A Woman in Berlin

WEDNESDAY, 2 MAY 1945, AND THE REST OF TUESDAY

I spent half of Tuesday afternoon sitting by Herr Pauli’s bed, updating my account. To play it safe I’ve doctored the last few pages of this notebook to look like a German—Russian vocabulary, which I can always show to any Russian who comes bursting in and wants to see what I’m writing. I actually had to do this on one occasion, and was promptly rewarded with praise and a pat on the shoulder.

Towards evening we heard some commotion, someone kicking and pounding the front door. I opened it a crack, keeping the chain on, and caught a glimpse of something white – the baker from Tuesday morning, in his military issue smock. He wanted to come in. I didn’t want him to, and acted as if Anatol were inside. Then he asked me for some other girl, any girl, an address, a hint as to where he might find one – he said he’d give her flour for it, much flour, and me, too, for mediating. I don’t know of any girl, I don’t want to know any. He got pushy, forced his foot in the door, started tearing at the chain. With difficulty I managed to push him out and slam the door.

Yes, girls are a commodity increasingly in short supply. Now

everyone’s ready when the men go on the hunt for women, so they lock up their girls, hide them in the crawl spaces, pack them off to secure apartments. At the pump people whisper about a woman doctor who’s fixed up a room in the air-raid shelter as a quarantine hospital, with big signs in German and Russian warning of typhus. But the patients are just very young girls from the neighbouring apartment buildings, and the quarantine is a ruse the doctor came up with to preserve their virginity.

A little later we heard more noise. Two men we hadn’t seen before had managed to get into the empty apartment next door. The wall separating the apartments from ours was damaged in one of the last air raids, so that there’s a hole about six feet up, nearly a foot wide. The men next door must have shoved a table against the wall right under the hole; they started shouting through the chink that we’d better open our door at once or they’d shoot us. (Apparently they didn’t realize our back door was wide open.) One of the men shone his torch into our hall; the other levelled his automatic. But we know they’re never quite that trigger-happy – especially not when they’re as sober and quick-tongued as these two seemed to be. So I put on a silly act, attempting to be funny in Russian. Anyway, they were just two boys, not a hair on their chins. I cajoled them and even lectured them about the ukaz of Great Comrade Stalin. Finally they got down from their shooting gallery, kicked our front door a bit with their boots and left, so we breathed a sigh of relief. It’s somewhat reassuring to know that if need be I can run upstairs and call one of Anatol’s men to help. By now most of them know that we’re Anatol’s private game reserve.

Even so, the widow started feeling more and more uneasy, especially when evening came and none of our usual guests showed up. Taking advantage of a calm moment in the stairwell, she darted upstairs to establish contact with the other residents. Ten minutes later she was back. ‘Please come up to Frau Wendt’s. There are some very nice Russians. It’s downright pleasant.’

Frau Wendt is the woman with the weeping eczema – on her own, around fifty, the one who tied her wedding ring to her pants. It turns out that she’s moved in with the former housekeeper for our westward-departed landlord, another example of the rampant regrouping, random affiances forming out of fear and need. Their small kitchen was stuffy and full of tobacco smoke. In the candlelight I could make out both women and three Russians. The table in front of them was piled with canned goods, most without labels, presumably German provisions now turned Russian booty. One of the Russians immediately handed the widow one of the tins.

The women asked me not to speak any Russian, so I just played stupid. None of these Russians knew me. One, named Seryosha, squeezed right up to me and put his arm around my hip. Whereupon one of the others intervened and said, in a gentle voice: ‘Brother, please, none of that.’ And Seryosha, caught in the act, moved away.

I’m amazed. The man who spoke is young, with a handsome face and dark, regular features. His eyes are bright. His hands are white and slender. He looks at me seriously and says in clumsy German, ‘Nicht haben Angst.’ Not to be afraid.

Frau Wendt whispers to the widow and me that this Russian is named Stepan. He lost his wife and two children in a German air raid on Kiev, but he’s forgiven us all and is practically a saint.

