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

by Marta Hillers

  There are times now when I have to wonder whether my knowing some Russian is a good thing or a bad thing. On the one hand it gives me a degree of assurance the others don’t have. What they consider animal grunting and screaming is for me a real human tongue – the richly nuanced, melodious language of Pushkin and Tolstoy. Of course, I’m afraid, afraid, afraid (though a little bit less because of Anatol), but at least I speak with them as one person to another, at least I can tell who’s truly evil from who is bearable, can picture them as separate human beings, distinguish them as individuals. For the first time I also have a sense of being a witness. There probably aren’t many in this city who can talk to them, who’ve seen their birch trees and their villages and the peasants in their bast sandals and all the new, hastily constructed buildings they’re so proud of – and that are now, like me, nothing more than filth beneath their boots. By the same token it’s also easier for those who don’t understand a word of Russian. For them the Russians are more alien, they can talk themselves into the idea that these men aren’t people but savages, mere animals. They can bury their feelings deeper. I can’t do that. I know they’re people, just like we are – less highly developed, perhaps, as it seems to me, and younger as a nation, but closer to their roots. This is probably how the Teutons acted when they sacked Rome, snatching the perfumed Roman ladies, with their pedicures and manicures and artificial curls. Being conquered means having salt rubbed in your wounds.

  Around 6p.m. there was a sudden shouting in the stairwell. A knock at the door, the prearranged dactyl. ‘They’ve looted the basement!’ Andrei, who’s sitting on our sofa, nods. He tells us that he’s known about it for hours, advises us to go right away and see to our things.

  Absolute chaos below: wooden partitions battered down, locks torn off, trunks slit open and trampled. We stumble over things that don’t belong to us, tread on laundry that’s still clean and crisply creased. We hold up a candle stump to light our comer, salvage this and that a few towels, a side of bacon on the string. The widow complains that the big trunk with all her best clothes is missing. In the corridor she dumps out someone else’s suitcase that’s been slit open and starts filling it with the few things she has left, using her hands to shovel flour that’s spilled on the floor, as if she’s lost her mind. Left and right the neighbours rummage about by flickering candle–light. Shrill cries and wailing. Eider down whirls through the air, the place reeks of spilled wine and excrement.

  We drag our things upstairs. Andrei is clearly embarrassed about the looting. He consoles us by saying that he’s sure they were only looking for alcohol, and that even though everything else has been turned upside down there shouldn’t be anything missing. Then, half in Russian, half in German, Vanya the Child, who has shown up in the meantime as well, promises the widow with a serious expression in his black eyes, that he’ll go with us in the morning when it’s daylight and stay by our side until we’ve found everything that belongs to us.

  The widow cries, sobbing afresh each time she recalls a specific item from her trunk – her good suit, her knitted dress, her well–made shoes. I, too, am despondent. We have no rights, we’re nothing but booty, dirt. We unload our rage on Adolf. Anxiously we ask where the front is, when there will be peace.

  While we whisper among ourselves at Herr Pauli’s bed, where he retreated once again after eating his midday meal, Andrei holds a war council with his. comrades at the mahogany table. Suddenly all the window casements fly open, pieces of cardboard whiz through the room, an explosion throws me against the opposite wall. Something crunching, grinding, then a cloud of dust in the room... and a wall comes crashing down somewhere outside. As we learn from a neighbour half an hour later, a German mortar shell hit the house next door, wounding several Russians and killing a horse. We find the animal in the courtyard the next morning – the meat nearly removed and lying on a bloody sheet, the fatty entrails coiled on the wet red earth beside it.

