'A stunning account of a German woman's battle to survive re-

peated rape at the hands of the victors among the ruins of

Berlin . . . While leaders plot their dreams of glory and victory, the
lives of ordinary people-on all sides are trampled and destroyed. A WO MA N
A most salutarywork." -David Hare, TheGuardian(U.K.)

IN B E , R LI N
"The author has a fierce, rrncomprolnising voice, and her book
slrorild becorne zrclassic of war literature." --Put'lishers
lVeekly

in Berlxnis one that

"Bookscan transform us. So verv fer,vdo.A trlbman E ig h t W e e k s i n t h e C o n q u e r e d C i t y
can." '--Dayton l)aiLvJtfews

'A r'vork ol great power . . . The author is a keen observer of the D IAR Y

ironies, even the absurdities, of a collapsing society. . . . A devastat-

ins ar-iclrare glimpse at ordinary people who struggle to survive."
--Bookhst

"lVith the passage of time, Anonymous's perspective-and the ex- A xoN Y Mous
traordinary r,vay she kept her dignity and moral sense alive in an
inferno_*have made her diary a lvar classic." -LIaclean\ (Toronto)
Tr anslat ed by Pliilip Boehm
"Ndan elous . . . As it is a human instinct to survive, this book, which
could have been horrifying, is instead exhilarating: a rare tribute to
the hunran spirit." Dail2LIail (IJ.K.)

"Coolly written, tearingly honest . . . This is a classicnot only of war

literature but also of writing at the very extreme of human suflering."
-TheDaifu%legraph
(London) Pi ca d o r

A M e tr o p o l i ta n Bo o k

Henry Holt and Company

N e r v Yo r k

?ooo , 3dO5
 x ii For ewor d
memories were reemerging. It was thus now possible to publish
the diary in its full, complete form for the first time and restore
passagesthat had previously been excluded, either to avoid touch-
ing on delicate matters or to protect the privacy of people still
alive. At the same time, discussionof once-taboo issueshad be-
come acceptable. Subjects like the widespread collaboration in
France, the Netherlands, and elsewhere;anti-Semitism in Poland;
the saturation bombing of civilian populations; ethnic cleansing
in postwar Europe-which for :manyyears had been dwarfed by
the German act of genocide-were now legitimate areas of in-
quiry. These are, of course, complex and morally ambiguous top-
ics, easilyexploited by revisionists;nonetheless,they belong on the
historical agenda and deservelevelheaded discussion.And it is in
this context that A Womanin Berlin ought to be read.
It is hardly remarkable that one of the best personal records of
the war in Germany is a diary kept by a woman. After all, it was the
women who preseruedan oasisof sanity in a world run amok. \A4eiie
the men were fighting a murderous warr the women proved to be true
heroines of survival. To the extent that a German resistanceexisted,
women provided the logistics.And when their husbands and lovers
returned, parilyzedby defeat, it was women who cleared the rubble.
Of course,this is not to say that women had no part in the Nazi uni-
verse.The author of this diary would be the last to claim such high
moral ground. She is a relendessobserver,unwilling to tolerate any
sentimentality or hlpocrisy. Though she was unaware at the time of
the enormity of the Holocaust, she nonethelesssaw that Germans
had brought their suffering on themselvesby what they had done to
others.An exceptional figure, this woman of Berlin managed to keep
her nerve as well as her dgt ity intact throughout her trials. More
than that, she never abandoned her fundamental senseof decency a
trait too rarely found amid the ruins of her time.
Hans Magnus En3nsberger
Intro ducti on
T
In the early hours of April 16, 1945, civiliansin the easternquar-
ters of Berlin were awoken by a distant rolling thunder. The vi-
brations were so strong that telephonesbegan to ring on their own
and pictures fell from their hooks. Women emerged slowly from
their apartments and exchangedmeaningfui lookswith neighbors.
They hardly needed to speak. The long-awaited Soviet oflensive
had at last begun sixty miles to their east.
One and a half million Red Army soldiers of Marshal
Zhukov's First Belorussian Front were bursting out from the
bridgeheadson the west bank of the river Oder. Facing them were
the desperate scrapings of the embattled Third Reich, mainly
boys from the Hitler Youth and old men from the Volkssrurm,
groups of cadets from Luftwaffe military schools, and a smatter-
ing of veterans and SS. They had little ammunition, hardly any
shellsfor their artillery, and insufficient fuel for their few remain-
ing arr4ored vehicles.Yet Goebbels,the Reich commissar{br the
defenseof Berlin as well as minister of propaganda,had declared
that the line of the Oder was a wall on which the 'Asiatic hordes"
would smash themselves. Surrender was out of the question.
Himmler had just issuedorders that any German male found in a