Next the third Russian, who’s small and pockmarked, shoves me a can of meat that he’s opened with his penknife. He hands me the knife and gestures for me to eat. I spear a few large, fatty pieces and stick them in my mouth – I’m hungry. All three Russians look at me approvingly. Then Frau Wendt opens her kitchen cupboard and shows us row after row of canned goods, all brought by the three men. It really is pleasant here. At the same time neither of the two women could be called attractive: Frau Wendt has her eczema, and the ex-housekeeper is like a mouse – worried, withered and bespectacled. Enough to give a rapist second thoughts. Heaven only knows why these men have set up here, dragging all those cans of food.

I’d be happy to stay longer. Stepan positively radiates protection. I gaze at him open-mouthed, and in my mind rename him Alyosha, from the Brothers Karamazov. But the widow’s getting restless. She’s concerned about Herr Pauli, all alone in his bed, although it’s clear that our men – especially those who are sick and bedridden – have nothing to fear from the Russians. It’s impossible to imagine one of these soldiers swinging his hips and approaching a man with a whispered, ‘Let’s go.’ They’re all hopelessly normal.

Seryosha takes the candle and escorts us to the door, pious as a lamb under Stepan’s eye, risking no more than a gentle pinch on my upper arm as we leave.

We trot downstairs, each with our own can of meat. We hear happy music coming from our apartment and find things there in high gear. Practically all of Anatol’s contingent are camped out in the living room, having let themselves in through the eternally open back door. Somewhere they’ve come up with an accordion and are taking turns. They all try their hand at playing, but none of them really knows how, and the results are as expected. Even so they’re laughing and enjoying themselves – after all, it’s May Day and they want to celebrate. No one knows where Anatol is. They say he’s out on business, he has a lot to take care of.

We go into Herr Pauli’s bedroom – and find Russians there as well: the sullen lieutenant with his hiking pole covered in badges, and someone else he’s evidently brought along whom he introduces offhandedly as Major —ovich So-and-So. (They have a way of whispering and mumbling both their patronymics and their last names. They want to keep their identities secret, so they never say more than a typical-sounding first name and their rank, which you can figure out anyway if you know what to look for.)

I stare at the blond lieutenant, full of loathing, and wish him

elsewhere. He acts as if he doesn’t know me – distant and formal and flawlessly polite. The major he’s brought along is even more polite, leaping to his feet when we enter, bowing as if at a dance lesson, greeting each of us individually. Tall and slender, dark hair, clean uniform. One of his legs drags a little. After a moment I notice a third person in the room, another new face. He has been sitting motionless by the window; now the major calls him over and he steps our way, blinking in the candlelight – an Asian with thick jaws and narrow, swollen eyes. They introduce him as the major’s orderly, and then the man immediately withdraws to his corner by the window where he turns up the collar of his grey woollen coat to help against the wind blowing in from outside.

Now four of us are sitting around Pauli’s bed: the widow, me, the surly blond lieutenant and the major, who does all the talking. He asks me to translate his polite flourishes and carefully weighed words for Herr Pauli and the widow. He thinks they’re married. As we carry on our exchange, the major and I size each other up furtively. I don’t know what to make of the man, so I keep an eye on him. He offers some cigars that he’s been carrying loose in his jacket pocket. Pauli thanks him, takes two and lights one, puffing away, with help from the major. They smoke a while in peace and quiet; now and then the major holds the ashtray out for Herr Pauli, very politely. All of a sudden he jumps up and asks if he us disturbing us, in which case he’ll leave right away, at once! And he makes a show of getting ready to leave. No, no, we beg to differ, he’s not bothering us. He sits back down immediately and goes on smoking in silence. A perfect model of etiquette. Another completely new sample from the apparently inexhaustible collection the USSR has sent our way. What’s more, he’s visibly nervous: his hand with the cigar is shaking. Or maybe he has a fever – we’ve just learned that he’s been wounded in the knee. He was in the same hospital as the lieutenant, which is how they know each other. (So the Russians are in the hospital as well. I’d like to know how they managed to squeeze in and where they sent our people who as of last week had filled every bed in every available space.)

Meanwhile, the glee club has taken its accordion and moved on out of our apartment. Things quieten down, I steal a peek at the lieutenant’s watch. The hands are nearing eleven. The widow, Herr Pauli and I swap glances, unsure what to expect from these guests.

