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

by Marta Hillers

  At first there was just stupid gossiping and bickering on all sides, until finally a kind of singing started up, more like a droning, the same verse over and over: ‘Shine on, dear sun, we don’t give a whit, the mayor is sitting and taking a sh- Shine on, dear sun...’ And on and on. That’s how the women vented their anger over their stolen Sunday.

  Every now and then a tall bony woman would reach into some cranny of her undergarments, fish out a wristwatch wrapped in a handkerchief and announce the time. The hours crept by, interrupted only by a hasty serving of gruel.

  Back into the shadeless blaze. Zinc, more zinc, and no end in sight. By around 4p.m. we had filled the first freight wagon until it was gleaming silver. Then with a ‘heave-ho’ we shoved the wagon a way up the track, and rolled the next one into place, a French wagon from Bordeaux with the SNCF lettering I knew so well. It gave off a horrible stench -the men had used it as a latrine. The women laughed. One of them called out, ‘Looks like the shit’s being freighted to Moscow as well.’

  Onwards, no end of zinc. Finally even our two overseers grew bored. We know them pretty well by now. We call one ‘Teddy’ and the other ‘Squint’. Today they weren’t as strict as usual; twice they even shouted thelovely word ‘Break’. Squint went so far as to risk a dance with one of our girls while the rest of us clapped time. Both soldiers suddenly disappeared around 5p.m. But just because they were off duty didn’t mean we were, unfortunately. All at once the whole place was unnaturally quiet -no shouts driving us on, no chatter, no moaning, nothing at all. Only the grating of our feet and the occasional weak cry of ‘Watch out’ when one of the women dozed off. And of course someone was always asking what time it was.

  Word came from the basement - where the women were also on their feet all day - that the masses of zinc ingots still stored there were inexhaustible. Around 7p.m. we heard a rumour that we were done for the day, but that proved false. Zinc, zinc and more zinc... Finally, at 8p.m., a Russian showed up and waved us over to the canteen. We gulped down the rich soup and trudged home. I was keeling over, my hands were dark grey. When I washed up, the water was full of thick grey flakes. I lay down for a bit and let the widow pamper me with tea and cake.

  The electricity is back on as of yesterday. The time of candles is over, now people can ring instead of knocking - the quiet has come to an end. The Berlin station is broadcasting on the radio, generally news reports and disclosures that reek of blood, corpses and atrocities. They say that millions of people - mostly jews - were cremated in huge camps in the east and that their ashes were used for fertilizer. On top of that everything was supposedly carefully recorded in thick ledgers - a scrupulous accounting of death. We really are an orderly nation. Late in the evening they played Beethoven, and that brought tears. I turned it off. Who can bear that at this moment?

  MONDAY, 28 MAY 1945

  Back in the laundry. Today our I vans were in particularly high spirits. They pinched and pawed us and repeated their standard offer in German: ‘Bacon and eggs, sleep at your home,’ and then, just to make sure we understood, they rested their heads on their arms like Raphaelesque angels.

  Bacon and eggs -we could certainly use those. But delicious as the prospect was, there were no takers as far as I could see. And rape seems pretty much out of the question, here in the wide-open factory yard in broad daylight with so many people milling about. People are busy everywhere you look, there’s no quiet comer to be had. That’s why the boys add the bit about where they’ll sleep -what they want are willing, bacon-craving girls who’ll take them home. I’m sure there are plenty who fit that description here in the factory, but they’re also afraid and fear is an effective damper.

  Once again we washed tunics, shirts, and handkerchiefs, one of which turned out to be a little rectangular bed-sidetable cover, hemmed in red and embroidered with the cross-stitched words, ‘Sleep Well’. For the first time in my life I was washing handkerchiefs sneezed in by strangers. Was I nauseated by the enemy snot? Yes, even more than by the underwear - I had to struggle not to gag.

