A Woman in Berlin

Once again the officer speaks, calming the man down, slowly moving towards the door, and finally managing to get both men outside. The baker’s wife asks, hoarsely, Are they gone?’

I nod, but just to make sure I step out into the dark corridor. Then they have me. Both men were lying in wait.

I scream and scream… I hear the basement door shutting with a dull thud behind me.

One of them grabs my wrists and jerks me along the corridor. Then the other is pulling as well, his hand on my throat so I can no longer scream. I no longer want to scream, for fear of being strangled. They’re both tearing away at me, instantly I’m on the floor. Something comes clinking out of my jacket pocket, must be my key ring, with the key to the building. I end up with my head on the bottom step of the basement stairs. I can feel the damp coolness of the floor tiles. The door above is ajar, and lets in a little light. One man stands there keeping watch, while the other tears my underclothes, forcing his way—

I grope around the floor with my left hand, until I find my key ring. I hold it tight. I use my right hand to defend myself. It’s no use. He’s simply torn off my suspender belt, ripping it in two. When I struggle to come up, the second one throws himself on me as well, forcing me back on the ground with his fists and knees. Now the other keeps lookout, whispering: ‘Hurry up, hurry up.’

I hear loud Russian voices. Some light. The door opens. Two, three Russians come in, the last a woman in uniform. And they laugh. The second man jumps up, having been disrupted in the act. They both go out with the other three, leaving me lying there.

I pull myself up on the steps, gather my things, drag myself along the wall towards the basement door. They’ve locked it from the inside. ‘Open up,’ I say. ‘I’m all alone, there’s no one else.’

Finally the two iron levers open. Everyone stares at me. Only then do I realize how I look. My stockings are down to my shoes, my hair is dishevelled, I’m still holding on to what’s left of my suspender belt.

I start yelling. ‘You pigs! Here they rape me twice in a row and you shut the door and leave me lying like a piece of dirt!’ And I turn to leave. At first they’re quiet, then all hell breaks loose behind me, everyone talking at once, screaming, fighting, flailing about. At last a decision: ‘We’ll all go together to the commandant and ask for protection for the night.’

And so finally a small platoon of women, along with a few men, heads out into the evening twilight, into the mild air smelling of fire, over to where the commandant is said to be staying.

Outside it’s quiet. The guns are silent. A few men are sprawled in the entranceway – Russians. One of them gets up as we approach. Another mumbles, ‘They’re just Germans,’ and turns back over. Inside the courtyard I ask to speak to the commandant. A figure breaks away from the group of men standing in the door that leads to the rear wing of the building: ‘Yes, what do you want?’ He’s tall, with white teeth and the features of someone from the Caucasus.

He looks at the pitiful group of people come to complain and laughs, laughs at my stammering. ‘Come on, I’m sure they didn’t really hurt you. Our men are all healthy.’ He strolls back to the other officers, we hear them chuckling quietly. I turn to our grey assembly: ‘There’s no point.’

We leave and return to our basement. I don’t want to go back, don’t want to look at their faces any more. I climb upstairs, together with the widow, who’s hovering over me as if I were sick, speaking in hushed tones, stroking me, watching my every move to the point where it’s annoying. I just want to forget.

I undress in the bathroom – for the first time in days – and wash up as well as I can with the little water I have and brush my teeth in front of the mirror. Suddenly a Russian appears in the doorframe, as still as a ghost, pale and tender. ‘Where, please, the door?’ he asks in a quiet voice – in German, too. He’s evidently strayed into the apartment. Frozen in shock, wearing nothing but my nightgown, I point the way to the front door, leading to the stairwell, without saying a word. ‘Thank you,’ he says, politely.

I hurry into the kitchen. Yes, he broke in through the back door, which the widow had blocked off with a broom cupboard – he simply pushed it aside. The widow is just coming up the back stairs from the basement. Together we barricade the door again, this time more thoroughly, piling chairs in front and shoving in the heavy kitchen dresser for good measure. That should do it, says the widow. As always she bolts the front door and turns the lock twice. We feel a little secure.