Now the major gives an order to the Asian by the window, who reaches in his coat pocket and barely manages to pull out… a bona fide bottle of the best German champagne! He places it on the stand next to Pauli’s bed, in the pool of candlelight. In no time the widow is off for glasses, and we clink and sip champagne while the major and the surly lieutenant carry on a quiet conversation that’s evidently not meant for me. Finally the major faces me directly and asks: ‘What do you know about Fascism?’ His voice is as stern and strict as a schoolmaster’s.

‘Fascism?’ I stutter.

‘Yes, please. Explain the origin of the word. Name the country where this political movement originated.’

I think desperately for a moment, then blurt something about Italy, Mussolini, the ancient Romans, fascio as a bundle of rods, which I try to illustrate using the lieutenant’s badge-covered stick… and all the while my hands and knees can’t stop shaking, because I suddenly think I know what this major represents and what he’s after. He wants to subject me to a political exam, ferret out my beliefs, my past – all in order to draft me into some Russian job, as an interpreter or army helper. Who knows? I see myself being dragged off and enslaved somewhere in some war-torn town. Or are these GPU men hoping to recruit me as an informer? A hundred horrible thoughts flash in my mind I can feel my hands turning to lead and dropping, I can hardly finish what I’m saying.

I must have blanched because the widow looks at me, though she doesn’t understand a word we’re saying. She’s obviously concerned, puzzled. Then I hear the major speaking to the blond lieutenant. He sounds satisfied: ‘Yes, she does have a decent knowledge of politics.’ And he raises his glass and drinks my health.

I breathe with relief, my heart stuck in my throat. Apparently I’ve passed the exam, which was only designed to test my basic knowledge. I finish my glass, which is refilled with the last of the champagne. The widow’s eyes are drooping. It’s time for the guests to leave.

Suddenly there’s a new tone, an open proposition. The lieutenant sums it up in two sentences: ‘Here is the major. He wants to ask you, citizen, if you find him pleasant.’

Out of the clouds and back to earth, I stare at the two men, dumbfounded. All of a sudden the major is fiddling with his cigar, carefully stubbing it out in the ashtray, as if he hadn’t heard what the lieutenant asked on his behalf. It’s so dark I can’t make out the orderly who’s still sitting mutely by the window. No champagne for him.

Silence. The widow looks at me, lifting her shoulders enquiringly.

Then the lieutenant, toneless, calm: ‘Do you find the major pleasant? Can you love him?’

Love? That damned word, I can’t hear it any more. I’m so shaken, so dishearted, that I don’t know what to say or what to do. After all, the lieutenant is part of Anatol’s circle, so he knows about the taboo. Does this mean Anatol is no longer around? Could this major be his successor in the field? And does he think that means he can inherit me as well? He can’t be thinking that – he’s just told us that he’s been staying in the hospital, that he has a bed there.

I stand up and say, ‘No. I don’t understand.’

The lieutenant follows me through the room, limping on his stick, while the major goes on sitting by Pauli’s bedside, seemingly detached, looking right past the two Germans frozen there in silence, helpless and scared.

I murmur to the lieutenant: And Anatol? What about Anatol?’

‘What Anatol?’ he shouts, coarsely, loudly. ‘What do you mean, Anatol? The man’s long gone. He’s been transferred to staff headquarters.’

Anatol gone? Just like that, without a word? Is it true? But the lieutenant sounds so certain, so superior, so scornful.

My head is spinning. Now the major gets up as well, says goodbye to the widow and Herr Pauli with great ceremony. I hear him thanking them repeatedly for their hospitality. Neither Pauli nor the widow has the faintest idea of the procuring being conducted. And I don’t dare speak to them in German, right in front of the other two. I know from experience that the Russians don’t like that – they immediately suspect conspiracy, treason.

The major heads towards the door, bowing to all of us. The Asian comes waddling over from the window. I hold my candle up to light the way out for all three. The major traipses very slowly through the hall, his right leg dragging slightly, he’s dearly doing his best to minimize the limping. The lieutenant shoves me with his elbow, asks rudely, ‘Well? You mean you’re still thinking about it?’ Then there’s a short discussion between him and the major about where to spend the night, whether in the hospital, or… And once again the lieutenant asks me, coldly but politely, ‘Could we possibly spend the night here? All three of us?’ And he points to the major and to the Asian standing beside them half asleep.

