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

by Marta Hillers

  Around 3p.m. our Viennese overseer finally checked our names off his list and let us go home. On the way back I was swinging my bucket gaily, in the spirit of ‘what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger’.

  At home I found the widow all keyed up. She confessed that for the past few days she’d been feeling ‘this itching and burning’, so she’d consulted the encyclopedia under ‘ syphilis ‘ and ‘gonorrhoea’. As a pharmacist’s wife she’d learned a great deal about human ailments, but this was one particular area where she lacked the necessary experience. ‘I have these little bumps,· she declared, very sure of herself. According to the encyclopedia, little bumps like that are symptomatic of early syphilis, breaking out three to four weeks after infection. The widow calculates that it was exactly four weeks ago that her stairwell rapist, that little beardless boy, had his way with her.

  ‘What? Vanya? That child?’ I can’t believe it. ‘You mean you think that he-?

  ‘Why not? Exactly, a stupid little boy like that. Besides, I’m not sure if that really was Vanya. How could I know? And then that Pole!’

  The widow starts sobbing miserably. What am I supposed to do? There’s no point in my taking a look, since I don’t know a thing about it. And she fiercely dismisses my suggestion that she ask Herr Pauli. So all that’s left is to wait till tomorrow and get to the hospital as early as possible, to the spedal clinic that’s been set up for women who’ve been raped. Then I remember how my ears started to ache back in school when we were studying the human ear with the help of oversized anatomical models. It’s likely that the widow’s symptoms flared up when she read the description in the encyclopedia. We’ll just have to wait until tomorrow. I may have to go and get examined myself soon. I’m one day late.

  THURSDAY, 24 MAY 1945

  The alarm jangled - time to get up for shovelling. Today I dressed in my blue training trousers and tied on a kitchen apron. Once again the sky was overcast. It was drizzling when we arrive d. We shovelled diligently. There were two men shovelling alongside us, at least when the supervisor was watching - otherwise they didn’t do a thing. All of a sudden around ten o’clock we heard some shouting and a Russian voice, ‘Woman, come! Woman, come!’ A command that’s been all too popular. In a flash all the women disappeared, hiding behind doors, crawling under carts and piles of rubble, squatting to make themselves as small as possible. But after a moment most of them, including me, re-emerged. ‘Surely they’re not going to... ? At least not here, in the middle of the street. Besides there’s only one of them.’

  And he now went into action. A lieutenant, evidently equipped with orders, rounded up the remaining women and herded us together. We trudged along behind him, in front of him, while he raced around us like a sheepdog, brandishing his rifle. We cut across the garden plots and finally wound up in front of a machine-tool factory.

  The large halls lay empty, the hundreds of workbenches deserted. A German shout of ‘Heave-ho!’ came echoing off the walls - a team of German men under Russian command were using cranes to hoist a disassembled forging press onto some train wagons. The parts were bigger than they were. Everywhere you looked you saw men unscrewing things, turning switches off, oiling machines, hauling parts away. The siding outside the factory was lined up with one freight wagon after the other; several already piled high with machine parts.

  What were we women supposed to do here? We loitered about, not knowing where to go. We realized right away we couldn’t leave, since all the gates were guarded by soldiers.

  Finally we were ordered to the assembly hall, where we were told to collect all the brass and other ‘bright metal’ we could find and haul it, in crates, to the freight wagons.

  Together with another woman who stubbornly refused to respond to my attempts to strike up a conversation, I dragged out a box and went around picking up shiny bits of metal - copper thread, brass ingots -just like a magpie. I rummaged through the workers’ lockers, finding pipes, crumpled handkerchiefs, neatly folded sandwich paper - all as if they’d just finished yesterday. Then we tossed our magpie booty onto the floor of a train wagon, where two women were clambering about, sorting the metal like housewives, nicely according to size.

  At noon we were ordered into a different hall, a kind of storage shed, with high shelves holding metal bars of every type, threading and bolts and nuts as big as a fist. We spent an eternity passing them all from hand to hand. The woman at the end of the line stacked everything in crates, as ordered.