x iv I lt r oduc t ion
house displaying a white flag be shot. The propaganda ministry
organized graffiti squads, dressedas ordinary Germans, to paint
slogans such as "We will never surrender!" and "Protect our
women and children from the Red beasts!"
The argument for continuing the fight was largely based on
Goebbels'sown horror propaganda of enemy atrocities,which for
once trrrned out to be no exageeration. In the autumn of 1944,
Soviet troops had made their first foray into East Prussia,laying
waste to the village of Nemmersdorf before being repulsed by a
German counterattack. Goebbels had rushed camera teams for-
ward to film the corpsesof women and girls who had been raped
and murdered by drunken Red Army soldiers.The images on the
Nazi newsreels had been so appalling that many women pre-
sumed they were part of a grossexaggerationby the "Promi," the
propaganda ministry. But then in lateJanuary and early Rbruary
after the main Soviet assaulton East Prussia and Silesia,refugees
passing through Berlin recounted stories of rape, looting, and
murder on a terrifying scale.Yet many Berlin women) while con-
vinced that such things had indeed occurred in the countryside
and isolated communities, refused to believe that mass rape was
possible in the public view of a capital city. Others, increasingly
nervolls, began rapidly to instruct young daughters in the facts of
life just in casethe worst did happen.
Berlin at the time contained just over two million civilians, of
whom the large majority were women and children. It was typical
of the crazed irresponsibility of the Nazi regime at this time that
Hitler rejected any idea of evacuating them while there was still
opportunity. He openly disbelieved the military commander of
Berlin who told him that there were 120,000 babies and infants
left in the city and no provisions for a supply of milk. Consciously
or unconsciously,Hitler appears to have imitated Stalin's refusal
In tr o d u cti o n xv
to allow the evacuation of civilians from Stalingrad in order to
force his troops to defend the city more bravely.
TH I s D IARy, wRITrnN by a thirty-four-year-oldjournaiistbe-
gins on Friday, April 20, four days after the opening ground bom-
bardment. It was Hitler's birthday. Nazi flags were raised over
ruined edificesin the center of the city, where U.S. Air Force Flying
Fortressesby day and RAF Lancasters by night had destroyed 90
percent of the buiidings. Signs erected in Hitler's honor pro-
claimed: "The Fighting City of perlin Greets the Ftihrer." Even
Hitler's military staff had no idea how close the front was. Soviet
tanks had smashed their way through the German defensesand
were starting to encircle the city The first shellsfrom long-range ar-
tillery would land in the northern suburbs that evening.
The diary continues for just over two months, unti-lJune 22, a
period that covers the bombardment, the brief street fighting in
most districts, Hitler's suicide on April 30, the surrender of the
last pockets of resistanceon May 2, and then the occupation of
the city by the Russianconquerors.
First published anonymously in 1954 in an incomplete English
translation in the United Statesand then in 1959 in German, the
diary was highly controversialin Germany, where some accusedit
of "besmirching the honor of German women." Almost fifty
years lateq the complete book was reissued,again anonl.nnously,
but a few months after its publicationJens Bisky,a German jour-
nalist and critic, claimed to have discoveredthe identity of the
anonymous diarist and revealed her name. A vehement contro-
versy over exposingthe author's identity raged in various German
papers, throughout which Hannelore Marek, the executor of the
estate,refused to confirm Bisky's claim. It is perhaps inevitable
 xvi I nt r oduc t ior r
that in thc allsenceof'an author, somehave raiseddoubtsover the
aLrthenticilyof'the r,vork,but expertson personaldocumentsfrom
the periocl have confirmecl that the diary's transcript is original
and conrpletclygenuinc.
Sr-rchcluestionsare to be expected, however, particularly after
the sc:rndalover the fake Hitler diaries,and after the great bestseller
of the 1950s lzsl htters .front Stalingradwas found to be fictitious
more than forty years following its initial appearance.On reading
A I'l'bman
in Berlh lbr the first time in 1999, I instinctively compared
my reactions to those I'd had to the Stalingrad letters, which had
quite qr-ricklymade me Lrneasy.They were simply too good to be
true. One, for example, milked the reader's emotions with a letter
about a German concert pianist in Stalingrad whose fingers had
been broken. As soon as I was able to read gennine last lettersfrom
Stalingrad kept in the German and Russianarchives,I was certain
that the published collection rvas false. Yet any such suspicionsI
nriglrt lrarrel-radabout A ll/omanin Berlinwere soolt discarded.The
tnrth lay in the mass of closely observed detail. The anon).mous
cliarist possessedan eye so consistent and authentic that even the
most irnaginative forger would never have been able to reproduce
her r.ision of events.Justas importantly, other written and oral ac-
counts that I had accumulated dr-rringmy own research into the
eventsin Berlin attest to the tmth of the lvorld she describes.
I r,' T H n A u'r rr o R' s name is not known for certain, her charac-
ter comes through clearly in her rvriting In contrast to the totally
closed mirrd of Nazi Gleicltschaltung,
she was liberal and receptive.
Slie disliked the xenophobia of the regime as much as its military
machismo. In her tr,r,enties, she had traveled around Europe and
hacl evcn visited the Soviet lJnion, where she acquired some Rus-
sian. This r,vasto prove vital once the Red Army arrived. Every-
l n tr tr d u cti o r r xvi i
one in her apartment building turned to her, to savethem from
the depreclationsof usually drttnken soldiers.Thus, she herself
was placed on the front line. Again and again, the attthor shor'vs
bravery and resilience,her accoultt revealing the close relation-
ship between an inquiring mind and intellectual honesty.It is this
quality that makes the diary so impressiveand so important.
The only physical description of herself the diarist offers is of
"apale-faced blonde always dressedin the samewinter coat," yet
she is meticulous in recording her feelingsout of an almost foren-
sic curiosity.Her reasonfor writing all this is quite simple: "It does
me good, takes my mind off things." She also thinks of showine
her account to her erstwhile fianc6, Gerd, "if he comes back."
Modest as her aspirationsare, the author is nonethelessa brilliant
observeq as much of the large I'ristoriceventsas of the daily life
she shareswith her fellow apartment dwellers' She vividly evokes
the civilians trapped in Berlin and deprived of meaningful news.
They know only that information from the western front, where
the Arnericans have just reached the Elbe, is by then irrelevant.
"Our fate is rolling in from the east," shewrites. "It will translorm
the entire climate, like another Ice Age." She notes that horizons
have narrowed: "My soleconcern as I write theselir-resis my stom-
ach. All thinking and feeling all wishesand hopes begin rvith food."
The lack of electricity and gas has reduced modern conveniences
like lights and stores and hot water boilers to uselessobjects.
"We're marching backwardsin time," shewrites, "cave dwellers."
Deference to the Nazi regime has collapsedalong with an acl-
ministration that can no longer protect its subjects.Ration cards
may still be stamped,but only out of bureaucratichabit. Although
a few diehards proclaim their confidence in Hitler, even they no
longer speakof the Fr)hrer.They refer simply to "he" and "him."
The propaganda ministry's promises of victory and a bright fu-
ture lbol nobody, yet many still sufler from that powerful human
 x v iii I nt r oduc t ion
desirefbr hope in the face of all logic. The diarist is more realistic.
She glirnpsesa fbr,vGerman soldiers: "That was the first time I
sarvreal front-line men-dirty, gray-bearded, all of them old. The
carts \,verepulled by Polish ponies, dark-coated in the rain. The
or-rlyother freight they're liauling is hay. Doesn't look much like a
Blitzkrieg anymore." Soon, everyoneis looting storesand shopsas
the imminent Soviet onslaught and collapseof Nazi power leaves
society disintegrating into communities formed and organized by
building.
Beyond the breakdown of ordeq the biggest fear is what will
happen when the Russians arrive. One "young man in gray
trolrsersand horn-rimmed glasses"tluns out on closer inspection
to be a woman) attempting to save herself from the attention of
Rccl Army soldiers. Other young women try to make themselves
appear old and dirty in the vain hope of repelling lust. When
somebodyventlrres that perhaps the Red Army soldiersare not so
bad after all, a female refugee from East Prussiascreams,"They'll
find out all right." Everyone understands that the horrors she has
r,vitnessedand probably experienced were not just the ravings of
tlrepropagarrdaministry.
Firrally, on April 27, the Red Army reachestheir street. "My
stomach r.vasfluttering" the diarist r,r,ritesafter seeingher first Rus-
siansthrough the window. "I felt the way I had as a sclioolgirl be-
lbre a math exam--anxious and uneasy,wishing that everything
rverealready over." At first, things do not appear too bad. The sol-
cliersin the street are playing with bicyclesthey have found, trying
to learn to ride them. As almost all other eyewitnessaccountscon-
firm, the soldiers'first interest is in looting watches.Most have five
or six strapped arorlnd each forearm. But once evening comes and
they I'ravedrunk their ration of vodka, the "hunt" begins.
Irrtroduction xix
oNE oF TIIE N4osr importantaspects
of thisdiaryisits careful
and honest reflection on rape in war. The wirole subject of rnass
rape in rvar is hugely controversial.Some social historiansargue
that rape is a strategyof, war and that the act itself is one of vio-
lence, not sex. Neither of these theoriesis supported by eventsin
Germany in 1945. There have indeed been casesof rape being
used as a terror tactic in war-the Spanish Cir,'il War and Bosnia
are two clear examples.But no document from the Soviet archives
indicatesanything of the sort in 1945.Stalin was merely amusedby
the idea of Red Ar-y soldiers having "some fun" after a harcl war.
Vleanwhile, loyal Communists and commissars were taken
aback and embarrassedby the massrapes.One commissarwrote
that the Soviet propaganda of hatred had clearly not u,orked as
intended. It should have instilled in Soviet soldiersa senseof dis-
gust at the idea of having sexwith a German woman.
The argument that rape has more to do with violence than sex
is a victim's definition of the crime, not a full explanation of rnale
motive. Certainly, the rapes committed in 1945-against old
women, young women, even barely pubescentgirls-were acts of
violence, an expressionof revengeand hatred. But not all of the
soldiers' anger came in responseto atrocities committed by the
Wehrmacht and the SS in the Soviet Union. Nlany soldiershad
been so humiliated by their own officers and commissarsduring
the four years of war that they felt driven to expiate their bitter-
ness, and German women presented the easiesttarget. Polish
women and female slavelaborers in Germany also suffered.
More pertinent, Russian psychiatristshave r,vrittenof the brutal
"barracks eroticism" created by Stalinist sexualrepressionduring
the 1930s(which may also explain why Soviet soldiersseemedto
need to get drunk before attacking their victims).Most important,
by the time the Red Army reached Berlin, eyewitnessaccounts
and reports show that revense and indiscriminate violence were
 I nt r oduc t ion
no longer the primary factors. Red Army soldiers selectedtheir
victims more carefully, shining torches in the faces of women in
air-raid shelters and cellars to find the most attractive. A third
stztgcthen developed,which the diarist also describes,where Ger-
man women developedinformal agreementswith a particular sol-
dier or officer, lvho would protect them from other rapists and
I'eedthem in retnrn for sexual compliance. A few of these rela-
tionships even developed into sornething deeper,much to the dis-
may of the Soviet ar-rthoritiesand the outrage of wives at home.
l() n oBVrous REASoNs it has neverbeen possibleto calcu-
late the exact number of rape victims in 1945. A general estimate
given is two million German women; this figure excludes Polish
women and even Soviet women and girls brought to Germany for
slavelabol by the Wehrmacht. But the figures for Berlin are prob-
ably the most reliable in all of Germany-between 95,000 and