All three? Yes, why not? That way we have protection for the night, so I lead the three of them to the back room, next to the kitchen. There’s a broad couch there with several woollen blankets. The lieutenant and the Asian push past me into the room. The lieutenant quickly pulls the door shut. Before it doses I see him shining a torch.

I’m standing in the kitchen, candle in hand. The major is standing next to me, in silence. He politely asks me where the bathroom is. I show him the door and hand him the candle. While I wait for him by the kitchen window, looking out into the dark, the door to the back room opens again. The surly blond lieutenant, already in his undershirt, hisses at me: ‘About us – yesterday – nobody needs to know about that.’ And then he’s gone. I have to think a moment. What does he mean, ‘about us?’ Then I remember the previous night: the dogs’ love, his spitting next to my bed. It seems an eternity ago, repressed, nearly forgotten. I’ve lost all concept of time. A day is like a week, a gaping abyss between two nights.

The major is back; he goes with me into my room. By now Pauli and the widow in the next room will have realized what’s going on. I can hear their muffled voices through the wall. The major pulls a tall, new candle out of one of his bags, drips some wax onto an ashtray, secures the candlestick and places it on the little table next to my bed. He asks quietly, still holding his cap, ‘May I stay here?’

I wave my hands and shrug my shoulders in signs of helplessness.

At that he lowers his eyes and says, ‘You should forget the sub lieutenant. By tomorrow he’ll be far away. That’s what I’ve heard.’

‘And you?’

‘Me? Oh, I’ll be here a long time, a very long time. At least another week, maybe even longer.’ He points to his leg. ‘There’s a fragment inside. I’m being treated.’

I actually feel sorry for him, the way he’s standing there. I ask him to sit down, take a seat. He answers awkwardly, ‘You must be tired. It’s so late. Perhaps you’d like to lie down?’ And he moves over to the window of scraps and cardboard and acts as if he’s looking outside – where you can no longer hear any sounds from the front, none at all. In a flash I take off my outer clothes, throw on an old robe that belongs to the widow, crawl into bed.

Then he comes closer, pushes a chair next to the bed. What is he after? More conversation, more etiquette manual, see under ‘Raping enemy demoiselles’? But no, the major wants to introduce himself. He takes all his papers out of his pockets, spreads them on the quilt and moves the candle closer so that I can get a better look. This is the first Russian who’s revealed himself that way, with all the details. I soon know his full name, date and place of birth, even how much he has in his bank account, because there’s also a savings book from the city of Leningrad with over 4000 roubles. Then he gathers up his papers. He speaks a sophisticated Russian; as always I can tell by the fact that whole sentences go by without my understanding a word. He seems to be well read and quite musical, and he’s clearly taking pains to behave like a gentleman even now Suddenly he jumps up and asks, nervously, ‘Is my company not pleasing? Do you despise me? Tell me frankly!’

‘No, no.’ No, not at all, you can go right on being the way you are. I just can’t force myself into this role, to feel at ease so quickly. I have this repulsive sense of being passed from hand to hand; I feel humiliated and insulted, degraded into a sexual thing. And then once more the thought: And what if its true? What if Anatol really has disappeared? What if my taboo is gone, this wall I’ve taken such trouble to erect? Wouldn’t it be good to create a new taboo, one that might last a little longer. To build a new wall of defence?

The major takes off his belt and puts aside his jacket, all in slow motion, with sideways glances at me. I sit, wait, feel my palms sweating. I want to help him and I don’t want to. Then suddenly he says, ‘Please, give me your hand.’

I stare at him. More etiquette manual? Is he trying to grace me with a kiss on my hand? Or is he a palm reader? He takes my hand and clasps it firmly with both of his, then says, with pathetic eyes and trembling lips, ‘Forgive me. It’s been so long since I had a woman.’

He shouldn’t have said that. Next thing I know I’m lying with my face in his lap, sobbing and bawling and howling all the grief in my soul. I feel him stroking my hair. Then there’s a noise at the door. We both look up. The door is ajar, the widow is standing there holding a candle, asking anxiously what the matter is. The major and I both wave her away. She undoubtedly sees that nothing bad is being done to me, I hear the door dosing once again.