  I thought about what the widow had experienced yesterday, and waited in some suspense for the bottoms to break when the crates were moved. But it never came to that. As soon as they started to lift the first crate, it was clear that it was too heavy. Not even our slave-driver, a squint-eyed NCO with a chest like a cupboard, could make it budge. There were no wheelbarrows or anything of that nature. The man muttered a few crude curses and ordered everything taken out of the crates and passed hand-to-hand all the way to the freight wagons. In that way a minimal amount of work was accomplished with maximum of effort.

  New labour details showed up, mostly young women but with quite a few older ones as well. Word went round that we were to be fed. And indeed after 3p.m. they ordered us into the factory canteen, where we found some steaming thick bread soup. But there was a shortage of tin plates and spoons, so that each woman had to wait for the woman next to her to finish. Hardly any of the women ran up to use the tap; most just gave their spoons a quick swipe on their skirts or aprons and then took the plates from the person before them.

  Back to work! Rabota! There was a considerable draught in the shed. This time we spent hours passing zinc fittings down the line. Finally, it must have been around 8p.m., our squint-eyed task master showed up and shouted, ‘Woman - go home!’ and started shooing us out with his arms, as if we were a flock of chickens. A happy cry of relief. Then we went to the canteen, where were given another 100 grams of bread. After that a cask was rolled in, with a thick white liquid streaming out of it - some kind of syrup. We queued up. ‘Tastes great,’ the first women to try it reassured us. I didn’t know how to handle it until one woman gave me a piece of bilious green paper she’d found in the shed that I could fold and use as a container. The green comes off, the woman said, but claimed that it wasn’t poisonous.

  I showed up at the widow’s around 10p.m. and proudly displayed my booty. I scraped the gluey liquid off the green paper and the widow merely shook her head. I took a spoon and licked it and wound up with a mouth full of paper. No matter - it tasted sweet. Only after a while did I remember about the encyclopedia and the widow’s ‘little bumps’.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ she said, in answer to my question. ‘The doctor told me I’m all right.’

  I drilled her a bit more, wanting to know what it was like at the clinic.

  ‘There were two other women there apart from me,’ the widow reported. ‘The doctor was a cheery sort. He fiddled around a bit and then said, “Green light, track’s all clear!”‘ She shook herself. ‘No, I’m through with that.’ Incidentally an official expression has been invented to describe the whole business of raping: ‘forced intercourse’. Maybe they ought to include the phrase next time they print up the soldiers’ phrase book.

  FRIDAY, 25 MAY 1945

  Up again early and off to work in the clear morning. Women marching in from all directions. Today most brought their own dishes; I too had a soldier’s mess kit dangling from my belt. We lined up as ordered, first in rows of three, then four - after which they spent an interminable time counting, sorting and registering us. Our supervisor was the same Viennese man who had been in charge at the carts; they say he’s a musician. It took him nearly an hour to list all of us. Some women were new recruits. ‘Well, we have to work one way or the other,’ I heard one of them say. 1least here we’ll get something to eat.’

  Sure enough, we started off with some thick barley soup. Then we crossed over the railway embankment to the work halls, where we saw German prisoners slaving awa
y - old men in shabby clothes, probably Volkssturm. They groaned as they lifted heavy gear wheel flanges onto the trains. They milled about alongside us, eyeing us intently. I didn’t catch on, but some others did, and slipped them bits of bread on the sly. That’s not all owed. but the Russian guard looked steadfastly the other way. The men were unshaven and emaciated, with the gaping eyes of wretched dogs. They didn’t look like Germans at all to me. They resembled the Russian POWs we used to see while the fighting was still on, the ones forced to clear rubble from the ruins. This, too, is a logical reversal.

  Back in the hall. Our first task was to haul unwieldy iron bars, in groups of two or three, after that we passed rods and pieces of plate metal down the chain out to the freight wagon. A Russian came in, looked us over, waved two women aside and then a third. The third was me. We trotted after him. Where to? One of us speculated, ‘Maybe to peel potatoes?’ They’d already taken a dozen women to do exactly that out by the railway embankment where the Russian trailers with those fancy curtains are located.