130,000,according to the trvo leading hospitals.'fhese can hardly
be inflated figures if one takes into account that at least a dozen
wornen ancl girls were raped in the single medium-sized apart-
mcnt block where the author lived. Some pockets in the city es-
capcd completely, but not many, considering that over a million
troops either were billeted in the city or passedthrough it. Most of
thesemen wanted what they saw as their fair share of loot in one
lorrn or another.
A number of victims, as the diary indicates,sufferedgrave psy-
chological damage,but the author and the widow she comesto live
r,vithinstinctively find the best means of self-preservation."slowly
br-rtsurely r,ve'restarting to view all the raping with a senseof hu-
mor," she r,vrites."Gallows humor." The widow jokes to everyone
they rneet about the compliment she was paid by one rapist who
declaredthat she\ /asntuch better than any Ukrainian woman. The
Il tr o d u cti o n xr i
author's senseof humor is drier. She finally managesto wash her
sheets."They neededit," she notes,"after all thosebooted guests."
Rape in war is a "collective experience,"she also observes,as
opposedto in peacetime,when it is individual. "Each woman heips
the other; by speakingabout it, airing her woes." But, as she soon
found out, the male half of the German population wanted the
subject to be buried.
"These days I keep noticing how my feelings toward men-
and the feelings of all the other women-are changing," she
writes as Hitler's regime collapses."We feel sorry for them; they
seemso miserable and powerless.The weaker sex.Deep down we
women are experiencing a kind of collective disappointment.
That has transformed us. . . . Among the many defeatsat the end
of this war is the defeat of the male sex." Her optimism proved
sadly premature. The late 1940sand the 1950s,after the men re-
turned from prison camps,were a sexuallyrepressiveera in which
husbands reassertedtheir authority. Women were forbidden to
mention the subject of rape as if it somehow dishonored their
men, who were supposed to have defended them. It remained
taboo until the late 1980s,when a younger generation of women
started to encourage their mothers and grandmothers to speak
about their experiences.
A Womanin Berlin is a war diary unlike any other. f'his is a vic-
tim's eyeview, a woman's perspectiveof a terrifying onslaughton a
civilian population, yet her account is characterizedby its courage,
its stunning intellectual honesty,and its Llncommonpowers of ob-
servationand perception. It is one of the most important personal
accountsever written about the eflectsof war and defeat.It is also
one of the most revealingpiecesof socialhistory imaginable.
Anton;,tBeeuor
 34 Anonymous
we've fallen. The word shitrollseasily off the tongue. It's even spo-
ken with satisfaction, as if by saying it we could expel our inner
refuse.We are debasing our language in expectation of the im-
pending humiliation.
T h trrs d a y , A p ri l 26, 1945, I l :00 ,q' .u.
n/f i
IVIy fineers are shaking as I write this. Thirty minutes ago we
took a direct hit on the fifth floor. We're still breathing the dust
from the plaster. I'm out of breath, having just raced down from
my apartment in the attic. The place looks like a dump, full of
shattered plaster and splinters and broken glass. Farewell, my
fleeting bit of home; I hardly had a chance to know you. For the
moment you've been rendered uninhabitable.
I grabbed what I could: a pot, some towels, some gauze for
bandages-things we need. NIy throat is parched, still burning
lrom the dust. I don't have anything to drink down here. And
countlessgallons of water have just drained out of the radiators
upstairs.We spent-
Wait, first I want to recount everything that's happened-
there's been so much, and it's so long since I last wrote. It all
started yesterdayaround 7:00 e.u., when someone came to our
basement and announced that they were selling pudding powder
at the corner store. I went along with everyone else and stood in
line. Then out of the blue, Russianbombs. At first the line merely
regrouped in the ruins of the building next door, as if the broken
walls would protect us from the bombs. Smoke and flames were
coming from Berliner Strasse.Another seriesof bombs exploded
A Woman in Berlin 35
closerby. I gave up on the pudding powder and hurried acrossthe
streetand back to the basement.A man called out to me, ,,Stickto
the wall!" Rattling gunfire, flying debris.Back in the shelterat rast,
pudding or no pudding. The wife of the conciergestarted wailing
that her daughter was still at the corner store; sheprobably hadn't
felt it was safeto crossthe street under fire.
She showed up half an hour later, also without any pudding
powder. She was pretty darn lucky, as she put it, havingjust man-
aged to squeezeinto the shop's basementn,hen a bomb fell right
outside. A teenageboy who hadn't made it inside caught a frag-
ment in his skull. She had to step over his body on her way out.
She pointed to her temple and showed us hor,vthe wound was
gushing white and red. Tomorrow they,re supposed to resume
selling the pudding. Evidently rhe store has plenty left.
The cavedwellerswent to sleeparound 9:00 p.nr.The widow has
made a sort of bed for me aswell, in the front areaof the basement,
since there isn't any spaceleft closeto the support timbers, but it's
soft and warm. I slept r-rntilthe bombs woke me up. My hand was
dangling over my bed and I felt somerhing licking it-Foxel, our ab-
sent landlord's terrier. There, Foxel, good dog, don,t be afraid.
we're alone here in this front room. There's no support structure,
but the air is cleanerand nobody bothersus with snoresand groans.
Up early in the morning to fetch water at the pump. I read rny
first printed text in days,hot off the press,too. A newspapercalled
TheArmoredBear. someone pasted one next to the baker's display
window. It had ruesday's official wehrmacht report, which meant
it was two days old. According to the report: a) the enemy was
pushing ahead and b) German reinforcementswere on the way
The Bearalso said that Adolf and Goebbelswere still in Berlin and
r'vould stay here. one very smug piece told of a soldier named
Hohne who had desertedand was now dangling from a rope at
the Schonebergstation for all to see.
 36 Anony r nor t s
Breakfast ir-rthe basemeut. Everyone is trying as best they can
to re-create some semblance of' family life. A cozy morning meal
serveclon tmnks, crates)and chait-s,with paper napkins and little
tablecloths. Pots of hot drinks cooked over wood fires or spirit
stoveszrreliliecl out of their cloth warmers. You seebutter dishes,
sugar bor,vls,.jam servers) silver spoons, everything. The widow
conjured up some real coffbe and cooked it on a fire made of bro-
ken champagne crates-that did us good. But people are fidgety,
cranky, getting on olle atrother's nen/es.
A little belbre l0:00 e.rvr.a trunk-sized bomb landed on the
roof' of our br-rilding:A terrible jolt, screams.The concierge'swife
staggcredin, pale as a sheet, bracing herself against one of the
sLrpl)ortbearns. Then came eighteen-year-old Stinchen with the
Hamburg g leaning on her mother. Her hair was gray with plaster
dust, completely tangled and covering her young face, which was
streakedwith trickles of blood-she'd been hit r,vhilecrossingthe
courfyarcl. Even the canary in its cage felt the general agitation,
zigzaggingback and {brth as it cheeped away.
It wasn't until fifteen minutes later that someone noticed that
the radiators were losing rvater. We ran upstairs. Well, not all of
us. 'I'he postlnaster'sr,vife,for example, brandished a medical cer-
tificate and shouteclthat her husband had a heart condition and
coulcln't cotne along: And Curtainman Schmidt lost no time
pressinghis old spotted paw against his heart. Others hesitatedas
well, trntil Fr2iulein lJehn bellowed like a lead nlare, "You dopes
are sitting here babbling while your homes are about to float
awaf," and charged ahead without turning aroutrd to seewho fol-
lowed. I joined some fifteen others in going after her.
Up on tlie fburth floor a rvhole ocealt of water was rushing out,
without stopping. We rvaded Llp to our ankles,wrung out the rugs,
a\vay as it continuecl to pour lrom upstairs. We used dust-
slurvecl
pans to scoop it up and then rve dumped it out the window just
A Woman in Be rlin '37
like that into the street,so brightly lit by the sun and so utrerly de-
serted. Shellskept exploding the whole time, many of them quite
close.Once a flurry of shatteredglassand bits of plaster splashed
into the water, but no one was hurt.
Aftel that we headed back to the basement,damp but quite ex-
cited. I hunkered down, squatting on wet socks-my feet still in-
side them, of course-and wondered whether the whole eflort
had been a smart thing to do. I'm not sure.In any case,it was very
soldierly.Lieutenant Behn had charged ahead, an assaulttroop of
volunteers {bllowed, and everyone risked their lives to securethe
endangeredposition-all under enemy fire. (It clearly wasn't jtrsr
about possessions, either, about people rescuing their carpets,
since practically none of the ones who r,venthad any more to do
with those apartments than I did.) We followed orders blindly,
without looking to save our skins. Except that there will be no
books or songsto celebratethis deed, and no one will receivethe
Iron Cross.Still, I now know one thing: in the heat of battle, in the
thick of the action, you don't think-youdon't evenfeel afraid be-
causeyou're so distracted and absorbed.
Were we brave?Most people would probably saywe were. Was
our lead mare, Friulein Behn, a hero? If she really rvere a lieu-
tenant shewould have definitely been given the Iron Cross.In any
caseI have to rethink my ideas about heroism and courage under
fire. It's only half as bad as I thought. Once yoLr'vetaken the first
step,you just keep charging ahead.
It's also typical that while I was sloggingthrough all that water-
I didn't give my own apartment a secondthought-not r.rntilsome
others mentioned the possibility that it might have been hit. So I
flelv upstairs and found the clump described above. That means
that from here on out I'll have to staywith the rvidow.It's perfectly
fine with her; she's alraid of being alone in her apartment. In
Nlarch they came ancl took her tenant to servein the Volksstunn.
 38 Anony r noLls
Who knows rvhetlter he's still alive or not. Ilut that's just a
thought, not somethingyou say out loud.
l'otrr hotrrslater; 3:00 e.u., ltack in the basement.Once again
I'n out of' lrreath, once again my fingers are shaking, and with
eocldreason.
Arouncl noon things caltned down a little outside,so I went to
the cntrpvay to u'arm my damp back in the sunlight. The baker
was ncxt to me. A man canrerunning past.He was contirtgfrom
the fbrmer police barracks, most recently used by the Luftwaffe,
:rnd was carrying a loin of beef, dripping fresh. "Better be quick,
tl'rey'r'egivirrg it all away."
We looked at each other and took ofl' just as \,vewere, without
a rucksack,withc-rutanything. Henni, from the bakery,who always
has her nose to the u,iud, came running behind us. The sun was
brrming, and the shooting started up again, very {aintly. We
ducked, hurrying along close to the buildings. Some gray-haired
soldiers,probably Volkssturm, were crortching on the curb by the
corner. They were resting their heads on their knees, and never
e\/en glanced at us. A crowd outside the barracks, with baskets,
sacks,bags.I run inside the first hall I come to. It's dark and cool
and cornpletely enrpty, evidently the rvrong one.
I dasl-rback, hear people ahead of me groping and gasping,
lhen someoneshouting, "Here! Over here!" I grab a crate that's
lying around ancl drag it behind me.
Iteling my \ /ay,I l-rurnpinto some people and get kicked in the
shin. of' a sudden I'm in a llasement that's completelypitch-
'\ll
black, lirll of people panting, shriekins in pain. A boxing match in
thc dark. 'l-his isn't clistribution-it's sheerplunder.
Sorneone sr,vitcireson a flashlight. I can see shelveswith cans
eurrlbottles, but only dolvu below; the upper shelveshave already
been <rleanedout. I berrd crver,drop to the ground, rummage itr
the lorvestcomllartment, pull out five, six bottles, and stuff them
A Woman in Be rlin 39
in my crate. In the dark I get hold of a c:a', but someonestepsorr
my fingers and a man's rzoiceshouts,,,Thoseare mine !,,
I leave with my things, head for the dooq go into the next
room. There's a faint shimmer of light corning through a crack in
the wall. I can make o.t loaves of breacl, rows and rows, once
again only on the lowest levels.I grab a few, kneel back on the
ground, and grope and dig for more. I,ni kneelins in a pool of
