’ with a single thumb and forefinger.

What else did the day bring? Another stair-victim, once again an older woman, about sixty, the younger ones don’t dare venture into the stairwell by day. This time it was one of the three dressmakers, the black pudding sisters. They’d heard that Anatol’s men had vacated their apartment, so they made their way into the abandoned rooms, escorted by our deserter. Together they fished a sewing machine out of the trash and general clutter and lugged it up two flights of stairs. Then one of the aunties went back down by herself to salvage some other sewing equipment - and ran right into the hands of a Russian. When the widow spoke with her it was nearly evening, and the dressmaker was still sobbing on the sofa in the booksellers’ apartment, surrounded by a whole bevy of women, moaning and groaning.

They got hold of the concierge’s youngest daughter as well, her mother told me today at the pump. At first the whole family - mother, two daughters, and the three-year-old grandson - had stayed hidden in the basement next door, which was well secured. But once people started saying that things were a little better with the Russians, the girls went back to their apartment on the first floor, to cook and do their wash. That’s where two drunken, singing heroes caught them by surprise. According to the mother they left the older sister alone. I’ve seen the girl in the meantime and I can understand why: she looks clinically emaciated, and her face is so small, her cheeks so hollow, that the outline of her skull shows through. Her mother whispered to me that the younger daughter had barricaded herself with cotton wool, though there was no real reason to, but the girls had heard that the Russians don’t like women at that time of month. It didn’t help. The men just howled with laughter as they tossed the stuff around the room and then took the sixteen-year-old on the chaise longue in the kitchen. ‘She’s doing well so far,’  her mother said, herself amazed. Even so, just to be safe, she took her daughter up to the booksellers’, where the widow says she’s been boasting to everyone how the Russians went straight for her without giving her older sister even a second glance.