  No, he was taking us someplace else, over to a dilapidated shack and down a dreary corridor where the faecal stench grew more and more unbearable. One woman decided to take off; she simply bolted back, cutting across the landing. After that the Russian made the two of us who were left march in front of him. He led us into a room with a stone floor. We saw a boiler, tubs, washboards, buckets. He pointed at the equipment and made a gesture of washing laundry.

  That was fine with us, but not there in that hovel. The other woman, a pert little person with lively eyes, helped me drag the largest washtub outside the shed, onto a kind of porch. We felt safer there: and it didn’t stink so much. The Russian didn’t object. He brought us two pieces of hard soap and a number of previously white overalls, shirts and handkerchiefs, and signalled to us to wash them. Although his tone was curt, he wasn’t unfriendly, and he didn’t grope us in any way, not even with his eyes.

  My fellow washerwoman revealed that she was from Danzig and exchanged a few snippets of Polish with the Russian. So much the better! That way I don’t have to talk, I can keep my Russian hidden. I don’t want to speak with them as a washerwoman.

  Other soldiers kept coming over in groups, lounging around the washtubs and gossiping about us. Two of them debated how old we might be. After much back and forth they decided I was twenty-four, Not bad!

  The hours crawled by. We soaped and rubbed and fetched warm water from the company kettle, cold water from the hydrant on the street. I rubbed my fingers raw on all the filthy clothing. The towels were rigid with grease. They were all monogrammed hand towels from German families - war booty. I scrubbed away With a hairbrush - quite a struggle. Meanwhile the Russians refused to leave us in peace, pinching us where they could. I batted them away like a horse switching at flies, and sprayed them with water from my hairbrush, but didn’t say a word. Now and then our boss came over and chased off the Romeos. Then he brought us some underwear - fastened with laces instead of buttons.

  The whole time the woman from Danzig was telling me in a monotone how several Ivans went at her mother, who already has grandchildren. Using her Danzig Polish, she had asked if the men weren’t ashamed to rape such an old woman.

  To which they gave the classic answer, in German: ‘You old, means you healthy.’

  I was on the verge of keeling over right at the washtub when our boss showed up and announced it was time for lunch. He brought each of us a mess tin full of rich, fatty soup with meat, cucumbers and bay leaves, and a tin plate of pea porridge well laced with bacon. It seems he is a cook, and a good one at that. The food tasted fabulous. I could feel my strength reviving.

  We went on washing for an eternity. 2p.m., 3p.m., 4p.m., 5p.m., 6p.m. We washed without a break, under constant supervision. We soaped the clothes and wrung them out and fetched water. Our feet ached; our knuckles were close to bleeding. The Russians watching us enjoyed the spectacle; they rubbed their hands in gleeful revenge, thinking they’d really got to us with the washing. ‘Ha ha ha, now you have to wash for us, serves you right!’ The woman from Danzig merely grinned. I played deaf and dumb, smiled all around, and washed and washed. The men were amazed. I heard one say to another, ‘They work well. Always cheerfully, too.’

  We dragged out the work on the last hand towels until it was 6p.m., then cleaned the washtubs and wandered over to the canteen, where everyone was given a dollop of mush. After that all the women started to head home, us included, but when we reached the gate the guards chased us back, crying, ‘Rabota!’ The women started screaming all at once and pushed their way to the gate, ready to mutiny. But the eight-hour day doesn’t apply to the vanquished. A soldier pushed at us, brandishing his rifle and calling out threateningly: ‘Woman! Rabota!’ That’s one Russian word everyone’s learned by now.

  Everyone had to return to the hall and load more iron parts. Silent and worn out, we passed one another the rods and plates. Handling cold iron when your hands have been washing all day hurts something fierce.

  Finally, towards 8p.m., our overseer called out that the freight wagon was full. That was an understatement: it groaned when the locomotive hauled it away. Perhaps the floor will give way before the train reaches Moscow. One old worker, who’d been sitting on top of the car, jumped off as it was moving. He claimed they should have let him stay right where he was so he could go with the rest of the transport; after all, ‘What’s left for us here?’ And he pointed at the hall, deserted and stripped bare. ‘Where are our husbands going to work now?’ the women asked.