A little later, in the dark, I tell him how miserable and sore I am and ask him to be gentle. He is gentle and silently tender, is soon finished and lets me sleep.

That was my Tuesday, the first of May.

On to Wednesday. For the first time in all these nights of men I sleep into the morning and when I wake up the major is still by my side. Evidently he doesn’t have any duties; he can make his own assignments. We talk a bit, very friendly and rationally. Out of nowhere he confesses to me that he is not a Communist, not at all – he’s a professional officer, trained at the military academy, and hates the young stool pigeons from the Komsomol. By which I understand him to mean that even higher-ranking officers have reason to be afraid of party watchdogs. I’m amazed at how openly he speaks to me. On the other hand, there are no witnesses. Then, just as abruptly, he wants to know if I really am healthy. ‘You understand, I mean, you understand what I’m saying.’ (The first ‘you’ is formal; the second time he uses the familiar form – as a rule he mixes the two when he talks to me.) So I tell him the truth, that I’ve never had anything like that, but of course I can’t be sure that I haven’t caught something from one of the Russians who violated me. He shakes his head and sighs. ‘Ach, these hooligans!’ (Pronounced khuligan, a loan word very common in Russian, used for scoundrels, louts, ruffians.)

He gets up, dresses and calls for his orderly, who waddles in, still in his stockinged feet, carrying his shoes. The lieutenant is nowhere to be seen; he is probably gone for the day. From the room next door I can hear the widow.

Outside, the May morning is chilly. Chains are clinking, horses neighing; the rooster has long since crowed. But no katyushas, no gunfire, nothing. The major limps around the room and stretches his leg, singing one song after the other in a beautiful voice, including the magical ‘Linger with me, my lovely one’. Then he sits on the edge of the bed, pulls a little harmonica out of his pocket and plays a march, with amazing verve and skill. Meanwhile the Asian – who when I ask tells me he’s from Uzbekistan – helps his superior put on his soft leather boots. Taking pains to spare the injured leg, he gazes adoringly at his musical major and sighs in foreign-accented Russian: ‘Ech, is so beautiful!’

Later, after both are gone, the widow hears in the stairwell that Berlin surrendered around 4 a.m. – someone heard it on a crystal set. ‘Peace’ – so we think, and are happy. Until we find out there is still fighting going on north and south of the city.

Still Wednesday, the hours are creeping along. People are constantly interrupting me as I write. But no one has objected; the most I’ve heard was one soldier saying, That’s right. You all need to study hard and learn Russian.’

A steady stream of Russians, liquor, kitchen work, fetching water. We hear there’s a wooden beam lying around somewhere. I rush to get it before someone beats me to it. Two of Anatol’s men come running out of the abandoned apartment they’ve commandeered for the past few days, carrying mattresses and bed covers. Where are they moving to? Not a trace of Anatol himself. Evidently the lieutenant wasn’t lying. And the major promised in parting that he would take good care of me, bring me something to eat. Fine with me. For days I’ve had misgivings about the butter Herr Pauli brought from the Volkssturm. This is definitely a different life from my hungry existence in the attic, where everything had been stripped bare and eaten. First we had the end of the German rations, then what I managed to steal – the loot from the police barracks, the potatoes. And the widow had a few stores of her own – potatoes, beans and peas, bacon. Next we had everything that Anatol and his men left in the way of bread, herring, pork rinds, canned meat. (though the alcohol was always drained to the last drop). And the two cans of meat from the white hands of Stepan-Alyosha. A life of plenty. Actually I haven’t eaten this richly in years; it’s been months since I was so full after eating. It can’t go on like this. But for the moment I’m stuffing myself, to build up my strength.

