Letters From Berlin: A Story of War, Survival, and the Redeeming Power of Love and Friendship

by Kerstin Lieff

  Oh, but how much I love to be with my patients! A little one always called so sweetly whenever he saw me in the mornings, “Schwester Margarete!” I just had to go sit with him. He was still such a delicate young boy. He was very sick, but despite the poor conditions here, he was able to heal and was actually released after only fourteen days.

  He complained so much about his pain, but I really didn’t have much time. Yet always, whenever I walked past him, he called for me. After a while I actually lost my patience with him. Thank God no one noticed, because so often I was told how much my patience was admired. I was pleased with this praise, but I was also ashamed, because I didn’t deserve it. They cannot see into my innermost being. We all had so much to do that every hour counted.

  That little boy was my personal favorite. Next was a man with a full leg amputation. He later got a staph infection and died. He had been a medical intern. On the first day, while he was still in the Gymnasium, he was actually doing quite well, with the exception of a rather nasty fever. On the second day, he was already beginning to act a bit peculiar and started to say funny things. Then, from the third day on, he began fantasizing such dreadful things. Each day thereafter, it got worse. When it came time to change his bandages and give him new bedding, he talked to us as though he were in a sanatorium.

  “Schwester, when will breakfast be served? Are the men also coming to see me? Am I lying correctly here in the sun?” Then he hallucinated such strange ideas, like “Did the car already take off? We must test the tires before it does. There’s not a minute of time to be lost. We must leave quickly now! … But I must see my mother first … But, Schwester, you mustn’t leave me here, because I’m a cripple. I can’t do anything on my own, and they’ve stolen my crutches.” This, then, was his continual conversation.

  It may have been on the evening before he died. I had given him one last shot of morphine. I still sat with him, trying to convince him that he should sleep. Meanwhile, “The chauffeur is preparing the car. Tomorrow I shall leave. It’s beneath the dignity of the Herr Doktor to begin a trip in the night, you know. So I must sleep until morning.” And on and on it went.

  He wanted us all to sleep with him and to not leave him alone. Slowly he became calmer, and I finally left his bedside. During the night he hallucinated again, and it was even worse the next day. His fever rose, his pulse was at 190, then down to 130 but weak and difficult to find.

  The next morning his bed was empty by the time I came to work. The Sanis had already removed his corpse. I still ran out after him to bring him a flower as a sign that we will never consider any of our patients an “ex.” Sadly, he had already been buried in the mass grave in the yard.

  Why does Death disfigure the faces of His victims so? Why does He torture them so, allowing them to struggle so long between living and dying? He is always the victorious one in the end anyway.

  Either in the night or early the next morning, there was a young boy, a Hitler Youth, who finally died from a bullet wound to his bladder. He had been suffering for such a long time. That afternoon another patient came to us, another Hitler Youth, in paraplegic condition. I was to give him morphine immediately, but soon that order was negated, as it was no longer necessary. I sat with him for another twenty minutes, occasionally feeling his pulse, until it was no longer detectable. Thank God, the boy was unconscious, because to die with such pain is horrible. His breathing came in fits and starts.

  It made me think about Dieter. Did he too simply fall asleep like this?

  “Young boy, sleep. You may be the luckiest of us all. You were very brave. Now you have a wicked wound that will never have a chance to heal. Sleep. It’s much nicer over there on the other side. Let me close your eyes for you, and I’ll cover you with your blanket.”

  The tears ran from my eyes. When the little one had died, and after I covered him with his blanket and wanted to get up from my chair, I noticed the Landser around me, standing quietly, deeply moved to see him, this small offer of a child. Every one of them surely was thinking of home—about life and about joy—about death and war, sorrow and wounds, and about this terrible war.

  Good night.