  An hour later I was home, dead tired this time, with hands so stiff I don’t feel much like writing. At the same time I’m still a little intoxicated by the rich meal and the size of the portions. Tomorrow we go on washing; our boss already informed us that there’s more laundry waiting.

  SATURDAY, 26 MAY 1945

  Once again the cattle count at the factory yard took forever, though our Viennese should have mastered it by now. And once again the day started off with some hot barley soup; the women were pleased to see whole pieces of meat. And I’m happy not to have Herr Pauli keeping track of every bite I put in my mouth.

  In vain I looked around for my co-washer, but the small, pert woman from Danzig didn’t show up. So I persuaded two other women - one very young, the other around forty, both friendly looking - to join me at the washtubs. The uniforms were waiting, having already been put to soak. They were covered in oil stains, since this is a motorized unit.

  The day passed just like yesterday. The new washerwomen were nice and hard-working. Once again the Russians crowded round us. We fended them off with our elbows and silly laughter. One slit-eyed individual was determined to provoke us. He took a few tunics already hanging on the line to dry and tossed them back in the tub, pointing out several stains that were still visible. Of course the stains were still there. The pitiful bit of soap we had wasn’t enough, and all our brushing couldn’t make up for that. Other men were friendlier, placing pieces of bread next to their tunics.

  Towards noon our boss rigged up a kind of dining room in front of the building, consisting of a crate and two overturned drawers. He asked us to sit down and served us a large pot of the rich stew - always with the same friendly but deadpan expression. We sat in the sun and took our time eating, enjoying the meal greatly. Both my fellow washers gave evasive answers to my usual question about how often it had happened to them. The older of the two, a spirited woman with bad teeth but humour very much intact, said that it was all the same to her - as long as her husband didn’t find out about it when he came back from the western front. Apart from that she subscribes to the saying, ‘Better a Russki on top than a Yank overhead.’ She’s in a position to know, too; her building was hit head on and she and the other residents who had retreated to the basement were buried in rubble. Several people were wounded and one was killed. It took two hours for help to arrive and dig them out. She became very agitated when she started speaking about the person killed, an old woman
. ‘She was sitting by the wall, right in front of a mirror.’ The builders had hung the mirrors low because the basement was originally intended as a shelter for the children from the kindergarten housed in the ramshackle building next door. When children were evacuated from Berlin, the kindergarten was closed and the basement was freed up for the people in the building. ‘The mirror exploded into a thousand pieces, which flew right into the old woman’s back and neck and head. And in the dark and with all the to-do, no one noticed she was quietly bleeding to death.· Still outraged, she waved her soup spoon in the air. ‘Fancy that, a mirror.’

  An amazing death, no doubt about it. Presumably the children for whom the basement shelter was designed were supposed to comb their little locks in front of the mirrors each morning after the nightly air raid - a luxury clearly installed back when the raids first started, back when the shelters still offered a measure of comfort as well as confidence.

  We scrubbed the afternoon away, rubbing tunics, trousers and caps with our wrinkled, swollen hands. Around 7p.m. we were able to sneak out onto the street through a side gate. A wonderful feeling of freedom - a combination of finally getting off work and playing truant.

  At home the widow, Herr Pauli, and I drank what was left of the burgundy r d stolen from the police barracks. Tomorrow is Sunday, but not for me. The Viennese gave a little speech today, the gist of which was that if we didn’t show up for work tomorrow, they would come to our apartments and take us to the factory by force.

  SUNDAY, 27 MAY 1945

  A long, bleak and weary day, the longest Sunday of my life. We worked without stopping in the factory yard from eight in the morning until eight in the evening. No laundry today. Our Russians have the day off. We stood in a chain across the yard, passing zinc ingots and sharp jagged bits from hand to hand while the sun beat down us without mercy. Our chain, which spanned about a hundred yards, was stretched thin, so that you always had to carry the heavy metal two or three steps to hand it to the next woman. My head was soon aching from the sun. On top of that my back hurt and my hands were still raw from all the washing.