wine-you can smell it. Shattered glassis everyrvhere.I cram all
the bread I can irrsidemy box. si'ce I can't lift it anynrore I have
to drag it out through the door; into ttre corriclor,a.d towarcl the
exit, which beckons at the other end of the clark tunnel like a
brightly lit stage.
outside I'un into the baker.Ire has alsomanagedto get some
bread and packs it into my box. Then l-reh,rries back for more. I
stay right by crate a'd wait. He comesbac.klvith canned foocl,
-y
porcelain plates, coarse towels, and a ball of bright bl,e knittin.g
wool, very frizzy attd felted.
Ail at once Antoine the Belgian is there, the little baker's ap-
prentice, with a leg of beef, and then Henni with chartreuse i'
thick-bellied bottles. She's angry: "They rrave everyrhing insicle,
everlthing. Coffee, chocolate, br-andy T'hey were living it up, ali
right, that little band of brothersl" And she clisappearsback i'-
side.I guard my crate. A man comes up; he,smade his jacket i'to
a sack to carry severalbottles of alcohol. He lo.ks longi'gly at the
bread in my box. "Can I have one of those?"
"Sure," I say,"for somebrandy"
we trade one loaf of whole-grain bread for a bottle oi' stei.-
hager,both very pleasedwith the exchange.
wild scenesare taking place alr arou'd i' the dazzring su'-
Iight. Now and then a few shells hit, two of them crose.fule'
smash bottles against the rvalls,drinkine ir-rgreeclygulps. Antoi'e
and I each grab a side of my crate and hcaclback.
 Anonlr m ou5
It's full and hearryar-rdhard to carry, so we frequently have to
set it dorvn. I'm very tliirsty and do.just like the others: I take a
bottle of red r,vineand smash the neck against the gutter (the ones
I got rvere all Burgr.rndy,all French labels).T'he jagged edge cuts
my lorver lip; I didn't even notice until Antoine pointed it olrt and
rviped off the blood with his handkerchiel all the while standing
watclifully astride our box. The blood had alreaclydribbled down
belorv my neckline.
The baker comes pu{fing up behind us, carrying the bluish leg
of beef, smearedwith horse manure, pressingit against him like a
baby. The sun is scorching, I'm dripping with sweat. A few close
lrits. Then, fartl-reroff, the tacktacktack
of strafing and the bangbang-
bangof the light antiaircrafl guns.
Outside our house we divr,y up the ioot. The idiotic blue wool
manageclto get into everything. iVIy share consistsof five bottles
of Burgnndy, three jars of preserwedvegetables,one bottle of
Steinhager, {bur loaves of r,vhole-grain bread, slx packs of pea
flour, r,vhich the baker generously gave me from his own stores,
and one unlabeled can of I-don't-know-what. Now I've lugged
everything upstairs to the widow's.
FIot and sweaty, I recount my adventures to about a dozen
people as I stand next to the stove,plate in my left hand, and wolf
clor,vna few spoonfuls of the mashed potatoes that the rvidow
fixecl.A number of families have chipped in for fuel. IVIorebombs
hit outside.The others are eyeing my loot but don't dare go to the
barracks, rvhich have undoubtedly been emptied of their plunder
lry now.
Severalhours later, around 6:00 e.u., back in the basement.I
r,vasable to get a little sleep, the widor,vand I l-ravingfinished the
open bottle of Burgundy lVhen f r,vokeup I felt giddy, with a bit-
tef taste in my mouth, and it took a while to connect to the
keroseneflicker of the unclerr,vorld.Not until I saw people run-
A Wom an in Ber lin 4l
ning out and heard them calling lbr sacks:,,Conte on, they,re
tak_
ing potatoesout of the barracks!',
I rush over with the widow. T'he enemy is taking a break, and
things are fairly quiet, whicl'r explains the sudden mass of peopre
milling about streetsno'nally clesertedin the nriddle oi' the
cray.
Two womer passby pulling a crrild'stoy wagon with a whore bar-
rel on top that smellsol'sauerkraut. young and very ord arike run
like mad in the direction of the barracks.The wiclor,vand I have
grabbed all the bucketsrve could fi'd, two for each of us. The
way
is strewn with trampled potatoesand rotting carrots_you just
have to follow them and you ca',t go wrong. But right by the
stone
steps is a patch of blood. I shrink back. . . but the widow just
laughs. "That's marmalader" A'ci that's exactly what it is,
too;
people are rolling it out by the barrel.
we push through the crowd in the corridor, stumble clow' the
slippery steps,land in a stinky pile of ro*ing potaroes.By the light
of the narrow skylightswe dig around in trre musrrwith our hands
aud shoes,picking out whatever we can use.we leave the
carrors
and muddy rutabagasand fill our bucketswith potatoes.we find
a
half-hlled sack,and without aski'g whose it is we grab it ancr
carry
it up the stairs, down the street, into our building and
up to the
secondfloor.
lVlore rartling and booming. Nobody cares-rhey're
all
gripped by plunder fever.We turn around and run right
back, this
time returning with buckets ful of briquettes. Mobs of
peopre
everywhere,running and snatching.
Now they've begun to loot the abandoned shops as well:
A
white-haired man--"gentleman" would be a better clescription-
is hauling a drawer full of boxesof soappowder. The
drawer is ra-
beled "Rice."
Up to the second floor. lVe sir around on the living room
couch. Our arms are stiff, our leg;sshaky What windowpanes
are
 +2 Anot r y lnoLls
still le {i are qLriveringslightly.A gentle warmth is wafting through
tlie br-okenrvinclows-that and the smell of fire. Now and then we
hear a aoo-oonrmm!T'hen a prolonged echo, frorn the hear.yantiair-
crafr guns. After that comes a pinng!-a short blow right to the
ealcl|ttm- lrear,y artillery. And therl, far away, an occasional
lmackuoont-knackaulm,very fast, accompanied by howling and bark-
iyrg.I haye 1o icleawhat it is. The widow claims they're katyusha
rockets, the so-calleclStalin Organs. Incidentally, up to now the
Russianshave been using indiviclual bombs rather than a carpet'
In the encl the two of us go off to seewhether there's any pud-
ding powder left at the corner store that was hit yesterday.It turns
out there are still a fe,w customers, and yes, they're still selling.
T'here's a price printed on the powder-thirty-eight pfennigs, I
think. 'fhe person selling, who also owns the store and lives right
there, insisteclon giving every customer exact change, so he kept
r-unning up and down the line asking who had small coins and
coulcl help him. And that rvhile under fire! Only here' We'll be
counting our change right into the grave.
was up at
Just for fitn we peeked around the corner to seewhat
the burtcher's,since I still hadn't used up my ration. There, too,
they were selling, r,vith more supply than demand-at most a
clozenpeople were in the store. So we were able to get some good
pieces,bonelesspork, fairly weighed.
r\s ,uvewalked out of the store a truck drove by with German
'l-hey were headed away
troops) recl tabs, meaniug antiaircraft.
|i-om 11s,tor,vardthe center of town. They sat there mute, staring off
into the distance.A woman called out to them, 'Are you leaving?"
No one answeredher. We looked at each other and shrugged our
shoulders.'l'he woman said, "T'hey're just poor soulsthemselves."
'I'hese days I keep noticing how my feelingstor'vardmen-ancl
the fbelingsof all the other women-are changing. We feel sorry
for them; they seem so miserable and por,verless.The weaker sex.
A Woman in Berlin +3
Deep down we women are experiencing a kind of collective dis-
appointment. The Nazi world-ruled by men, glorifying the
strong man-is beginning to crumble, and with it the myttr of
"Man." In earlier wars men could claim that the privilege of
killing and beirrg killed for the fatherland was theirs and theirs
alone. Today we women, too, have a share.That has transformed
us, ernboldened us. Among the many defeats at the end of this
war is the defeat of the male sex.
Later in the basement, intelligent conversationsover supper.
Cozy still lifes-in one square yard per household.Here tea with
bread and butter, there mashed potatoes.Stinchenwith the Ham-
burg s wields her knife and fork flawlessly as she pokes at her
pickle. Her wounded head has been neatly bandaged.The book-
sellingwife asks,"Muy I serveyou some?"
"Yes, please, if you'd be so kind," answers Curtainman
Schmidt, softly.
A towel is spread over the canary's cage. The desertercomes
and announces that the Russiansare scouting out the cinema.
Our corner is currently under fire from small guns.The ex-soldier
tells us we can't have anyone wearing a uniform in the basement;
otherwise under martial law we'll all be subjectto execution.
Palaver about the notices in the ArmoredBear.Two armies really
do seem to be headir-rgto relieve Berlin, Schorner from the south
and some other one from the north. Teuenbrietzen,Oranienburg
and Bernau are said to have been liberated.
And us? Very mixed feelings, and a senseof fright. "So now
they'll be back and forth and we're caught right in the middle. Are
we supposedto stay here for months? We're lost one way or the
other. If things don't work out for Ivan, then the Americans will
come from the air. And God have mercy if they start in with car-
pet bombs. We'll be buried alive in this basement."
A nerv announcement from the street: the Volkssturm has
 Anony m oLls
retreated, Ivan is pushing right toward us. German artillery has
pulled Lrpon olrf corner; the explosionsare booming through the
basement.Meanwhile six women are sitting around a little table;
the widow is reading the distiller's wife's cards. She'svery good at
it, too: "In the short run you will experience a disappointment in
connection with your husband." (He's stiil holding his post in the
distillery-together with the redheaded Elvira.)
I want to go to sleepright away. I'm looking forward to it. The
day'sbeen packed to the brim. The net result: I'm healthy,bold,
and bright; for the moment my fear is mostly gone. IVIy brain is
full of vivid images of greed and rage. Stiff back, tired feet, bro-
ken thumbnail, a cut lip that's still smarting. So the saying'strue
after all: "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger."
One more thing. An image from the street: a man pushing a
wheelbarrow with a dead woman on top, stiff as a board. Loose
gray strands of hair fluttering, a blue kitchen apron. Her withered
legs in gray stockings sticking out the end of the wheelbarrow
Hardly anyone gave her a second glance.Just like when they used
to ignore the garbage being hauled away.
F ri day, A pri l 27, l 9+ 5,
D a y o f c a ta s tro p he, w i l d tl rrmoi l -
re c o rd e d o n S aturday morni ng
T
It began with silence. The night was f,ar too quiet. Around twelve
o'clock Friulein Behn reported that the enemy had reached the
gardens and that the German line of defense was right outside
our door.
A Wom an in Ber lin , 15
It took a long time for me to fall asleep;I was going over Rus-
sian phrases in my head, practicing the ones I thought I,cl soon
have a charce to use.Today I briefly mentioned to the other cave
dwellersthat I speaka little Russian,a fact I'd been keepingto rny-
self. I explained that I'd been to European Russia when I was
youngel one of the dozen or so countries I visited in my travels.
My Russian is very basic, very utilitarian, picked up along the
way Still, I know how to count, and to saywhat day it is, and I can
read the Cyrillic alphabet. I'm sure it will come back quickly now
that practice is near at hand. I've always had a knack for lan-
guages.Finally, counting away in Russian,I fell asleep.
I sleptuntil about 5:00 e.n., when I heard someonewandering
around the front of the basement-it was the bookselling wife,
who had come in from the outside. She took my hancl and whis-
pered, "They're here."
"Who? The Russians?"I could barely open my eyes.
"Yes. They just climbed through the window ?t Meyer's,'-
meaning the liquor store.
I finished dressinga'd combed my hair while shedeliveredher
news to the others.within minutes the whole basementwas on its
feet.
Taking the back stairs,I felt my way Lrpto the secondfloor in
order to hide our meager provisions, at ieast whatever wasn't ar-
ready squirreled away. Before going inside I put my ear to the
back door, which was in splintersa'd could no longer be locked.
All quiet, the l<itche' empty.I(eeping closeto the floor I crept over
to the window. It was a bright morning outside,our streetwas un-
der fire; you could hear the whistle and patter of the bullets.
A Russianantiaircraft battery was turning the corner, four bar-
rels, four iron giraffes with menacing necks tall as torvers.Tr,r,o
men were stomping up the street: broad backs, leather jackets,
high leather boots.Jeepspulli'g up to rhe curb. Fieldpiecesrattli'g
 A Wornan in Be rlin +7
+6 Anonymous