Outside it’s cold and overcast. Today I stood at the pump for a long time in a fine rain. Little fires burning all around in the trampled gardens, men’s voices singing to an accordion. A woman in front of me is wearing men’s shoes. She has a scarf on her head covering half her face, her eyes are swollen from crying. But for the first time since I’ve been standing in line for water, things are calm. No katyushas. The sky is still smouldering yellow. The previous night had been full of fires. But there’s no more gunfire in Berlin; things are quiet. We stand there in the pouring rain, speaking quietly and saying little. The pump creaks, the lever squeals, Russians fill canister after canister. We wait. The pathetic figure in front of me reports in monotone that, no, she hasn’t been raped yet, she and a few neighbours managed to lock themselves in the basement, but now her husband has come back, from his unit, you understand… So she has to take care of him, hide him, find food and water for him, she can’t just think about herself any more. And a dishevelled woman behind me is moaning about furniture: ‘My good couch, with the royal blue velvet, I had two matching armchairs – they broke them into pieces and used them for firewood!’ And finally a scrawny man, all bones, with a face no bigger than a fist, tells us a story about a family in his building who hid their daughter under the chaise longue. They pulled the cover all the way down to the floor, and the Russians even sat on it without any idea the girl was lying underneath. I can’t tell whether the story is fact or fiction. It’s entirely possible. Our lives are all rumours and melodrama, one big kitschy novel.

I’m not in a position to hide, although I know of a hole in the attic I could crawl into. But I don’t have anyone to bring me food and water. Once, when I was nine years old, on vacation at my grandparents’ house, I hid in the attic with my cousin Klara. We climbed into a corner beneath the straw dolls in the rafters, which were warm from the sun, and had a secret conversation about where babies come from. Klara, who was younger than me but knew more, whispered something about women being cut open with big knives so the babies could get out. I can still feel the horror that crept up my throat, until finally I was saved by our grandmother’s sedate voice calling us for a snack. I clambered down the stairs and breathed a sigh of relief when I saw my grandmother in her satin apron, uncut and intact, broad and round as always, her metal-rimmed spectacles perched on the tip of her nose. The house smelled of coffee and apple cake, and I’m sure the cake was dusted with powdered sugar, though in those days a pound of that cost several million paper marks. As I chewed away I forgot all about Klara’s knives and my own fear. But these days I think children are right to be afraid of sexual things – there really are a lot of sharp knives.

The Russians at the pump don’t spend much time sizing up us water carriers. They’ve already caught on that it’s mostly old, gnarled women who are sent to the pump. When I’m there I, too, wrinkle my forehead, pull down the corners of my mouth and squint in order to look as ancient and wretched as I can.

At first, before I started sticking out like a sore thumb, our Russian guests often asked me how old I was. If I told them I’d just turned thirty they would grin and say, Aha, she’s a sly one, pretending to be older than she really is.’ Then I’d show my ID and they had no choice but to believe me. They can’t really tell with us: they’re used to their Russian women, who have lots of children and are quickly worn out; they can’t read how old our bodies are – even if most of us look miserable compared with how we looked in peacetime.

A red-cheeked Russian walks down our line, playing an accordion, and calling out to us: ‘Gitler kaputt, Goebbels kaputt. Stalin ist gut.’ He laughs and cackles one of their mother-curses, slaps a comrade on the shoulder and shouts in Russian, even though the people in line won’t understand a thing. ‘Look at him! A Russian soldier. And he’s marched from Moscow to Berlin!’ They’re all so proud of their victory they’re bursting their buttons. Even they are amazed that they made it this far. We swallow it all, stand in line and wait.

I come home with two buckets full of water. A new commotion inside the apartment. Two soldiers we don’t know are running through our rooms looking for a sewing machine. I show them our Singer in the kitchen. Ever since Petka the bristle-haired Romeo played catch with it the machine seems a little bent. What do these two need a sewing machine for?

It turns out they have a package they want to send to Russia; they’d like to have it sewn up in a cloth cover – which of course should be done by hand. With great eloquence consisting mostly of repetition, I convince the boys that current technology isn’t up to the task, that this is more a job for grandmother’s simple handiwork.

Finally they nod their round heads and agree. They’re carrying a whole loaf of bread as payment. The widow thinks for a moment and decides to pass this princely commission to the bookselling wife, who is skilled at sewing and short on bread. She hurries over to fetch her from her triply secured apartment.

And the woman actually decides to come. She’s mistrustful, hesitant… and at the same time eagerly considering the bread. She and her husband are living off beans and barley. She takes her place at the kitchen window and carefully sews white linen cloth around the bundle. The contents remain a mystery. It feels soft probably clothes.

