A Woman in Berlin

LOOKING BACK ON FRIDAY, 4 MAY RECORDED ON SATURDAY, 5 MAY

The major showed up around 11 a.m. He gathered that Anatol was back in the area, and wanted to know if I had… I said no, that Anatol had just brought his men over for fun and drink, but that he’d had to hurry back into town. The major swallowed it. I felt rotten. Sooner or later they’re going to bump into each other. What am I supposed to do? I’m nothing but booty, prey – that has to stand back and let the hunters decide what to do with their game, how to parcel it out. Still, I very much hope that Anatol won’t be coming back.

This time the major brought all sorts of sweets, Luftwaffe provisions, concentrated foodstuffs. We ate some for dessert, just the three of us, because the major couldn’t stay long. He didn’t know whether to laugh or get angry when I told him about his Uzbek and the offer of stockings. Finally he decided to laugh. He promised to return in the evening. There was an edge to his voice, and he gave me a sharp look. Now I’m not so sure that I can control him, I have to watch myself, and not forget that they’re our masters.

Herr Pauli and I are eating like there’s no tomorrow, much to the annoyance of the widow. We spread our butter finger-thick, are extravagant with the sugar, want our potatoes browned in fat. Meanwhile the widow is counting every one of those potatoes. And she’s not entirely wrong to do so. Our small stockpile is dwindling. We probably have one more basketful of potatoes in the basement, but we can’t get to it. A group of residents took advantage of the quiet hours between five and seven in the morning and barricaded the entrance with a mountain of rubble, chairs, spring mattresses, chests and wooden beams – all lashed down with wire and rope. It would take hours to undo – and that’s the whole point. No plunderer would have the patience. We won’t dismantle it until ‘afterwards’, though no one can say when that will be.

What a crazy day! Anatol turned up after all, in the afternoon, this time on the passenger seat of a motorcycle. He showed me the bike, which was waiting downstairs along with the driver. He claimed that this really was his last visit, that he was being transferred out of Berlin along with the general staff. Where to? He wouldn’t say. Was it a German city? He just shrugged his shoulders and grinned. It’s all the same to me; I only want to know for sure if he’s going to be far away. The widow’s greeting amicable but measured. She sees things in terms of the larder, and prefers the major, who leaves more of a mark on her cupboard shelves.

I sit with Anatol on the edge of the bed and have him tell me all about ‘his’ motorcycle – he’s very proud of it. The door is blocked by the usual chair. But suddenly it’s pushed open, and Anatol looks up, annoyed. There’s the widow, all red in the face, her hair dishevelled. She squeezes inside, pursued by a Russian. I recognize him as the handsome Pole from Lvov, with the head wound from Stalingrad and the special talent for getting enraged. He looks like he’s on the verge of having a fit right now He immediately starts shouting, appealing to me as well as Anatol as referees: he’s young, what’s good for others is good for him too, it’s been a long time since he had a woman, the widow’s husband (meaning Herr Pauli, who’s having his afternoon nap in the next room) doesn’t need to know anything – it won’t take long at all! His eyes flash, he waves his fists, his hair is flying. He seems utterly convinced that the widow is his by right – her bits of field-hand Polish must have lodged in his ear and struck a chord in his heart. He even tries some on her now, tosses a few Polish words her way, all the while greatly agitated. The widow keeps wiping away the tears that are streaming down her face.

Anatol looks at me, then at the widow It’s clear he doesn’t want to have anything to do with this. He turns to me, saying it isn’t such a big deal, I should talk to the widow, everything will soon be over, she shouldn’t make trouble for herself. Then back to the Pole, waving him away: kindly leave me out of it, I’m in a hurry I have to go soon. And he makes as if to shove the chair back against the door. I whisper a few quick words to the widow, remind her of the head wound, the Pole’s tantrums. The man is capable of doing anything, goes crazy if he doesn’t get his way. Anatol will soon be gone, and won’t be able to help… Or does she want to wake Herr Pauli, so he can take care of the frenzied man from Lvov? She dismisses that idea. No, what for? And she cries. The Pole, once again calm, strokes her. Then they both disappear.