basement.A mddy-cheeked farmer, he blinked as he sizeclus up

aheacl in thc early light. T|e pavement alive rvith the din. The
by tlie light of the kerosene lantern. He hesitated,then took a
smell o[ gasolinc clriftec]into the kitchen through the broken win-
step,lwo slepstoward ns.
s.
clor,vpaue
Hearts pounding. Scared, people oflered him their bowls o1'
I went back to the basement. \ve ate our breakfast as if in a
soup. He shook his head and smiled, still silent.
nightntare, although I clid manage to consume several slices o{' 'fhat's wlien I uttered my first Rnssianwords, or rather rasped
bfcacl, much to the amazemellt of the widor'v.liven so, my stom-
them, since I suddenly went hoarse: "Shtou2ghelaete?" What do
ach .uvasfluttering. I felt the rvay I had as a schoolgirl belbre a
you want?
lrath exan-alxious and uleasy, wishing that everything were al-
f'he man spins around, staresat me in amazement.f sense
leady over.
I've taken him aback. He cioesn'tnnderstand. Evidently he's
A(ter that t|e widow ald I climbed upstairs. We dusted her
never heard one of us "mutes" addresshim in his own language.
apzrrtrnent, wipecl down thc counters) and swept and scrubbed
Becausethe Russian worcl for Gerrnans, nemt;y,means "lnutes."
with onr next-to-last blcket of water. The devil knows wl-rywe
Presumably it dates from the Hanseatic League, over five hun-
slavedarvaylike that. Probably just to exerciseour limbs a little, or
dred yea.rsago, when German merchants used sign language to
ma1,bslvc were simply fleeilg again into a palpable present to es-
trade textiles and lace for beeswax and furs in Novsorod and
czrpezrnuncertain future.
elsewhere.
As we worked we kept creepir-rgup to the r'vindorvand peeking
Anyway, this Rr"rssian
cloesn'tsay a thing, answersmy quesr.ion
olt at t[e stt'eet,w]re1e a1 elclless supply train was passing by.
with a mere shakeof his head. I ask whether he wants something
Stout n-ralcswith lbals n-rruritrgbetweeu their legs.A cow drearily
to ezrt. With a little smile he says, in accented German,
rnooing to be rnilked. IJefore we kne\'v it they had set up a field
"Schnnps"-brancly.
kitchcn in tl-regarage acfoss the street. And for the first time we
The cave clwellersshake their heads:regrettably they have no
r:oulcl make 6ut faces, features, individuals-stuldy, broad ibre-
brandy or alcohol of any kind. Whoever has any left keepsit well
fteacis,cl6se-cropped hair, well [ed, carefree. l{ot a civilian in
hidden. So Ivan wanders back ofl trying to find his way through
sight.'Ihe Russianshave the streetserttirely to tlternselves.But uu-
the labyrinth of passagewaysand courtyards.
cler crrery building people are rvhispering, quaking' Who could
Cheerful bustle of soldiers on oltr street. Along with trvo or
ever irnagine slrch a r,vholeother worlcl hidden here, so frightened,
three other women I venture out to r,vatch.A young man is polish-
liglrt in the miclclleof' the big city? Life sequesteredundergrouncl
ing a motorcycle in our entranceway,a German Ztindapp, nearly
ancl split into tiny cells so that no one knows what anyone else is
new. He holds out the cloth, gesturesat me to so on bu{fing. I tell
rloirrg.
him in Russianthat I don't want to, even manage a laugh; he looks
Orrtsicle,a bright blue, cloudlesssky'
at me in surpriseand then laughsback.
Sometime aroulld noon-the woman from Hamburg and I
Some Russians are wheeling freshly stolen bicycles up ancl
r,vcrejust gettilg the secold pot of barley soup, cooked at the
down the drivervay.'Ihey're teaching one another to ride, sitting
ltakcr's lbr therentire clan-the first enemy {bund his way into our
 48 Anor y lnous
on theil seatsas sti{fly as Susi the bicycle-riding chimpanzee in the
zoo. T'liey crash into the trees and laugh r,vithpleasure'
I lccl some of my fear beginning to dissipate.It turns out that
Russian men, too, are "only men"--i.e., presumably they're as
as other men to feminine wiles, so it's possibleto keep
sr-rsceptible
tl'rem in check, to distract them, to shake them off.
The sider'valksare full of horsesthat leave their droppings and
spray their pee. A strolrg scent of stalls. Two soldiers ask me to
show them to the nea.restpurnp-the horses are thirsty. So we
traipse through the gardens for fifteen minutes. Friendly voices,
goocl-natured faces. And questions that will keep coming back,
hearclnorv for the first time : "Do you have a husband?" If you say
yes, they ask where he is. And if you say no, they ask if you
worrldn't want to "marry" a Russian.Follor,vedby crude flirting.
'f hese two first addressme using the familiar du, but I dismiss
the irnpropriety by sticking rvith the fbrmal form. We walked
down the deserted green path as artillery shellsarc acrossthe sky.
The Gerrnan line is ten minutes ar,vay.No more German planes,
though, and harclly any German flak. No more water in the taps,
no electricity,no gas.Only Russians.
Back rvith the buckets, now full of water. The horses drink as
the tr,vomen look on contentedly. I stroll around, talking to this
Russian and that. It's past noon) the sun so hot it feels like sum-
mer. There's something strange in the air, though, something I
can't put my finger ou, something evil, menacing A lew men look
past me shyly,exchanging glances.One y,oungman, small and sal-
lolv and reeking of alcohol, getsme involved in a conversation.He
tne two watcheson
wants to coax me off into the cottrtyard, shor,vs
his hairy arm, he 'll give one to me if L . .
I draw back to the passagethat leads to our basement, then
sneak out to the inner courtyard, but just when I think I've shaken
hirn he's standing next to me and slips into the basement along
A Woman in Berlin 49
with me. Staggeringfrom one support beam to the next, he shines
his flashlight on the Ibces,some forty people all together,pausing
each time he comesto a woman, Ietting the pool of light flicker for
severalsecondson her face.
'Ihe basement freezes. Everyone seems petrified. No one
moves, no one says a word. You can hear the forced breathing.
The spotlight stops on eighteen-year-oldStinchen resting in a re-
cliriing chair, her head in a dazzhnglywhite bandage."How many
year?" Ivan asks,in German, his voice full of threat.
No one answers.The girl lies there as if made of stone. The
Russianrepeatshis question, now roaring with rage, "How many
year?"
I quickly answeq in Russian: "She's a student, eighteen." I
want to add that she'sbeen wounded in the head, but I can't find
the right words so I resort to the international word kaput."}Jead
kaput,from bomb."
Next comes a conversationbetween the Russianand myself a
rapid back and forth of questions and answers that would be
senselessto record, for the simple reason that it was senseless.A_ll
about love: true love, passionatelove, he loves me, do I love him,
whether we want to make love. "Maybe," I say,and start heading
toward the door. He falls for it. The people all around are still par-
alyzedwith fear, don't have the faintest idea what's going on.
I flirt with fluttering hands, hardly able to speak becausemy
heart is pounding so. I look the man in his black eyes,amazed at
his yellow,jaundiced eyeballs.We're outside in the hall, it's near\
dark, I prance backwards ahead of him, he doesn'tknow his way
in this labyrinth, he follows.I whisper: "Over there. Very beautiful
there. No people." Three more paces, then two stairs . . . and
we're back out on the street,in the bright afternoon sun.
Right away I run to my two horse handlers, who are now
combing and currying their steeds.I point at my pursuer: "He's a
 Anony r nous
bad egg,that one, ha-ha!" The man looks daggersat me and takes
off. The horse grooms laugh. I talk with them a while and catch
my breatli. Little by little my hands calm down.
As I was chatting away,a nttmber of heroes visited our base-
ment, llut thcy were lnore interested in watches than in women.
Later I wor-rldsee many an Ivan rvith whole collections on both
arms-fir,e or six pieces, which they would constantly compare,
winding and resetting,with childlike, thieflike joy.
Our stleet corner has become an army camp. The supplytrain
is billeted in tl"reshops and sarages.The horses mttnch their oats
and hay; it's comic to watch them stick their heads out the broken
display windor.vs.'fhere 's a hint of relief in the air-oh well, there
go the watches. "l/qynakaput," as the Russianssay.The war is ka-
put. And lbr us it ei kaput, finished, all over.The storm has rushed
past and now lve're safblyin its wake.
Or so we thought.
Things started happening around 6:00 p.nr.A man built like a
bull came ir-rto the basement, dead drunk, waving his pistol
arouncl and rnaking for the distiller's wife. No one elsewould do.
[-Ic chased lier with his pistol up and down the basement, shoved
her aheaclo[ him, toward the door. She fought back, hitting hirn,
howling, when all of a sudden the revolver went off. The bullet
went right through the supports and hit the wall; no one was hurt.
T'he basement broke into a panic, everyone jumped up and
started screaming. The hero seemed to have frightened himself
and slippedoff into the corridors.
Arouncl 7:00 p.u. I was sitting upstairs with the widow, peace-
fully eating our evening porridge, when the concierge'syoungest
daughter burst in yelling, "Come quick, you have to talk to them
iu Russian. There's more of them after Frau B." The distiller's
rvife again. She's by lar the plumpest woman in our group, very
bnxom. People say thcy like that. Fat means beautiful; the more
A Wo m a n il Be r l i n 5l
woman there is, the more her body differs from that of a man.
Primitive people are said to have had particular respectfor r.vomen
rvho are fat, as syrnbolsof abundanceanclfertility.well, thesedays
they'd have a hard time finding such syrnborshere. The older
women in particular r,vho had once been quite plurnp have
shrunken terribly, at least for the most part. of course, the clis-
tiller's wilb is an exception. since the war bega' she hasn't lacked
for things to trade. And'ow she'spayine for her r-rnrneritecl
fat,
When I came down she was standing in the doorway whim_
pering and shaking.She had managed to run out ancl escape.But
she didn't dare go back to the basement,nor did she dare gc_,
up
the four flights of stairs to her apartment, since the Gerrna' ar-
tillery was still firing occasio'al shells.she was also afraiclthe Rus-
siansmight follow her upstairs.Digging into my arm so firmry that
her nails left marks, she begged me to go with her to the "corn-
mandant" to requestan escort,somekind of protection. I couldn't
imagine what she was thinking of.
A man came by rvith stars on his epaulettesancl I tried to ex-
plain to him how afraid the woman was but couldn't think of the
word for "afraid." He just shrugged us off irnpatiently. ,,Don't
worry, nobody's going to do anything to you, go on home.,' Finally
the distiller's wife staggeredupstairs, sobbi'g. I haven't seer her
since; she must have snuck off somewhere.Ancr a good thing,
too-she was too compelling a decoy.
No sooner was I back upstairs than the concierge,sgirl_
evidently the designatedmessenger-came running in for the sec-
ond time. More men in the l:asement. Now they're after the
baker's wife, who's also rnanaged to keep a bit of flesh o' durins
the years of war.
The baker comes stumbling toward me clown the hall, white as
his flour; holding out his hands. "They have my wi{'e. . .', His voice
breaks. For a second I feel I'm acting in a play. A
'riddle-class
 A Wo m a n in Rerlin 53
52 Anouyrnous

