A Woman in Berlin

TUESDAY, 15 MAY 1945

The usual tedious housework. Two roofers are stomping around in the attic apartment, which I entered for the first time since the Russians invaded. They’re getting paid in bread and cigarettes. I can tell that the Russians never made it up here because the floors are covered with a fine layer of plaster dust that shows every footprint, and it was untouched when I let in the roofers. Presumably I could have held out up here, if I’d had enough water and food – an undisturbed Sleeping Beauty. But I’m sure I would have gone crazy, all alone like that.

Once again we all have to report to the Rathaus. Today was the day for people with my last initial. The street was unusually crowded at registration time. A man in the Rathaus lobby was chiselling away the relief of Adolf. I watched the nose come splintering off What is stone, what are monuments? An iconoclastic wave such as we have never seen is currently surging through Germany. A new twilight of the gods – is it remotely possible that the big Nazis could ever rise again after this? As soon as I’ve freed my mind a little I really have to turn my attention to Napoleon; after all, he too was banished in his day, only to be brought back and glorified once more.

We had to go up to the third floor and wait in line. The corridor was pitch-dark, packed with women you could hear but not see. A conversation in front of me had to do with planting asparagus, a task several women had been assigned to do. That wouldn’t be so bad. The two women behind me were well-bred ladies, judging from their speech. One said: ‘You know, I was completely numb. I’m very small there; my husband always took that into consideration.’ Apparently she’d been raped repeatedly and attempted to poison herself. Then I heard her say, ‘I didn’t realize it at the time, but I later learned that your stomach has to have enough acid inside for the stuff to work. I couldn’t keep it down.’

‘And now?’ the other asked, quietly.

‘Well – life goes on. The best part was over anyway. I’m just glad my husband didn’t have to live through this.’

Once again I have to reflect on the consequences of being alone in the midst of adversity. In some ways it’s easier, not having to endure the torment of someone else’s suffering. What must a mother feel seeing her girl devastated? Probably the same as anyone who truly loves another but either cannot help them or doesn’t dare to. The men who’ve been married for many years seem to hold up best. They don’t look back. Sooner or later their wives will call them to account though. But it must be bad for parents – I can understand why whole families would cling together in death.

The registration was over in a flash. We all had to say which languages we know. When I confessed to my bit of Russian, I was given a paper requiring me to report tomorrow morning to Russian headquarters as an interpreter.

I spent the evening preparing lists of words, and realized how paltry my command of the language really is. After that I ended my day with a visit to the lady from Hamburg downstairs. Stinchen, the eighteen-year-old student, has finally come down from the crawl space. The scars from the flying rubble have healed. She played the part of the well-bred daughter from a good home perfectly, carrying a pot of real tea from the kitchen and listening politely to our conversation. Apparently our young girl who looks like a young man also managed to come through safely. I mentioned that I’d seen her in the stairwell last night. She was arguing with another girl, someone in a white sweater, tanned and quite pretty, but vulgar and unbridled in her swearing. Over tea I found out that it was a jealous spat: the tanned girl had taken up with a Russian officer – in time more or less voluntarily – drinking with him and accepting food. This evidently irked her young friend, who is an altruistic kind of lover, constantly giving the other girl presents and doing this and that for her over the past several years. We discussed all of this calmly and offhandedly over a proper tea. No judgement, no verdict. We no longer whisper. We don’t hesitate to use certain words, to voice certain things, certain ideas. They come out of our mouths casually, as if we were channelling them from Sirius.