  Your Grete

  31 May 1945

  My very dearest Peter,

  You won’t be mad at me, will you? I probably won’t be able to show you all that I’ve written. I feel reluctant …

  The next day I was in the Gymnasium. That’s where those who were most ill were lying, and those who were most recently operated on. They lay there so pitiably: wooden double beds with straw sacks—no mattresses, no sheets, no bedcovers. Others were on the ground, back on their gurneys.

  The Gymnasium was divided into three stations. There were roughly one hundred patients and three nurses. The first thing we did each morning was change the beds, after which everyone was given a bath. We could really only bathe a few, as there was always a scarcity of water—and a shortage of time. We went row by row and, first of all, washed everyone’s face. Then, with the same water, everyone’s hands. Of course there were no towels. Even things like an old rag or a pillowcase would have been useful, but if ever something like that was found, it was immediately stolen.

  Doctor’s hours were around ten, when all bandages were opened. Just this job alone went until almost three or even four in the afternoon. And boy, that could smell foul! The stench of pus can be so putrid that you cannot stand to breathe anymore. Often we become nauseous. Once a doctor treated us all to a bit of schnapps after changing a bandage of rather “highest quality.” When pus smells this foul—so sweet-sour foul—it can take your breath right out of you. And to have to breathe this all morning long! Thank God, today only two of our patients smelled this putrid.

  I dread having to change those bandages of our amputees. Often we give them something as an intoxicant first, because it’s so painful.

  The rail embankment held up against the Russians. Reinforcements arrived in the morning and the Russians were forced back. I’m not sure what exactly was happening out there. We were, in fact, a bit exasperated that here we were, right in the middle of a battle zone, yet we knew nothing of what was going on.

  Once, a few of our Sanis went out just to get an idea of our situation. Apparently, on this side of the Heerstrasse, our troops were able to defend us, and yet just on the other side of the street, the Russians were shooting from inside the houses there.

  All in all, though, things seem to be calming down. Certainly we hear artillery fire, and come evening and even during the day, there is noticeable enemy air activity. But we now feel safe enough to venture into the upper stories of our building from time to time. The Gymnasium was badly damaged. And even my station, Station II on the third floor, is in ruins. As we had surmised earlier, the aim of the enemy fire did seem to avoid hitting us by firing on either side of the Lazarett, and for the most part they were successful. However, there were a few direct hits.

  At night we sleep on gurneys wherever we can find space. It’s a real bohemian lifestyle. In our dresses, shoes, and stockings, we just lie down, not knowing what will transpire while we sleep. We’re very afraid of the Russians. Some of the nurses are sleeping in the boiler room, others in the bunker. I decided on the place that has the freshest air: the bathroom. There are relatively few who want to sleep there. Often I bring one of the young patients into the bathroom with me, because to be alone is too sinister for me. Even though he couldn’t help me if anything did happen, we could at least hold on to one another. The image is much like a drowning person clinging to a drinking straw—useless.

  Occasionally the bathroom is used at night to “booze.” There are a few of us nurses and doctors who meet here after the day’s work is done. These are actually our most healing moments of the day.

  Doesn’t this sound like some exquisitely romantic poem? By candlelight in the bathroom, a stool with a blanket holding a vase with a few lovely flowers, sipping red wine, or something similar that someone saved or was otherwise contraband. W
e have plenty of cigarettes.

  The Partei came to visit once more to bring us donations. So, in this time of such great danger, thank God, these supplies are still being distributed to those who need them before they can be robbed or confiscated by the enemy.

  My God! What a time it is! Dirty, unwashed, edgy, troubled, scared, overtired—it is utterly impossible to describe this situation within the context of a cultivated and civilized existence.

  On the 30th of April—I still remember it exactly—I heard the voices of a couple of BDM girls in the kitchen, singing folk songs. They happened to be singing “Listen, What Is That I Hear Coming Through My Window?” And then afterwards “The Evening’s Stillness Is Everywhere.” It was evening. It brought tears to my eyes. Such a sweet song during such difficult times! Like a little bell that you might hear, distantly, in the midst of a snowstorm.