  Exactly how the evening passed escapes me at the moment. Presumably alcohol, bread, herring, canned meat, coitus, Anatol. Now I have it: a whole tableful of Russians, known and unknown. They keep pulling out their watches, comparing the time, the Moscow time they brought with them, which is an hour ahead of ours. One of the men has a thick old turnip of a watch, an East Prussian brand, with a shiny yellow, highly concave dial. Why are they so fixated on watches? It’s not because of the monetary value, they don’t ogle rings and earrings and bracelets the same way at all. They’ll overlook them if they can lay their hands on another watch. It’s probably because in their country watches aren’t available for just anyone and haven’t been for a long time. You have to really be somebody before you can get a wristwatch, that is, before the state allots you something so coveted. And now they’re springing up like radishes ripe for the picking, in undreamt–of abundance. With every new watch, the owner feels an increase in power. With every watch he can present or give away back home, his status rises. That must be it. Because they can’t distinguish a cheap watch from an expensive one. They prefer the ones with bells and whistles –stopwatches, or a revolving face beneath a metal case. A gaudy picture on the dial also attracts them.

  I look at the men’s hands resting on our table, and felt a sudden twinge of disgust at their bald show of strength. What is clinging to those hands? I chase the feeling down with some brandy. They shout, ‘Vypit’ nado!’ whenever I put the glass to my lips and celebrate each swallow as if it were a deed worthy of distinction. This time there’s red wine in addition to the spirits, probably from the basement. A candle fixed to a saucer provides a flickering light, casting the Slavic profiles on the wall.

  For the first time we have a real discussion, with at least three highly talented debaters: Andrei with the icy–blue eyes, schoolteacher and chess player, composed and quiet as always. Then a man from the Caucasus, with a hook nose and a fiery gaze. (‘I’m not jewish, I’m from Georgia,’ was how he introduced himself to me.) He’s amazingly well read, able to quote fluently both verse and prose, very eloquent and as adroit as a fencing master. The third intellectual is also here for the first time – a lieutenant, extremely young, wounded this evening by some shrapnel. He has a makeshift bandage on his shin and limps around with a German hiking pole, decorated with all sorts of badges from well–known destinations in the Harz mountains. He is pale blond and has an ominous look and a nasty way of speaking. He starts to say, ‘As an intelligent person, I–’ whereupon the Georgian interrupts him.

  ‘There are other intelligent people here too – the n’emka, for example,’ (meaning me).

  We talk about how the war started, they see the root cause in Fascism, in a system driven towards conquest. Shaking their heads, they explain that there was absolutely no reason for. Germany to go to war at all – such a wealthy country, so cultured, so well–tended, even now, despite the destruction. For a while the discussion turns to the stunted form of early capitalism that was inherited by the October Revolution, and to the later stage that is evident in Germany – where capitalist society is more advanced, in wealth as well as decadence. Suddenly cautious, they put forward tentative arguments for why their country is on the verge of a great development, and therefore should be considered, critiqued and compared only from the perspective of the future.

  One of the men points to the nineteenth–century style furniture in the room as an example of a superior culture. Finally they come to the subject of ‘degeneration’ and argue whether we Germans are degenerate or not. They enjoy the gamesmanship, the lively back and forth of the debate. Andrei guides the conversation with a gentle rein and a quiet voice.

  Every now and then the wounded lieutenant directs a vicious outburst against me personally. Scorn and ridicule for Germany’s plans of conquest, for its defeat. The others, displaying a sense of tact more becoming to a victor, refuse to follow suit, quickly changing the subject, and telling him to watch his language.

  Then in the middle of all this talk Anatol comes bursting in, yawni
ng, exhausted from work. He sits down a while, but soon gets bored. He can’t keep up with the others. He’s from the countryside, from the kolkhoz – he’s told me that he was in charge of milk. a kind of dairy manager.

  ‘How interesting,’ I said.

  ‘It’s all right, you know, but milk, all the time, nothing but milk...’ And he sighed.

  Half an hour later he goes, leaving the others to debate.

  Herr Pauli is sleeping in the next room. Once again the widow has set up her improvised bed close to him. Otherwise the situation is clear: the apartment is open to a few friends of the house, if that’s what they can be called, as well as to the men Anatol brings from his platoon and no one else. But only their chief, only Anatol, has the right to spend the night. It seems that I really am taboo, at least for today. But who can say about tomorrow? Anatol comes back around midnight, whereupon the debaters disperse on their own. The last one out is the blond lieutenant, who limps away with his hiking pole, sizing me up with evil eyes.