do to our women?" He is screaming. "They took my sister

baker can't possibly move like that, call't speakwith such emotion,
and . . ." and so on. I can't understand all the words. onlv the
put so much fceling into his voice, bare his soul ttrat rvay,his heart
sense.
so torn. I'r'c never seenanyone but great actorsdo that.
Once again the oificer speahs,calming the man down, slowly
In thc basernent.llhe lantern is no longer burning; it's proba-
moving toward the door, and finally managing to get both men
bly out o{ kerosene.Ry the {lickering light of a so-calledHinden-
outside.The baker'srvife asks,hoarsely,'Are they gone?"
burg lan'rp--a rvick in tallor,v encased in cardboard-I see the
I nod, but just to make sure I step out into the dark corridor.
baker's wifb in a reclineq her ashen face, her twitching rnouth.
'fliree Russiansare standing next to her. One is jerking her up by Then they have me. Both men \^/erelying in rvait.
I scream and scream. . . I hear the basementdoor shuttinq
the arm, but when she tries to get up, another shovesher back in
with a dull thud behind me.
the chair as if she were a puppet, a thing
One of them srabs my wrists and jerks me along the corridor.
All three are talking to one auother very quickly, eviclentlyar-
Ttren the other is pulling as well, his hand on my throat, so I can
guing. I can't nnderstand much; they're speakingin slang'Wrat to
no longer scream. I no longer want to scfeam, for fear of being-
do? "Cornmissar," the baker stammers. I\uleaning find someone
strangled. They're both tearing away at me; instantiy I'm on the
who has some authority. I go out on tlre street, now peaceful,
floor. Something comes clinking out of my jacket pocket, must be
calmecl down {br the evening. The shooting and burning are fat
my key ring, with the key to the building. I end up with my head
arvay.As luck u,ould have it, I run into the same officer who had
on the bottom step of the basernent stairs. I can feel the damp
been so disrnissivewith the clistiller'swife. I speak to him in my
coolnessof the floor tiles. The door aboveis ajar and lets in a little
most polite Russian,ask him lor help. He understandswhat I'm
light. One man standsthere keeping watch, while the other tears
saying and makes a sollr facc. Finally he follows me, reluctant and
my underclothes,forcing his way-
unwilling.
I grope around the floor with my left hand until I find my key
The people in the bascment are still scaredstiff and silent as if
ring. I hold it tight. I use my right hand to defend mysell Ir's no
they all, men, women, and children, had turned to stone,It turns
nse. He's simply torn off my garter, ripping it in two. When I
out that one ol the three Rttssianshas backed ofl The other two
struggleto come up, the secondone throws himself on me aswell,
are still stzrndingnext to the baker's wife, arguing.
{brcing me back on the ground with his fists and knees.Now the
The officer joins the conversation, not with a tone of com-
other keepslookout, whispering, "Hurry up, hurry."
mand but as among equals. Several times I hear the expression
I hear loud Russianvoices.Some light. The door opens.Two,
"tfta< Stalina." Stalin's decree. Apparently Stalin has declared
three Russianscotrle in, the last a woman in uniform. And they
tlrat "this kind of thing" is not to happen. But it happens an'Wvay,
laugh. The second man jumps up, having been disrupted in the
the officcr gives me to untlerstancl, shrugging his shoulders' One
act. They both go out with the other three, leaving rne lying there.
o[ the two men being reprimanded voices his objection, his face
I pull myself up on the steps,gather my things, drag myself
trvisted in anger: "What do you mean? What c{id the Germans
 54 Anony m ous
along the wall toward the basement door. They'r,e locked it from
the inside. "Open up," I say."I'm all alone, there's no one else."
Finally the two iron levers open. Everyone staresat me. Only
ther"rdo I realize how I look. NIy stockingsare down to my shoes,
my hair is disheveled, I'm still holding on to what's left of my
garter.
I start yelling. "You pigs! Here they rape me twice in a row and
you shut the door and leave me lying like a piece of dirt!" And I
turn to learre.At first they're quiet, then all hell breaks loose be-
hincl rne, everyone talking at once, screaming, fighting, flailing
about. At last a decision: "We'll all go together to the comman-
dant and ask lbr protcction for the night."
And so finally a small platoon of women, along with a few
men, heads out into the evening twilight, into the mild air smelling
of fire, over to r,vherethe cornmandant is said to be staying.
Outside it's quiet. The guns are silent. A few men are sprawled
in the entranceway-Russians. One of them gets up as we ap-
proach. Another mumbles, "They're just Germans," and turns
back over. Inside the courtyard I ask to speakto the commandant.
A figure breaks away from the group of men standing in the door
that leads to the rear wing of the building. "Yes, what do you
want?" He's tall, with white teeth and the features of someone
from the Caucasus.
He looks at the pitiful group of people come to complain and
laughs, laughs at my stammering. "Come on, I'm sure they didn't
really hurt you. Our men are all healthy." He strolls back to the
other officers. We hear them chuckling quietly. I turn to our gray
assembly."There's no point."
We leave ancl return to ollr basement. I don't want to go back,
clon't want to look at their faces anynore. I climb upstairs, to-
gether with the widow, who's hovering over me as if I were sick,
A Wo r n a n in Be r l i n 55
speakingin hushed tones)stroking me, watching my every move to
the point where it's annoying. I just want to forget.
I undress in the bathroom--for the first time in days--and
wash up as well as I can with the little water I have,anclbrush my
teeth in front of the rnirror. Suddenly a Russian appears in the
door frame, as still as a ghost,pale and tender. "Where, please,the
door?" he asksin a quiet voice-in German, too. He's evidently
strayed into the apartment. Frozen in shock, wearing nothing but
my nightgown, I point the way to the front door, rvhich leads to
the stairwell,without sayinga rvord, "Thank you," he sayspolitely.
I hurry into the kitchen. Yes, he broke in through the back
door, which the widow had blocked off with a broom closet-he
simply pushed it aside. The widow is just coming up the back
stairs from the basement.Together we barricade the door aeain,
this time more thoroughly,piling chairs in front and shovingin the
hear,ykitchen bu{fet for good measure.That should do it, saystl-re
widow. As alwaysshe bolts the front door and turns the lock twrce.
We feel a little secure.
A tiny flame is flickering on the Hindenburg lamp, castingour
overlargeshadowson the ceiling.The widow has setup a place for
me in her living room, on the sofa bed. For the first time in ages
we don't ]et down the blackout blinds. What for? Tliere won't be
any more air raids this Friday night, not for us-we're already
Russian.The widow percheson the edge of my bed and isjust
taking off her shoeswhen all at once we hear a clatter and din.
Poor back door, pitifully erectedbulwark. It's already crashing
down, the chairs rumbling against the floor tiles. Scraping of feet
and shoving and several rough voices. We stare at each other.
Light flickers through a crack in the wali between the kitchen and
the living room. Now the stepsare in the hall. Someoneltushesin
the door to our room.
 l\n o r - tvr n o L ls
Onc, tr,vcl,three, four men. Nl heavily armed, with machine
gLrnson their hips. They look at the two of us briefly, without say-
ir-rga word. Onc of them walks straight to the chest,rips open the
two dralvers,rummages arottncl, slamsthem back, sayssomething
disrnissir.c,and stomps out. We hear him going through the next
room) r,vherethe wiclow's tenant used to live, before he was dralted
into the Volkssturm. The three others stand around murmuring
among themselves,sizing me uP with stolen glances.The widow
sl'rs back iuto her shoes,whispering to me that she'sgoing to run
upstairs lbr help fron-r tLre other apartments. Then she's gone;
none of the men stop trer.
What an I to do? Suddenly I leel insanely comical, standing
thcre in lront of three stratrgemell in nothing but my candy-pink
nightgown rvith its ribbons and bows. I can't stand it any longer; I
have to say sornething,do something. Once again I ask in Russiau,
"Sltto u2zhelaete?"
They spin around. Three bewildered faces,the men lose no
tirne in asking, "Where did you learn Russian?"
I give thcm rny speech, explain how I traveled acrossRussia,
drar,vingand photographing, at such and such a time. The three
rvarrliors plop ciown in the armchairs, set aside their guns, aud
strctchtheir legs.As we chat I keep my ear cockedfor any noisein
the hallway, waiting for the r,vidor,vto return with the neighbors
ancl the promised help. But I hear nothing.
N'Ieanwhile the fourth soldier comes back and leads number
three into the hitchcn. I hear thern busy with the dishes.The other
two speakqr-rietlyto each other; evidentlyI'm not supposedto un-
clerstand.The mood is strangelyrestrained.Soniething is in the
air, a spark, but where will it land?
The widow cloesn't come back. I again try to draw the two
men into conversation,as I get under my quilt, but nothing comes
of it. They look at me askanceand shift around. That's a sign
A Wo m a n i r r Be l l i r r 57
things are about to happen-I read about it in the papers,when
there still were some-ten or twenty times, lr,hat do I know? I {bel
feverish. My face is burning.
Now the other tr,vomen call them from the kitchen and they
get up clumsily and stroll over there. I crarvl out of bed very qui-
etly, put my ear to the kitchen door, and listen a moment. They're
obviously drinking. Then I slink down the pitch-dark corridor,
silently,on bare feet, grab my coat off the hook, and pull it on over
my nightgown.
I cautiously open the front door, rvhich the widow has left un-
bolted. I listen at the stairwell, silent and black. Nothing. Not a
sound, not a shimmer of light. Where could she have gone? I'm
just about to go up the stairswhen one of the men grabs me frorn
behind. He's snuck up without a sound.
Huge paws. I can smell the brandy. My heart is hopping like
crazy.I whisper,I beg: "Only one, please,please,only one. You, as
far as I'm concerned. But kick the others out."
He promisesin a low voice and carries me in both arms like a
bundle through the hall. I have no idea which of the four he is,
what he looks like. In the dark front room u'ith hardly any rvin-
dows he unloads me on the former tenant's bare bedstead.Ttrcrr
he shoutsa few short phrasesto the others,shutsthe door, and lies
down besideme in the dark. I'm miserably cold, I beg and plead
for him to let rne back into the made-up bed in the next room. He
refuses,seemingly afraid the widow might come back. Not until
half an hour later, when things are quiet, can I get him to move
there.
His automatic clanks against the bedpost;he's hung his cap on
the bedpost knob. The tallow light has gone on burning quietly,
for itself. Petka-that's his name-has a pointy head, a tviclow's
peak of bristly blond hair; it feelslike the nap on a so{b..A gigan-
tic man, broad as a bear, with the arms of a lumberjack and rvhite
 Anony m o us
teeth. I'm so tired, exhausted, I barely know where I am. Petka
Iumbles around, tells me he's from Siberia-well, well. Now he's
even taken off his boots. I feel dizzy,I'm only half present,and
that half is no longer resisting. It falls against the hard body
smelling of curd soap.Peaceat last, darkness,sleep.
At four o'clock I hear the crowing of a rooster,part of the sup-
ply train. Right away I'm wide ar,vake,pull my arm out from un-
der Petlia. He smiles,showing his white teeth. He gets up quickly,
explaining that he has guard duty but he'll definitely be back at
seven)absolutely!In parting he practically crushesmy fingers.
I crawl back under the blanket and sleep fitfully, in fifteen-
minute intervals. Once I think I hear the word "Help!" and jump
up, but it's only the rooster. Now the cow is mooing as well. I un-
iffap ollr alarm clock (it's really the widow's, but I now consider
mysell-part of the household) just to be safewe keep it wrapped
in a terry cloth towel, far back in the chest.We never look at it un-
Iesswe're completely alone and safe.We don't want to lose it to
some lvan.
It's five o'clock. I can't sleep any more. I get up and smooth out
the bed, shove the crates and chairs back against the rear door
with its broken lock, clear the empty bottles the men have left be-
hind, and check to seewhether we still have our Burgundy in the
kitchen cupboard, hidden in the old bucket. Thank God they
dicln't find tl'rat.
A reddish gray light shining through the window means the
war is still on outside.A distant rumble and hum. The front is now
rolling into the center of town. I get dressed,wash myself asbest I
can, and listen carefully to the morning quiet of the stairwell.
Nothing but silence and emptiness.r If only I knew where the
r,vidowsnuck off to! I don't dare knock on any doors, don't want to
frighten anyone.
The next tirne I stick my ear out, I hear voices.I run up, they're
A Wo m a n in Be r l i n
already coming my way, a whoie group of women, with the widow
in the lead, sobbing lamentably, "Don't be angry with mel', (As of
yesterday we've been calling each other with the familiar du.)A
number of women around her are sobbing as well. I just laugh in
the face of all the lamehtation. "What's the matter, I'm alive,
aren't I? Life goesonl"
As we head up to the next floor, to the booksellers,,the wiclow
whispers in my ear about how she knocked on severaldoors and
askedpeople to take us in and give us shelterfor the night. In vain.
No one opened. At the postmaster,sthey hisseclthrough the
chained door, "The girl? That would be askingfor trouble. No, we
don't want to be lurine them this wayl', After that it was pitch-
dark when some Russian came up and grabbed her, threw her on
the floorboards . . . A mere child, she whispers, no bearcl at all,
smooth-skinned and inexperienced-a smile breaks on her fuce,
so swollenwith sobbing.I don't know her age exactly.I,m not even
sure she would tell me. Probably between forty and fifty; she dyes
her hair. But for them any woman will do, when they're grabbing
in the dark.
Some fifteen people have holed up at the booksellers,,bringing
their bedclothes and spreading out on the sofas,the flooq r,vher-
ever there's room. The doors of the apartment have patent dead-
bolts and extra reinforcements anchored in the floor. On top of
that, the front door has a metal backing on the inside.
We sit around the unfamiliar kitchen table, all of us hollow-
eyed, greenishpale, worn out for lack of sleep.We speakin whis-
pers, our breathing is forced, we gulp down the hot malt coffee
(which the booksellercooked on the stoveover a fire of Nazi liter-
ature,as he tellsus).
We keep staring at the back door, lockecland barricaded, hop-
ing it will hold. Hungry, I stuff myself with someoneelse'sbread.
we hear steps coming up the back stairs, then those unfamiliar
 60 Anony m ous
sounds, to our ears so coarse and animallike. The table freezes,
lalls silent. We stop chewing hold our breath. Hands clenched
over hearts. Eyes flickering wildly. Then silence once again as the
stepsfade away.Someone whispers, "If things go on like this . . ."
No one answers.The refugee girl from Konigsberg throws her-
self acrossthe table: "I can't take any more! I'm going to end it
all!" Sire'clbeen through it severaltimes in the night, up under the
roof, rvhere she had fled an entire troop of pursuers. Her hair in
tangles,covering;her {hce, she refusesto eat or drink.
We sit, wait, listen, as the missilespipe away overhead like an
organ. Shots whip through our street. It's seven o'clock by the
time I creep down to our apartment, together with the widow,
carefully checking to see the stair landings are secure.We stop to
listen outsicleour door, which I left ajar-when sr:ddenlyit opens
{rom inside.
A uniforrn. Shock. The widow clutches my arm. Then a sigh
of relieF-it's only Petka.
The widow listens to our conversation without saFng a word.
A rninute later I, too, am standing there speechless.
Petka is beam-
ing at me, his small blue eyesglittering. He shakesmy hands, as-
suring me that he missed me rvhile he was away, that he hurried
over as fast as he could aftcr guard duty, that he searchedthe en-
tire apa.rtmentfor me, that he's happy, so happy to seeme again.
And he pre ssesand squeezesmy finsers r,vithhis lumberjack paws,
so hard I have to pull them away.I stand there like an idiot, in the
face of these unambiguous symptoms, listen to this Petka-Romeo
babble on, until he finally, finally disappears-promising he'll be
back soon,very soon).justas soon as he can.
I'm rooted in place, open-mouthed. The widow didn't under-
stood a word Petka was saying, but she read his face perfectly,she
knew rvhat was up. She shakesher head. "Well . . ." Both of us are
completely stunned.
A Wo m a n in Be r l i n 6l
And now I'm sitting here at our kitchen table. I've just refilled
my pen, and am writing, writing, writing all this confusion out of
my head and heart. Where will this end? What will become of ,s?
I feel so slimy, I don't want to touch anything least of all my own
skin. What I'd give for a bath or at least some clecentsoap and
plenty of water. That's it-enough of thesefantasies.
I remember the strange vision I had this morning, something
like a daydream,while I was trying in vain to fall asleepafter petka
left. It \,vasas if I were flat on my bed and seeing rnyself lying
there when a luminous white being rose from my body, a kind of
angel, but without wings, that floated high into the air. Even now
as I'm writing this I can still feel that senseof rising up and float-
ing. Of course, it's just a fantasy, a pipe dream, a means of
escape-my true self simply leaving my body behind, my poo4
besmirched, abused body. Breaking away ancl floating off, un-
blemished,into a white beyond. It can't be me that this is happen-
ing to, so I'm expelling it all from me. Couid I be raving? But rny
head feelscool at the moment, my hands heary ancl calm.
Tuesday,May I , 1945,3;00 p.n,i.
Looking back on Saturday, Sunclay,Monday
T
r haven't written since saturday morning April 28-three clays
ago, three days crammed with so many frenzied images,fears,and
feelingsthat I don't know where to begin, what to say.We're decp
in the muck now, very deep. Every minute of life comes at a high
price. The storrn is passingoverhead, ancl we are leavesquaking
in the whirlwind, with no idea where rve'rebeins blorvn.
 62 Anony r nous
A Woman in Berlin 63

