A Woman in Berlin : Eight Weeks in the Conquered City: A Diary (15 page)

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 alliances, 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: ‘Brot her, 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 Ang st
.’ Not to be afraid.

Frau Wendt whispers to the widow and me that this Russian is named Stepan. He lost his wife arid 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
Brother’s 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 woolen 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 bonafide bottle of the best German champagne! He places it on the stand next to Pauli’s bed, in the pool of candelight. 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 badgecovered 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 belief s, 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 clearly 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 woolen blankets. The lieutenant and the Asian push past me into the room. The lieutenant quickly pulls the door shut. Before it closes 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!’