  Now there are holes in my memory. Once again I drank a great deal, can’t recall the details. The next thing I remember is Monday morning, the grey light of dawn, a conversation with Anatol that led to a minor misunderstanding. I said to him, ‘You are a bear.’ (I know the word well – m’edv’ed – which was also the name of a well–known Russian restaurant on Tauentzienstrasse.)

  Anatol, however, thought I was getting my words mixed up, so he corrected me, very patiently, the way you’d speak to a child: ‘No, that’s wrong. A m’edv’ed is an animal. A brown animal, in the forest. It’s big and roars. I am a chelav’ek – ‘a person.’

  LOOKING BACK ON MONDAY, 30 APRIL 1945. RECORDED ON TUESDAY, 1 MAY

  The day breaks grey and pink. The cold blows through the empty window sockets, filling our mouths with the taste of smoke. Once again the roosters. I have this early hour all to myself. I wipe everything down, sweep away cigarette butts, breadcrumbs, fish bones, rub out the rings from the tabletop. Then a frugal wash in the tub, with two cups of water. This is my happiest time, between five and seven in the morning, while the widow and Herr Pauli are still asleep – if ‘happy’ is the right word. It’s a relative happiness. I do some mending and then soap up my extra shirt. We know from experience that no Russians come at this ear ly hour.

  But from 8a.m. on the back door is open to the usual traffic. Unknown men of all descriptions. Two or three burst in out of the blue, start pestering the widow and me, randy as goats, try to grab hold of us. But now it’s the custom for one of our recent acquaintances to come and help us shake them off. I heard Grisha mentioning Anatol by name, affirming the ta boo. And I’m very proud I actually managed to tame one of the wolves – most likely the strongest in the pack, too – to keep away the others.

  Around 10a.m. we climb up to the booksellers, where a dozen of the local tenants are still being sheltered, behind the excellent security locks. We give the special knock, the door opens, we join the other residents for the arranged meeting.

  A jostle of men and women. It takes me a while to recognize individual cave dwellers, some of them look unbelievably different. Overnight practically all the women have grey or grey–streaked hair...... they can’t get their usual hair dye. Their faces, too, look unfamiliar, older, distraught.

  We draw around the table, hastily, for fear the Russians will discover our ‘assembly’ and misinterpret it. Very quickly, as fast as I can speak, I report what news I’ve gleaned from the Russian papers and from the Russians themselves – mostly Andrei and Anatol: Berlin is completely encircled. All the outlying districts are occupied, the only places still resisting are Tiergarten and Moabit. Huge numbers of generals have been captured. They say that Hitler is dead but give no details, that Goebbels has committed suicide, that the Italians have shot Mussolini. The Russians have reached the Ethe, where they’ve met up and are fraternizing with the Americans.

  Everyone listens eagerly, it’s all news to them. I look around, ask the woman from Hamburg about her daughter, eighteen–year–old Stinchen with the bandaged head. She answers – with her sharp ‘s’ – that the girl has moved into the crawl space above the false kitchen ceiling in their apartment and spends every night and most of the day up there under the real ceiling. The Russians don’t know about crawl spaces and false ceilings – they don’t have that kind of thing back home. In the old days people would store their trunks there, before that they were used as maids’ quarters – or so they say. So now Stinchen is vegetating away in that cramped, stuffy space, equipped with bedclothes, a chamber pot and some eau de cologne. Her mother says that at the first sign of footsteps or any other noise she quickly shuts the hatch. At least she’s still a virgin.

  We feel our way back downstairs. Our building has long since become a regular barracks. The stench of horses is everywhere, the whole place sprinkled with manure tracked in by the soldiers. These victors also feel free to piss on any wall any time they choose. Puddles of urine in the stairwell, on the landings, in the entrance hall. Evidently they do the same in the abandoned apartments that they now have entirely to themselves.

