A Woman in Berlin

MONDAY, 11 JUNE 1945

Another day to myself. I went to the police to try to get some kind of official permission to use the abandoned garden in the back of the burned-down house where Professor K., a dose colleague of mine used to live. I showed them a letter the old man had sent me from the Brandenburg Mark, where he had found refuge, asking me to look after his garden. I was sent from pillar to post. Nobody chimed to have the authority. Dingy cubbies with cardboard in the windows, musty smells, low-level bickering. Nothing has changed.

On the way home I picked my quota of nettles. I was very low on energy; my diet has no fat. There’s always this kind of wavy mist in front of my eyes, and I feel a floating sensation, as if I were getting lighter and lighter. Even writing this down takes effort, but at least it’s some consolation in my loneliness, a kind of conversation, a chance to pour my heart out. The widow told me she’s still having wild dreams of Russians. I haven’t had anything like that, probably because I’ve spewed everything onto paper.

My potato supply looks pretty grim. The rations they’ve given us have to last through to the end of July. We were forced to take them now, and anybody can smell the reason why: the tubers, which had just been dug out of the pit, are fermenting, so that half the potatoes are already a stinking mash. I can hardly stand the smell in the kitchen, but I’m afraid they’ll spoil even more quickly if I keep them on the balcony. What are we supposed to live on come July? What’s more, I’m worried about the gas stove. When there’s enough pressure in the gas line to use it, the pipes start banging like gunshots. And the electric cooker, patched up as it is, doesn’t want to run any more.

I have to guard the bread against myself. I’m already 100 grams into my next day’s ration – I can’t let that become a habit.