  The next day was the first of May. These young girls sang a little May Day song. Oh my, how that made the Landser happy! Several had tears of joy in their eyes, and they were visibly moved with emotion. Will this be the last time these beautiful German folksongs will be sung from the mouths of our German girls? Or was this singing now coming to us as the incoming spring bringing courage and joy for the next battles—both internal and external—when Germany will have definitively lost the war?

  Around noon, a wounded Russian arrived as a patient. We treated him like a prince. For most of us, it was quite difficult to do, but of course it was our duty to treat him. A Russian civil servant who could speak German was needed to translate.

  I happened to have been in conversation with my boss. This Russian said that no harm should come to the Red Cross. They will allow the nurses and the doctors to perform their work. In one Lazarett there were wounded Russian men, wounded German men, Russian doctors, and German doctors. The Russians treated the Russian soldiers, the Germans treated the German soldiers. The nurses were not harmed. One is to pass another without ever doing the other harm.

  Oh, I was so ecstatic! Next to the hallway where this conversation took place were the beds of two very amiable patients, two older, refined gentlemen. I’ve had numerous very pleasant conversations with them already. I now went over to them; I could hardly speak for joy. If I could have, I would have thrown my arms around their necks. I only said, “The Russians are going to leave us alone!” And I wept like a little girl. I couldn’t help myself. It was that final release after all those days of such tremendous fear.

  Those two patients were too kind! I was embarrassed; I laughed and then wiped away my tears. I was crying even though I wasn’t sad at all. Every time I visited them after that, both gentlemen would say, “And Schwester, once you came to us and cried, but you cried for joy. Do you remember that?” If ever I had any sorrow or worry, I was to come to them. They both wanted to take me with them and marry me—the one in particular. But for a number of reasons, that was out of the question …

  On the evening of May 1, we were all sitting in a comfortable circle in our bathroom. It must have been one o’clock already when the Uffz arrived from the police station to announce the news of Hitler’s death.47 So now the last of this senseless struggle shall be finished. “Born April 20th, 1889, killed in action on May 1st, 1945.” Where are Himmler, Goebbels, Göring, and the others?

  What will become of the German people, for whom they still prophesied a historic turnaround, and even a final victory? Now everything has been destroyed. Like voiceless orphans, we all lie here in the streets, everything we’ve ever had or have known has been surrendered. Husbands, sons, brothers, and fathers—all in prison camps. The enemy has overrun our country. Everything is broken, burnt, destroyed, dead. We are in poverty and have nothing to eat. Industry is dead. Unemployment, ruins, and nothing but rags to wear. Dönitz took command and announced our future over the radio.48

  All those who were in the Zoo Bunker—this is where Command Headquarters held out—surrendered without a fight. They had too many wounded people whom they could no longer keep safe. Those from Command Headquarters retreated through the U-Bahn tunnels to the Reichssportfeld, where they hoped to find shelter. There they were to join the rest of the Berliner fighting army and try to break through the Russian-occupied beltway. I think this may have happened already during the night of April 30th through the first of May.

  The Russian who was here yesterday came to notify us that they would take possession of our Lazarett tomorrow. I just now verified the dates once more: On May 1st at one in the early morning came the announcement of Hitler’s death. On the same day, the Russians broke through at several locations, surrounded us, and came at us from behind.

  We owe our gratitude to our Dr. von Lutzky, who spoke fluent Russian, and who was well received by the Russians. He negotiated everything with them. We have him to thank that the Russians treated us so decently and never caused any of us any harm. He had never been a member of the PG. Thank God.

  In a final military order, an emergency inspection was made of all Lazarett occupants, searching for hidden weapons and ammunition, and everything was destroyed. But the Russians didn’t search our hospital at all—perhaps because they were so well received by us that they did not see the need to suspect anything here. But we didn’t flirt with danger either. Our doctors have far too much pride for that. They were, as you know, officers once.