  Vanya the Child is already waiting in our kitchen, erect as a sentry. his machine gun at the ready. With the look of a loyal dog he offers to escort us to the basement. So once again we went down into the dark. several Russians are still sprawled out in the back hall way, slumbering into the day, on proper bedding, too, which they’ve managed to get hold of somewhere. One of them is lying right under the spiral staircase, blocking our way, in his own little puddle still trickling from his body. Vanya kicks him and he moves aside, muttering under his breath. Even though he’s just sixteen, Vanya is a sergeant, and demands that his rank is respected. Andrei has told me that Vanya was sent to labour on an estate in East Prussia, but joined the advancing Russian army and quickly climbed the ranks thanks to various heroic deeds.

  We grope around the basement, looking for the widow’s things. Things that I wouldn’t recognize and that the widow doesn’t want to identify too carefully, as she is simply grabbing whatever she feels might come in useful. By the faint glow from the upper windows, amplified by Vanya’s torch, we gather potatoes and onions and even find a number of jars of preserves, still intact, which we take down off one of the shelves.

  A man comes up, eyes like slits, makes some lewd comments mixed with German words. Whereupon Vanya says, as if to no one in particular, M right, that’s enough.’ And the sliteyed man moves on.

  The midday meal. We still have more than enough to eat. Compared to my meagre meals, alone in the attic, I’m living well here. No more nettles, now there’s meat, bacon, butter, peas, onions, canned vegetables. Even on his bed of pain, Herr Pauli manages to eat like a horse – until he starts cursing when he bites into a stewed pear and pulls a long sharp splinter of glass out of his mouth. I find myself chewing on something jagged as well – evidently one of the jars we brought from the basement was chipped.

  Outside the war is still on. And we have a new morning and evening prayer: ‘For all of this we thank the Führer.’ A line we know from the years before the war, when it was printed in praise and thanksgiving on thousands of posters, proclaimed in speeches. Today the exact same words have precisely the opposite meaning, full of scorn and derision. I believe that’s what’s called a dialectic conversion.

  A quiet afternoon. Anatol is out with his men. Evidently they’re preparing a May Day celebration. That makes us anxious, supposedly all Russians are to get an extra ration of vodka.

  No Anatol. But around 9p.m. someone else shows up instead, a small man, on the older side, pockmarked and with scarred cheeks. My heart pounds. What a terrible–looking face!

  But it turns out he has good manners, uses highly refined language and is very solicitous. He’s also the first soldier to address me as ‘grazhdanka’ – meaning ‘citizen’ – which the Russians use for foreign women whom they can’t refer to as ‘comrade’. He introduces himself as Anatol’s new orderly, charged with informing us th
at his superior will be joining us for supper and with procuring the necessary provisions. He tells me all of this from outside the door, which I haven’t unchained.

  I let him in, offer him a seat. Clearly he was hoping to get into a conversation with me. He’s bound to realize that his face isn’t one to inspire confidence, so he’s twice as eager to please in some other way. He mentions that he’s from the Caucasus, from an area that Pushkin visited and where he found much inspiration. I can’t understand everything, since the man is using very sophisticated expressions and constructing long, elaborate sentences. Still, I take my cue from ‘Pushkin’ and manage to name a few tides – Boris Godunov and The Postmaster. I tell him that they’d made a film of The Postmaster in Germany a few years back, the orderly is clearly pleased to hear it. In short, a genuine parlour conversation, very unusual. I don’t know how to read these men, and am always taken aback at how they surprise us.

  A sudden noise, men’s voices in the kitchen. Anatol? The little orderly doesn’t think so. We both rush to the kitchen, run into the widow who is fleeing in visible terror.

  ‘Watch out, it’s Petka!’

  Petka? My God, so he’s still around. Petka with the blond bristles and the lumber jack paws that shook so much when he launched into his Romeo babble.

  The three of us advance into the room. A small Hindenburg lamp on the pantry is giving out its last light. Apart from that there’s a flickering gleam from a dying torch, swung by a Russian I’ve never seen before. The other man is Petka, no doubt about it, I can tell from his voice. Since the day before yesterday (hard to believe, but it really was just two days ago), his love for me has turned to hate. As soon as he catches sight of me, the spurned Siberian comes lunging my way. His bristles are standing on end (who knows where his cap is?). His small eyes are glistening. He’s dead drunk.