An eternity has passedsiuce then. Today is May Day, and the

ago a complete stranger showed up, a stubborn dog rvho wanted
rvar is still on. I'm sitting in the armchair in the front room. The
me but was chasedaway.As he lelt he threatened,"I'il be back."
widow's tenant is here, too, lying in bed-Herr Pauli, now dis-
what does it mean-r'ape? when I said trre worcl for the first
charged liom the Volkssturm. He showed up on Saturday,without
time aloud, Friday evening in the basement,it sent shivers
down
rvarning, carrying a skteen-pound lump of butter wrapped in a
my spine. Now I ca' think it a'd write it with an untrembring
tolvel. At the moment he's sick with neuralgia.
hand, say it out loud to get used to hearing it said. It sounds
The r,vindis whistling through the windows, tugging and rat- Iike
the absoluteworst, the end of everything-but it's not.
tling the scraps of cardboard tacked on so pitifully; the daylight
saturday afternoon around 3:00 two men banged on the lront
comes flickering inside, making the room now bright, now dark.
door with their fists and weapons,shouting in raw voices,kickirrg
But it's al',vaysbitter cold. I've wrapped myself in a wool blanket
the wood' 'I'he widorv opened the door. She's arways
and am r,vritingwith numb fingers while Herr Pauli sleepsand the worried
about her lock. Two gray-rraired sordiers come careenine
rvidow wanders throueh the building looking for candles. i',
dru'k. They thrust their automatics through one of tire hall
Itussian sounds come bouncing in from outside. Some Ivan is win-
dows, shattering the last remaining pa'e a'd sending the
talking to his horses,which they treat far better than they do us; shar-ds
clattering into the courtyard. Tire' they tear the brackout
when they talk to the anirnals their voices sound warm, even hu- shacles
to shreds,kick the old grandfather clock.
man. Nor'v and then the horses' scent comes wafting in as well,
One of them grabs hold of me ancl shovesme into the front
and you can hear a chain clinking. Somewhere someoneis playing
room, pushing the widow out of the way Without a
an accorclion. wold, the
other plants himself by the front cloor ancl poi'ts his rifle
I peer through the flapping cardboard. The army is camped at the
widow, keeping her in check. He doesn,ttouch her.
outside; holses on the sidewalks,wagons, drinking pails, boxes of
The one shoving me is an older man with gray stubble,reeking
oats and l-raytrampled horse droppings, cow paddies.A small fire
of brandy and horses. He carefuily closestrre door behind
stokedwith broken chairs is burning in the entrarlcewayacrossthe him
and, not finding any key,slidesthe wing chair againstthe
street.The Russianscrouch around it in quilted jackets. cloor.He
seemsnot even to seehis prey, so that when he strikesshe is
NIy hands are shaking, my feet are ice. Yesterday a German ail the
more startled, as he knocks her onto the bedsteacr.Iiyes
grenade broke the last panes we had. Now the apartment is com- closed,
teeth clenched.
pletely defenselessagainst the eastr,vind.Good thing it's not.January.
No sound. Only an involuntary grinding o{'teeth when my
Our walls are riddled with holes. Inside we scurry back and un_
derclothesare ripped apart. The last untorn ones I hacl.
Ibrth, listening anxiously to the clamor outside, gritting our teeth
Suddenly his finger is on my mouth, stinking of horse and
at every nerv noise. 1-he splintered back door is open; we gave up to_
bacco. I open my eyes.A stranger,shands expertly pulling
barricading it long ago. \4en are forever traipsing down the hall, apart
myjaws. Eye to eye. Then with great deliberation he
through the kitchen, in and out of'our two rooms. Half an hour drops a gob
of gathered spit into my mouth.
 64 Anouy nlous
A Wornan in Berlin 65

