A Woman in Berlin

WEDNESDAY, 30 MAY 1945

Our last washday. Starting tomorrow we’re free, all of us. The Russians were tying up their bundles, the air was full of imminent departure. Inside the shed they’d lit a fire under the washboiler, because some officer wanted to take a bath. The others scrubbed themselves in the open, using bowls they set on chairs, and rubbing their broad chests with wet hand towels.

Today I made a conquest. Using gestures and broken German, our amorous young pursuers led me to understand that ‘that one’ was in love with me and was willing to do anything I wished, if I would… ‘That one’ turned out to be a tall, broad soldier, with a peasant’s face and innocent blue eyes; his temples were already greyed. When I glanced his way he averted his eyes, but then moved a few tiny steps closer, took the heavy bucket of water from me and carried it over to the tub. An entirely new model! What a brilliant idea – to think it never occurred to any of the others. I was even more surprised when he spoke to me in perfect, Russian-free German: ‘We’re leaving tomorrow, somewhere far away from here.’ Moreover he pronounces his ‘h’ like ‘h’ and not ‘Ich’ – he says ‘here’ and not ‘khere’. I figured out right away that he was an ethnic German from the Volga basin, one of the Volga-Germans. Yes, he comes from the Volga region, and German was his slightly rusty mother tongue. He followed me round the whole day, with friendly fatherly eyes. He wasn’t the pinching type, more on the shy side, a farmer. But he had this fawning, doglike look in his eyes that he used to express any number of things. As long as he was near me, the men by the washtubs refrained from pinching and jostling.

Once again the three of us worked like slaves. Little Gerti was in fine spirits, warbling away. She’s happy because as of today she’s sure there won’t be any little Russian, from back then on the sofa – which makes me think about the fact that I’m a week late now Even so I’m not worried; I still believe in my inner No.

But happy Gerti had bad cramps. We tried to help her a bit, washing some of her things. The day was grey and humid; the hours passed very slowly. Towards evening the Russians trickled in to pick up their clothes, which had dried in the meantime. One of them took out a dainty lady’s handkerchief with a crocheted hem, held it to his heart, rolled his eyes romantically and spoke a single word, and – the name of a place landsberg’. Looks to me like another Romeo. Perhaps Petka, too, will one day press his lumberjack paws to his heart, roll his eyes and murmur my name unless of course he’s still cursing me with every chop of the axe.

In all the chaos of departure the cook didn’t serve us from his own shores today; we had to report to the canteen and slurp down the barley soup. There the word was going round that we’d never see the 8 marks per day we’d been promised, that the Russians were taking all the money with them. Then there was a second, even wilder rumour on top of that. Supposedly the radio had warned of a Mongolian horde about to pour into Berlin, men so fierce even Stalin was unable to keep them in check and had been forced to grant them three days’ of freedom to plunder and rape, and had advised all women to hide in their homes. Utter nonsense, of course. But the women believed it and kept jabbering and moaning, all worked up, until our interpreter intervened. A battleaxe of a woman who addresses everyone with the familiar form and sings the same tune as our overseers, even though she was sent here to do forced work just like the rest of us. She wangled her position thanks to her scanty bits of Russian (she’s from Polish Upper Silesia). Well, I passed her level of ability long ago, but I’m very glad I didn’t let them know it. I would have hated having to translate all the orders and shouts of our taskmasters. The whole group is afraid of the woman. She has pointy canine teeth and a piercing, malicious gaze – exactly how I imagine a female guard in a concentration camp.

In the evening they announced in the canteen that we were being dismissed. They also told us we could pick up our pay next week – room number such-and-such in the town hall. Maybe it will be there, maybe it won’t. I shook hands with little Gerti and the other woman – gingerly, since the three of us are very sore – and wished them all the best. Gerti wants to go back to Silesia, where her parents live. Or lived. No one knows anything for sure.