I try to imagine what the Russians think about all these things lying around unprotected and abandoned. There are deserted apartments in every building that are theirs for the taking. Basements with whatever is stowed in them. There’s nothing in this city that isn’t theirs if they want it – the problem is there’s simply too much. They can no longer take it all in, this abundance; they nonchalantly grab whatever objects catch their eye, then lose them or pass them on; they haul things away and then discard them as soon as they become a burden. This is the first time I’ve seen them take the trouble to pack up and mail some of the plunder. For the most part they have no ability to assess the value of things. They grab the first thing they see and they have no concept of quality or price – why should they? They’ve always just worn what they’ve been allotted; they don’t know how to judge and choose, how to figure out what’s good, what’s expensive. When they steal bedding, for instance, they’re just looking for something to lie down on right away. They can’t tell eiderdown from shoddy. And what they value most of all is liquor.

While she sews, the bookseller passes on what she knows. Yes, eighteen-year-old Stinchen is still being kept by her mother in the crawl space, lately during the day as well, ever since two Russians came back with the designated water carriers, burst into the apartment, brandished their pistols and shot a hole in the linoleum floor. The girl looks pasty. No wonder. But at least she’s still intact. The bookseller also tells about some new residents, two young sisters, one a war widow with a three-year-old son. They moved into one of the empty apartments, where they carry on with the soldiers, sometimes by day, sometimes by night, rumour has it things are very merry there. We also learn that a woman across the street jumped out of a fourth-storey window when some Ivans were after her. She’s buried in the little yard in front of the cinema. A number of people have apparently been buried there. I can’t say, since I take a different path to get my water. And that’s the only place you go outside these days.

So the bookseller stitches away and recounts what she knows. Rumours – the goddess Fama. I’ve always pictured her as an old woman all shrouded up and murmuring away. Gossip. We feed on it. Years ago people got all their news through hearsay and word of mouth. It’s impossible to overestimate how this affected ancient cultures, how unclear and uncertain their view of the world must have been – spooky, nightmarish, a swamp of murmured horrors and fears, of malicious men and resentful gods. These days, too, there are times when I feel I can’t be sure of anything, that nothing is true, that Adolf may have long ago escaped by submarine to Spain and that Franco is putting him up in a castle where he’s sketching plans for Truman about getting the Russians back to Russia. But one thing is beyond doubt – the deep-down feeling of defeat, the certainty of our being at the mercy of the victors.

The two Russians come back, are very pleased with the sewing, take the package and give the woman her fresh bread. I talk with them and find out that neither one is actually an ethnic Russian. One comes from around Kuban and is of German descent; the other is a Pole from Lvov. The German is named Adams, his ancestors came from the Palatinate two hundred years ago. The few German words he produces are in that local dialect, for example, ‘Es hat gebrannt’ – it burned – for Es hat gebrennt. The Pole is strikingly handsome, with black hair and blue eyes, quick and lively. He breaks up a crate for our firewood and exchanges a few words with the widow, who as a child used to visit relatives on an estate in East Prussia, where she picked up a few phrases from the Polish field hands. He offers to go with me to get the water.

I accept, though reluctantly. During my first trip this morning I discovered a poster by the door proclaiming that, effective immediately, Russians are no longer allowed to enter German homes or to fraternize with German civilians.

We set off. I’m glad because this way I’ll save at least an hour of standing in line, since if a Russian does the pumping for me I’ll have priority. But no sooner are we outside than an officer calls out after my Pole, ‘Hey, you! What are you doing, going with a German?’ The Pole winks at me, hangs back, and meets up with me at the pump, where he serves himself ahead of everyone else. The people in line stare at me with bitterness and contempt. But no one says a word.

The Pole has a violent temper. On the way home he picks a fight with some soldier over nothing, snorting and roaring and swinging his fists. Then a spasm runs through his entire body, and he calms down, catches up with me and points to the back of his head, explaining that he took a bullet there during the fighting at Stalingrad. Ever since then he’s been prone to these rages and violent fits. He often has no idea what he does in his fury, he never used to be like that. I look at him, uneasy, and hurry ahead with my two buckets. He really does have the thick, copper Stalingrad medal, hanging from a colourful ribbon wrapped in cellophane. I’m happy when we get to our building and he slips away. Clearly the new order won’t take effect as long as their soldiers are billeted in abandoned apartments right next to our own.