  Evidently my fellow launderers didn’t have the same reaction - they went on washing with great vigour. By now I’ve come to know both of them fairly well. Little nineteen-year-old Gerti, gentle, reflective - half-whispered a confession involving all kinds of amorous mishaps. One boyfriend left her; another fell in the war... I steered the conversation to the end of April. Finally, her eyelids lowered, she described how three Russians had hauled her out of the basement into a stranger’s apartment on the ground floor, threw her on a sofa and had their way with her - first one after the other, then in no particular order. Afterwards, the three of them turned into pranksters. They rummaged through the kitchen, but all they found was some marmalade and coffee substitute - in other words, the typical pantry fare at that time. Laughing, they spooned the jam onto Gerti’s hair, and once her head was covered they sprinkled it generously with coffee substitute.

  I stared at her as she told the story, quietly ashamed, speaking to her washboard. I tried to picture the horrible scene. No one could ever invent such a thing.

  Our taskmasters spurred us on all day with cries of, ‘Davai, pustai, rabota, skoreye!’ ‘Move, get on with it, work, faster!’ All of a sudden they’re in a tremendous hurry. Maybe they’re planning to leave soon.

  One problem for us washerwomen is how to use the toilet. The place is so awful you can barely set foot inside. We tried cleaning it out with our laundry water the first day, but the pipes are clogged. Moreover there are always Russians lurking around. So now two of us stand watch at either end of the corridor while the third uses the toilet. We always take along our soap and brushes, since otherwise they disappear.

  At noon we spent an hour lingering at our upturned-drawer dining table, enjoyed the sun, ate rich soup and took a nap. Then we went back to washing, and washed and washed. We were soaked with sweat by 7p.m. when we headed home, once again sneaking out of the side entrance.

  A bath at home, a nice dress, a quiet evening did some good. I have to think about things. Our spiritual need is great. We’re waiting for some heartfelt word, something that would touch us, some declaration that would bring us back into the stream of life. Our hearts have run dry, they’re hungry fur what the Catholic Church calls ‘manna for the soul’. I think I’d like to find a church next Sunday, if I get the day off and if -they’re having services. I’d like to see whether churchgoers are finding manna like that. Those of us who don’t belong to any church have to suffer alone in the darkness. The future weighs on us like lead. All I can do is brace myself for what’s to come, and try to keep my inner flame alive. But why? What for? What task awaits me? I feel so hopelessly alone.

  TUESDAY, 29 MAY 1945

  Another washday, long and hot. This time it was positively raining trousers and tunics. One tunic disappeared off the line, apparently a particularly fine item that belonged to an officer. The idea that one of us might have filched the thing didn’t occur to anyone, not even the man who was robbed. The men let out the inevitable hue and cry, but it was clear they accepted the theft as a natural occurrence. Thieving has deep roots among these people. Back when I was travelling in Russia I was robbed of nearly everything that could be stolen, especially during the first part of my stay: my purse, briefcase, coat, gloves, alarm clock, even the stockings I’d hung in the bathroom to dry. One time I was in an office with three other people. I bent down for a moment to open a drawer and look for a photo, and when I turned back again I saw that someone had taken my pair of scissors. It had to be one of the three of them all friendly. well-mannered clerks. I didn’t dare say anything; I simply poked around the desk some more, my face blushing instead of the thief’s, while they calmly went about their business. To this day I don’t know which one it could have been. I only know that ordinary Russians couldn’t find scissors like that in the stores. No doubt about it; poverty breeds theft, it’s catching on here as well. But the Russians have their own style, a kind of innocent approach, as
if stealing were something completely acceptable. That’s just the way it is, what can you do about it?

  The men paid court to us all day long with their repeated proposition: ‘Bacon and eggs, sleep at your home.’ One of them kept following me around. He showed me a German 20- mark bill on the sly, and laid another one on top, as a promise, if I’d step in the shed with him, real quick, and... He’d already made the same offer to little Gerti.

  Today we had a Russian woman washing alongside us, the wife or girlfriend of a captain, a busty blonde. She was washing some men’s shirts made of rayon, humming a German hit she’d probably picked up from a record. Gerti and our fellow launderer - both with perfect pitch - sang along. The Russian · woman smiled at us. The atmosphere was friendly.