shabby mass of uniform green, I'm just about to give up 1br the
I'm numb. Not with disgust,only cold. N{y spine is frozen: icy,
day,am already knocki'g at our door; when I seea man with stars
clizzy shivers around tlie back of my head. I feel myself gliding
coming out of ar-]apartment acrossthe street (the former tenant
and {alling dor,vn,down, tl-rroughthe pillows and the floorboards'
having managed to escapejust in time). Tall, dark hair, well fed.
So that'swhat it meansto sink into the ground.
He seesme with the bucket, then laughs ancl saysin broken Ger-
Once more eye to eye. The stranger's lips open, yellor'vteeth,
rnan, "Du, Frau." I laugh back and shorverhim with my best Rus_
one in fi-ont half broken off. The corners of the mouth lift, tiny
sian. He's delighted to hear his own ranguage.we chatter away,
wrink-lesracliatefrom the corners of his eyes.The man is smiling.
silly,.iustfooling around, and I learn that he's a first lie,tenant. l-i-
Before leaving he fishes something out of his pants pocket,
nally we arrange to meet that night at 7:00 p.M. at the widow's.
thur-npsit clown on the nightstand without a word) pulls the chair
He's busy until then. His name is A'atol so-a.d-so-a ukrainran.
aside, and slams thc cloor shut behind liim. A cnrmpled pack of
"Will you definitely come?',
Russian cigarettes,only a few left' NIy pay.
"Of course," he says,reproachfully ,As fast as I can.',
I stand up--dizzy, uauseated.iVIy ragged clothes turnble to rny
But as it happened, another man showed up first, arouncl 5:00
fect. I stagger through the hall, past the sobbing widow, into the
p.M.,someoneI'd almost forgotten, petka
batl-rroom.I throw up. My face green in the mirror, my vomit in from the previous night,
with the blond bristle and the ltomeo babble. He's brought rwo
tl-rebasil. I sit o1the edge of the bathtub, witliout daring to flush,
buddies, too, whom he introduces as Grisha and yasha, soo' all
since I'm still gagging and there's so little lvater le{t in the bucket.
three are sitting at our rouncr table, rike a bunch of farm boys in-
Damtr this to helM say it out loud- Then I make Lrpmy mind'
vited into a house well above their class.only petka acts as if he,s
No question about it: I have to find a single wolf to keep away
at home, showing me off to the others with clear pride of posses-
tl-repack. An ofliceq as high-ranking as possible,a commandant, a
sion. The three men stretch out on the armchairs; they feergood.
general, whatever I can trtanage.After all, what are my brains foq
Yashapulls otrt a bottle of voclka,and Grisha produces some her-
rny little knorvledgeof the etremy'slanguage?
rings and bread wrapped in a greasy page of praatla (the front
As soon as I am able to move again, I grab a bucket and drag
page-unfortunarely it's old). petka calls for glassesas if he
myself down the stairs and out into the street. I wander up and were
master of the house.He pours the vodka, then slamshis fist on
dolrrn,pcering into the cottrtyards, keeping my eyesopen, thell go the
table and commands, "Vltpit'nado!,,you have to clrink upl
back into our stairwell, very cautiously.I practice the sentencesI
'fhe widow and I, and even
rvill use to addressan officeE wondering if I don't look too green Herr pauli, who showeclup out of
the blue half an hour earlier, have no choice but to sit and dri.k
ancl miserable to be attractive. Physically I feel a little betteq
with the boys. Petka setsa slice of dark, moist bread on the table
though, now that I am doing something' planning something, de-
in {ront of each of us, then divides tlie herrings, right there
termined to be more than mere mute boofy, a spoil of war. on the
polished mahogany,usi'g his thumb to pressit onto the bread,
For lialf an hottr there's nothirlg-no epaulettesr'vith stars.I all
the while beaming at us as if this were a specialfavor and dericacy.
clon't know thcir rankings and insignia, only that the officerswear
'fhe widorv, appalled, runs
stars on their caps and generally have overcoats'But all I seeis a for some plates.Grisha is the silent
 66 Anouy lr t ous
type,w-itha permanent smirk;his voice has a deep rasp.He makes
sure each person receivesan equal portion of bread and herring'
Yasha is short, with a crew cut; he smiles and lods all around.
Bot[ are fi-om Kharkov. Little by little I start talking to them, act-
ing as interpreter between them and Herr Pagli. We drink to one
another's health. Petka from Siberia is loud and fully at ease'
I keep listening for the door and checking the dainty lady's
wristwatch on Yasha'sarm. Any minute I expect F-irstLieutenant
Anatol to show up as arranged. I'm worried because I suspect
there'll be a fight. Petka is strong as an ox, of course, and clean,
bqt he's primitive, llcouth-no protection. A first lieutenant, on
the other hancl, ought to guarantee a kind of taboo, or so I imag-
ine. NIy nrincl is firmly made up. I'll think of something when the
time comes.I grin to myself in secret,{bel as if I'm perfbrming on
the stage. I couldn't care less about the lot of them! I've never
been so removed {rom rnyself, so alienated. All my feelings seem
clead,except fbr the drive to live' They shall not destroy me.
N{eanwhile Grisha has let it be known that he's an "account-
ant." Then Herr Pauli, who works as an industrial salesman,
makes a similar declaratiou. Rottr men have drunk a good deal,
ancl they fall into an embrace, shouting for joy, "Me accountant,
you accollntant, we accottntants!" And the first kiss of German-
Russian brotherhood smacks acrossHerr Pauli's cheek. Soon the
r.tidow's tenallt is completely drunk. He calls out to us, elated,
"Tltese gllys are great, these Russians,full of vim and vigor!"
Another round. Here's to international accountancy.Now
even the'uvidow is feeling merry, Ibr the moment having forgotten
abor"rt the herrings being sawed right on her polished table'
(None o[ tl're boys bother with the plates.) I drink very rnea-
suredly, secretly switching glasses;I want to keep my wits about
me Ibr later. Still, the mirth at the table is tainted, especiallyfor
A Woman in Berlin 67
Lls two worrren-we want to forget what happened three hours
before.
Outside, the sun is setting.Yashaand Petkasing a melancholy
song, with Grisha chiming in. Herr Pauli is in a blessedlyrelaxed
mood. It's a bit much for him; after all, only this morning he was
courting death r,viththe Volkssturm, until his troop had the sense
to disband and, lacking both weapons and any orders to the con-
trary, dismissedthemselvesand went home. Suddenlyhe belchcs,
falls {brward, and throws up on the carpet. The widow and fel-
low accountant Grisha immediately spirit him into the l:athroom.
The others shake their heads, expresstheir synrpathy.Then
Herr Pauli crumples into bed in his room next door, r,vherehe
spendsthe rest of the day and, as it turns out, the foreseeablefu-
ture. A lame duck-probably his subconsciousrvants him that
way. Neuralgia of the soul. Even so, his simple male presence
keeps things somewhat in check. The widow swearsby him and
his rare pronouncements about the r,vorldsituation and mas-
sageshis back.
Twilight, a distant howling along the front. The r,vidorv has
managed to get hold of a candle; we light it and stick it onto a
salrcer.A meager pool of liglit on the table. Soldiers come and
go-evening is when things get busy. People hammering on the
front dooq pushing through tl'reback inro tl-rekitchen. But we are
unafraid; nothing can happen to Llsas long as Petka, Grisha, and
Yashaare sitting at our table.
Suddenly Anatol is standing in the room, filling the spacewith
his masculine self A regular soldier is trotting behind him carry,
ing a canteenfull of brandy and a round dark loaf of bread uncler
his arm. The men are all at their best-fbd,strong and strapping,
their uniforms clean, practical, and rugged, their movements
broad, very self-assured.The1,spit inside the room, tosstl-reirlong
 68 Anony m ous
cigarette lilters on tlie floor, scrape the herringbones off the table
onto the car-pet,ancl plop dor,vninto the armchairs.
Anatol reports that the fiont has reached the f,andwehr Canal,
ancl I have to think of that dreary old tune "Es liegt eine Leiche
irn Lanchvehrkanal. . ." A body floats down the Landwehr Canal.
Lots of bodies at the moment. Anatol claims that I30 Gerrnan
gener:rlshave surrencleredin the past few days. He takes a cello-
pliane bag, pulls out a map of Berlin, showsus the progressof the
fi'ont. 'fl-re map, printed in Russian, is vely exact. It's a strange
l-eelincwhen, cornplying with Anatol's request, I show him where
our hotrseis located.
So . . . Saturclal,,April 28, 1945 . . . the front at the Landwehr
Can:rl. As I r,vritethis, it's 'luesday, NIay l. 'Ihe rocketsare singing
overhead,tlie oily drone of Russian airplanes.Long rows of Stalin
C)rgirns are stacked in the school across the street; the Russians
call thern by the tencler narne Katyusha-"litde Kate"-2n61 fl16
title of a popular song among the soldiers,When they're fired they
hor,vllike r,volves.'Iihey don't look like ntuch upright balusters,
urade of thin trlbes. Ilut they howl and shriek and wail so loud
they nearly break our eardrums as we stand in line for water, not
far ar,vay.And they sper,vbundles of fiery streaks.
'I-hcy were hor,vlingoverhead this morning when I stood in line
Ibr lvater. 'I'he sky rvaslirll of' bloody cloucls.Smoke and steam ris-
ing over the center of town. T'he lack of water brings us out of
our lioles. Peopie conle creeping fi'om all sides,miserable, dirty
civilians, women with gray faces,mostly old-the young ones are
kept hidden. Nfen with stubbly beards and white armbands to
shor,r'they've sulrenderecl stand and watch the soldiersfill bucket
alter br-rcketibr their horses.Naturally the military alwayshas pri-
ority. Still, there's never any quarrel. Quite the contrary: one time
the handle broke lvhile a civilian was using it, and a Russian
nailerl it right back together.
A \{o m a n in Be r l i n 69
They're camped out in the garden plots, under the flowering
trees. Fieldpiecesmounted i' the flower beds. Russianssleepi'e
outside the sl-reds.others give water to their horses,which are sta-
bled inside the sheds.we're amazed.to see so many women sol-
cliers,with field tunics, skirts,berets,ancl insignia.They,re regular
infantry, no doubt about it. Most are very yollng-small, tough,
their hair combed back smooth. They wash their things in tubs.
shirts and blousesdance together on hastily strung clotheslines.
And overhead the organs howl away, their r,vall of thick biack
smoke cutting off the sky.
This morning was like yesterclay.On rny way horne I ran into
Flerr Golz, loyal Nazi to the end. Now he's adaptecl.He spottecla
Russianwith bright rows of decorationson his breast,ail wrappec-l
in cellopha'e, ard asked, "Ribbo.s?', (It's the same word in Rus_
sian and German, as he informed rne, not realizing how much
Itussian I understand.)He gave me a littre notebook, a German-
R'ssian dictionary for soldiers,assuringme he coulci get hold of
some more. I've looked it over; it has a lot of very usefulwords like
bacon,fiour,sa#.Some other important words are missing,hor.veve5
likefear and basernenl.
Also the word for dead,whichI usedon
'ever
my travels but which l find myself reaching fbr quite ofren in re-
cent conversations.Instead I substitute the word kaput-whiclt
works well for a lot of other things, too. The dictio'ary also con-
tains a number of expressionsfor which l have no use at all now,
despite my best intentions, such as ,,Flanclsup!,, ancl ,,Halt!', At
most'uvemight hear thosewords being usedon us.
Getting back to Saturday evening, the twenty-eightli. Around
B:00 p.rra.Petka and his entourage left--official busi'ess of some
sort. Petkamumbled somethingabout coming back soon,in a low
voice, so the first lieutenant wouldn't hear. Trren he crushed r'y
fingers again and tried to look me in the eyc.
Incidentally,the officer'sstarsseemto have stranselvlittle eflect
 70 Anony lr ous
disappointed.No one felt any need to
or) the enlistedmen. I \,vzrs
restlain their happy rnoocllrecauseol Anatol's rank, and he him-
sclf sinrply sat alongsiclethe other-svery peacefullyand laughed
zlrcl carrieclon rvith them, lilling up their glassesand sharing his
pot o[' liquor. I'rn wor"r'ieclabout my taboo. Apparently the strict
Pnrssianorcler of lanks we're so used to doesn't apply here. The
clneswith stars don't corne l}om any special class;they're by no
means superior to the others in background or education. Nor do
they have any special cocleof honor-especially wl-renit comes to
wonlell. Western tladitions of chivalry and gallantry never made
it to l{r-rssia.As thr as I knor'v,they never hacl any jousting tourna-
llents, no rninnesingersor troubadours,no trzritr-carryingpages.
So why shoulcl they be expected to be chivalrous? They're all
l)ezlsrurts,including Anatol. Of course, my l{ussian isn't good
enough for me to tell lrom a gir,,enman's speechand vocabulary
rvhat his education or prof'essionis. And IVe scarcelybeen able to
spcak lvith any of thern about literature and art. But I have the
feeiing that, deep inside, all these sirnple,undiscriminatingmen
{bel insecurein fl-ontof nre. despitetheir blusterinq.They're chil-
cheu of the people.
Still, at leastAnatol is a lirll trvo hundred pounds.So maybe his
sizerrvill heip errenif his stars don't. In any case,I'In not changing
my n-rind.He moveslike a comet, with a tail of young people, boy-
likc soldiers,rvho in the meantime have found shelterin the apart-
nrcnt abandcirreclby the pudding sisters. One of Anatol's
cntourase really is.just a chikl*Vanya, sixteen years old, r,vith a
stcrn {hce and intenseblack eyes.The widow takesme asideand
whispers that he coulcl have been the one, back then on the stairs;
his lace r,vassn-ralland smooth, his body slender. lbr his part,
Vanya doesn't show any sign of recognition, although that's to be
crpected since he never even saw the womall he took in such a
{ashion-he only lblt her. Still,I havethe sensehe
crlunrsy,.juvenile
A Wom an in I Jcr lir r 71
knows who she is. After all, he heard her"r,oice;the widow told rne
how she sobbed and begged. In any evenr, Vanya lbllows her
around like a puppy, carrying {i"eshglassesand r,vashingout the
dirty ones.
I clrank a lot that errenins.I wanted to drink a lot, wanted to get
drunk, and I did. That's why I only remember bits and scratches:
Analol next to rne again, his rveaponsand things scatteredaround
the bed. . . Atl his buttons and all his bags and everlthing in
them . . . Friendly,helpful, childlike . . . Bur bor.n in Vlay-a Tau-
rus, a bull . . . I felt like I was a doll, no sensation,shaken,shoved
arouncl,macieof wood . . . All of a suddensomeoneis stanclingin
the dark room, shining a flashlight.And Anatol's yelling at him
roughly, shakeshis fists, and the rnan disappears.Or clid I clream
that?
Iiarly in the morning I see Anatol standing by the window,
looking outside.A reddish glow is flaming into the roorn, a yellow
light tugs at the wallpaper. I hear the katyushashowling away,as
Anatol stretcheshis arms and says, "Petukhpaiot." The cclck is
singing. It's true--between shellsyou can actually hear a rooster
crowing down below.
As soon as Anatol left I got up, rvashedmyself in the batli r.r,ith
what water was left, scrubbed down the taltle, swept away the cig-
arette butts, herring tails, and horse droppings, rolled up the car-
pet, ar-rdstowed it in the chest. I looked in the next room. wher.e
the widow had set up camp under the protection of her"tenanq
both were snoring away. Ice-cold air was blowing through the
cardboard on the winclows. I felt rested and refreshed after.five
hours of deep sleep.A little hungover,but nothing more. l'd macle
it through another night.
I figLrredout that it was Sunday,April 29. But Sunday is a word
for civilians, at the moment without meaning. There are no Sun-
days on the front.