  On the first of May, around noon, Schwester Luise came to me and whispered, “The Russians are here!” And just then, some of the first of them entered our doors. Some were drunk. They came to see about their comrades. Then an officer arrived and greeted us with, “Guten Morgen.” Dr. von Lutzky showed him around. This officer spoke to us. Dr. von Lutzky translated and informed us that the Russians had nothing against us. We should continue to care for the sick. The war is now over. “Hurrah!” was the chorus of all our soldiers who were so sick of war. They wanted only to return to their families and to their homes.

  The orders came that all those patients who were ambulatory should go out into the garden. Here the Russian officers told them very similar things to what was later told to us. A colonel, as our translator told us, said that it had come to the end that Hitler and Goebbels had intended for us all along. And we have them to thank for these terrible consequences. We should now care for the wounded and heal the sick. When they are well, they should go home. And we can eventually go home as well. Germany will become a democracy. They do not intend to do us any harm.

  Our soldiers all cried “Bravo!” when the word was out that they could go home. We walked off, speechless. We sat somewhere in a corner and wept. “What is to become of us? Will we really see our homes again? How will the soldiers get home? Where are they still fighting? What will become of our lives and all the hopes that all of us young people still have?” We women are so much more helpless than men. Our soldiers always acknowledged that fact to us.

  On the 2nd of May, Berlin capitulated.

  Over and over again, women came to us who had been mistreated by a Russian while a pistol or gun was pointed at them. The Russians plundered houses and apartments, everywhere, and raped women and young girls. Age made no difference. Some neighborhoods were maliciously destroyed, all the belongings taken away. We are very likely the only Lazarett or hospital in which no nurse has been mistreated by a Russian, and from which none of us has been taken away as prisoner. In many, all the Schwestern were mistreated in evil ways. In the Martin Luther Hospital, they raped all the nurses, and the head nurse, who tried to protect them, was beaten and then thrown down a flight of stairs. In Tempelhof, patients and hospital employees, along with the nurses and doctors, were transported off, probably to Herzberg, Lichtenberg, Frankfurt an der Oder, Vienna? Where to?

  Here, all they did was come one day to gather up all the patients who were between the ages of 16 and 45. The older ones, those unable to travel, and the amputees were left behind. They were to be transported to Herzberg near Berlin. That afternoon, one of them who had “bolted” returned to us. He told us tha
t all the soldiers, other than the officers, had their heads shaved. They were told that they were now prisoners of war and they now had five years of work on the land ahead of them. There were German doctors and nurses among them.

  In the meantime we have become a civilian hospital. There is no longer a threat of being taken prisoner. Anyway, the Russians are only taking fully licensed nurses to Russia or to the Eastern Zone.

  So, for today, I wish you a good night.

  Your Grete

  1 June 1945

  My dearest Peter,

  I am very sick and still at home, so I have time to write.

  Thank God, all the horror is over. It was so awful back then when the Stalin Organs were being fired! It must have been around the 27th or 28th of April. I was in the Gymnasium. It was about 5:00 in the afternoon. There was a tremendously loud explosion outside. The entire building shook. Everything went dark from the dust and all that debris that fell from the walls and the windows. Everyone ran every which way, looking for shelter anywhere they could. The entire roof of the larger wing of the building was suddenly gone. In our bandage room everything was completely covered in debris. Everyone in the Gymnasium who could jumped from their beds and ran for cover.

  The panic is, of course, always the worst part—that initial heart-skip. We ran immediately to the most wounded soldiers, to see if they had been injured. But, thank God, no one was harmed. We ripped all their pillows from beneath their heads and covered their faces so at least they felt somewhat protected. And then, suddenly, there was calm again.

  Daily now, it’s becoming quieter out there. The Russian soldiers really behaved in uncouth ways during those first days. But our soldiers said that often—and nobody corrected them—our SS were much worse. So there you have it! What did we know of all this? We always spoke of humanity. We stressed it over and over again: we would be treated as our soldiers had treated others. But our own SS were no better than highway robbers.