  It’s sunny and breezy outside - nice weather for drying. Most of the Russians were dozing in the yard. For a while no one came to pinch or pester us. We just went on washing. Somehow our talk shifted to poetry. It turns out that Gerti knows half of her school reader by heart. I joined in, and for a while you could hear poems by Mörike, Eichendorff, Lenau and Goethe - all declaimed over the washtubs. Eyes down, Gerti recited: Just wait, for soon/ you, too, will rest.’ Then she sighed and said, ‘If only that were true.’ Our fellow washer shook her head. She’s more than twice little Gerti’s age, but dying is the last thing on her mind. Her constant refrain: ‘Everything passes, time goes by.’

  Around 8p.m., tired and worn out, I arrived home. Except it turned out it wasn’t home any more. Our accidental family has fallen apart. In view of the dwindling supply of potatoes in the basket, Herr Pauli finally blew up at the widow -it was a long time coming- and demanded she stop sharing their room and board with me. My stock has gone down since Nikolai vanished into thin air and there· s no other prospect in sight, no viable candidate for ‘sleeping up’ some food. The widow met me in the hallway, hemming and hawing, to deliver the bad news. On the one hand she likes me. The bad times have brought us together. On the other hand she’s known Herr Pauli longer than she’s known me, feels bound to him, and she is also counting on him to provide some sort of guarantee for the future. She doesn’t want to antagonize him.

  I said, ‘Thank God I know where I stand. I haven’t exactly been savouring the meals here for some time. To tell the truth I was glad to be eating with the Russians this past week.’

  Of course I have no idea what I’m supposed to live off next week, once the work for the ·Russians is finished and I’ll be sitting alone upstairs in the attic apartment, forced to rely on the little bit we’ve been allotted but have yet to receive. I packed my belongings - a few spoons and a handful of old clothes - and trundled upstairs, though as I’m writing this I’m back in the widow’s apartment, where I’m spending the last night. It’s an orphan’s lot to wander, I suppose. The most bitter thing in the life of a single woman is that every time she enters some kind of family life, after a while she ends up causing trouble: she’s one too many; someone doesn’t like her because someone else does, and in the end they kick her out to preserve the precious peace.

  And still this page is smudged with a tear.

  WEDNESDAY, 30 MAY 1945

  Our last washday. Starting tomorrow we’re free, all of us. The Russians were tying up their bundles, the air was full of imminent departure. Inside the shed they’d lit a fire under the washboiler, because some officer wanted to take a bath. The others scrubbed themselves in the open, using bowls they set on chairs, and rubbing their broad chests with wet hand towels.

  Today I made a conquest. Using gestures and broken German, our amorous young pursuers led me to understand that ‘that one’ was in love with me and was willing to do any· thing I wished, if I would... ‘That one’ turned out to be a tall, broad soldier, with a peasant’s face and innocent blue eyes; his temples were already greyed. When I glanced his way he averted his eyes, but then moved a few tiny steps closer, took the heavy bucket of water from me and carried it over to the tub. An entirely new model! What a brilliant idea - to think it never occurred to any of the others. I was even more surprised when he spoke to me in perfect, Russian-free German: ‘We’re leaving tomorrow, somewhere far away from here.’ Moreover he pronounces his ‘h’ like ‘h’ and not ‘kh’ - he says ‘here’ and not ‘khere’. I figured out right away that he was an ethnic German from the Volga basin, one of the Volga-Germans. Yes, he comes from the Volga region, and German was his slightly rusty mother tongue. He followed me round the whole day with friendly fatherly eyes. He wasn’t the pinching type, more on the shy side, a farmer. But he had this fawning, doglike look in his eyes that he used to express any number of things. As long as he was near me, the men by the washtubs refrained from pinching and jostling.

  Once again the three of us worked like slaves. Little Gerti was in fine spirits, warbling away: She’s happy because as of today she’s sure there won’t be any little Russian, from back then on the sofa - which makes me think about the fact that I’m a week late now. Even so I’m not worried; I still believe in my inner No.