A quarter of an hour later the motorcycle rattles off with Anatol on the passenger seat. He looks back up at the apartment, sees me by the window and gives a lively wave. Then the bike vanishes round the corner.

The widow was angry and didn’t speak to me the whole afternoon. In the evening though, she told me what happened. Apparently the young devil turned out to be so tame and docile he was downright boring by the time he let her go. It seems he left her with a compliment. At first she didn’t want to reveal it, but finally she told us: ‘Ukrainian woman – like this. You – like this.’ The first ‘like this’ he illustrated with a circle formed by both his thumbs and forefingers, the second ‘like this’ with a single thumb and forefinger.

What else did the day bring? Another stair-victim, once again an older woman, about sixty; the younger ones don’t dare venture into the stairwell by day. This time it was one of the three dressmakers, the black pudding sisters. They’d heard that Anatol’s men had vacated their apartment, so they made their way into the abandoned rooms, escorted by our deserter. Together they fished a sewing machine out of the trash and general clutter and lugged it up two flights of stairs. Then one of the aunties went back down by herself to salvage some other sewing equipment – and ran right into the hands of a Russian. When the widow spoke with her it was nearly evening, and the dressmaker was still sobbing on the sofa in the booksellers’ apartment, surrounded by a whole bevy of women, moaning and groaning.

They got hold of the concierge’s youngest daughter as well, her mother told me today at the pump. At first the whole family – mother, two daughters, and the three-year-old grandson – had stayed hidden in the basement next door, which was well secured. But once people started saying that things were a little better with the Russians, the girls went back to their apartment on the first floor, to cook and do their wash. That’s where two drunken, singing heroes caught them by surprise. According to the mother they left the older sister alone. I’ve seen the girl in the meantime and I can understand why: she looks clinically emaciated, and her face is so small, her cheeks so hollow, that the outline of her skull shows through. Her mother whispered to me that the younger daughter had barricaded herself with cotton wool, though there was no real reason to, but the girls had heard that the Russians don’t like women at that time of month. It didn’t help. The men just howled with laughter as they tossed the stuff around the room and then took the sixteen-year-old on the chaise longue in the kitchen. ‘She’s doing well so far,’ her mother said, herself amazed. Even so, just to be safe, she took her daughter up to the booksellers’, where the widow says she’s been boasting to everyone how the Russians went straight for her without giving her older sister even a second glance.

One more person came to say goodbye: Andrei, the schoolteacher from Anatol’s group with the icy blue eyes. He sat with me a while at the table, talked about politics in his quiet, composed voice, gave me a lecture full of words like sotsialisticheski, kapitalisticheski, ekonomicheski. I listened quietly, mending my one and only towel and patching my violated garter. We’re starting to see a semblance of order again.

That evening we sat by Herr Pauli’s bed – the widow, the deserter’s wife and me, by candlelight. We gave the deserter’s wife one of our candles; she let us have a box of matches. The major showed up right on time, along with his chubby Uzbek shadow. He played on his little harmonica – a plundered German Hohner – wildly and full of fire. He even wound up asking his orderly to help him out of his soft leather boots and danced a Krakowiak in his socks, swinging his hips gracefully and lithely, fully aware of his talent, too. Then he danced a tango with the widow, while the rest of us sang a popular hit. After that he played some more, this time from Rigoletto and Il Trovatore – it’s amazing the music he can get out of that tiny mouth organ. His Uzbek didn’t take his pitch-black Mongol eyes off him for a second, and every now and then he’d voice his admiration in childlike, awkward Russian: ‘Oh, he is good. No one else like that.’ Finally the Uzbek let the major talk him into singing an Uzbek song, very nasal, very strange. After endless begging he also agreed to dance on his chunky legs. The deserter’s wife, a tough Berlin woman, drank the major’s wine and received his ceremonial bows. While he was dancing with the widow our guest whispered to me, ‘Well, for him I could flat out forget myself!’

The major stayed. A difficult night. His knee had swollen up from all the dancing and caused him a lot of pain. He groaned every time he moved. I scarcely dared stir. He left me alone completely. I slept deeply.