  But happy Gerti had bad cramps. We tried to help her a bit, washing some of her things. The day was grey and humid; the hours passed very slowly: Towards evening the Russians trickled in to pick up their clothes, which had dried in the meantime. One of them took out a dainty lady’s handkerchief with a crocheted hem, held it to his heart, rolled his eyes romantically and spoke a single word, and - the name of a place ‘Landsberg’. Looks to me like another Romeo. Perhaps Petka, too, will one day press his lumberjack paws to his heart, roll his eyes and murmur my name unless of course he’s still cursing me with every chop of the axe.

  In all the chaos of departure the cook didn’t serve us from his own shores today; we had to report to the canteen and slurp down the barley soup. There the word was going round that we’d never see the 8 marks per day we’d been promised, that the Russians were taking all the money with them. Then there was a second, even wilder rumour on top of that. Supposedly the radio had warned of a Mongolian horde about to pour into Berlin, men so fierce even Stalin was unable to keep them in check and had been forced to grant them three days’ of freedom to plunder and rape, and had advised all women to hide in their homes. Utter nonsense, of course. But the women believed it and kept jabbering and moaning, all worked up, until our interpreter intervened. A battleaxe of a woman who addresses everyone with the familiar form and sings the same tune as our overseers, even though she was sent here to do forced work just like the rest of us. She wangled her position thanks to her scanty bits of Russian (she’s from Polish Upper Silesia). Well, I passed her level of ability long ago, but I’m very glad I didn’t let them know it. I would have hated having to translate all the orders and shouts of our taskmasters. The whole group is afraid of the woman. She has pointy canine teeth and a piercing, malicious gaze - exactly how I imagine a female guard in a concentration camp.

  In the evening they announced in the canteen that we were being dismissed. They also told us we could pick up our pay next week - room number such-and-such in the town hall. Maybe it will be there, maybe it won’t. I shook hands with little Gerti and the other woman - gingerly, since the three of us are very sore - and wished them all the best. Gerti wants to go back to Silesia, where her parents live. Or lived. No one knows anything for sure.

  THURSDAY, 31 MAY 1945

  Today I began my solitary hungry existence in the attic apartment. It must have been some instinct that made me eat the way I did at the widow’s, with no holding back. After all, I knew it couldn’t last. That’s why I stuffed myself with as much food as I could. They can’t take that away from me now. But the shift from the good life to nearly nothing is all the harder. I have no supplies laid up, and as of yet they’ve hardly doled out a thing. That leaves bread, which we do receive promptly in my case 300 grams, i.e. six rolls of grey rye bread, which I easily eat up just for breakfast. As it happens, today there weren’t any rolls, so I had to take a kilogram loaf. I made a cross over it the way my mother’s very de
vout mother used to do. May I never lack for bread up here. I notched the crust to mark off three daily portions. There’s no fat of any kind to spread. The widow gave me some dried potatoes and the remaining pea flour, but those won’t last more than two midday meals. For supper there’s really nothing except for nettles. It makes you so listless. As I write this I feel as if my head were a balloon that might fly away any minute. I get dizzy if I bend over; the change is too drastic. Nevertheless I’m glad I had those few fat weeks. They’ve left me some strength. Presumably food will be doled out sooner or later. I can’t count on a Russian provider - that’s all over.

  I spent the whole day slaving away in the attic, a day of complete silence and solitude, the first in a long time. At one point I noticed that the real tenant’s radio had disappeared. There were handprints on the whitewash where the radio should have been. Proper fingerprints, too - good specimens for a Sherlock Holmes. I deduced that the roofers were expanding their own inventory, taking one piece here, one piece there. Well, I intend to give them a piece of my mind. I can get their address from the housekeeper of the landlord who took off towards the west. She’s running things on his behalf, already collecting rent for June. The May rent was cancelled: in the official records for 1945, that month won’t count.

  FRIDAY, 1 JUNE 1945

  The chervil in my balcony flowerboxes is sprouting in curly shoots; the borage has little round leaves. The bit of green brightens my morning. For breakfast I had three pieces of bread, spread with a paste I made from dry yeast and water. Pretty short rations.