A Woman in Berlin

The three of us advance into the room. A small Hindenburg lamp on the pantry is giving out its last light. Apart from that there’s a flickering gleam from a dying torch, swung by a Russian I’ve never seen before. The other man is Petka, no doubt about it, I can tell from his voice. Since the day before yesterday (hard to believe, but it really was just two days ago), his love for me has turned to hate. As soon as he catches sight of me, the spurned Siberian comes lunging my way. His bristles are standing on end (who knows where his cap is?). His small eyes are glistening. He’s dead drunk.

There’s a sewing machine in the corner next to the window. Petka picks the whole thing up by its locked cover and hurls it across the kitchen at me. The heavy piece goes crashing onto the tiles. I duck and call out to the orderly, ‘Go and get Anatol!’ Then I dash behind the other soldier, the one I don’t know who came in with Petka, beg him to help me ward off the drunken man. Petka starts swinging at me with his fists, but keeps missing because he’s so drunk. Then without warning he blows out the Hindenburg lamp. The torch battery dies as well; we’re completely in the dark. I hear Petka panting, smell the alcohol on his breath. I’m not frightened, not at all – I’m too busy trying to dodge him, trying to trip him, and I sense that I have allies near at hand. Finally we manage to manoeuvre him to the back door. The torch gives one or two final flashes. We shove Petka down the spiral staircase, hear him falling down several steps. As he stumbles he calls out to me how bad I am, nothing but filth, tells me to take my mother and…

It’s 1 a.m., so it’s already Tuesday – May Day. Exhausted, I plop down in the wing chair. The small orderly goes back out, this time to get Anatol for sure. I keep my ears pricked, doze a bit… The widow and Herr Pauli are bound to have gone to sleep a long time ago. But I don’t dare to, so I wait.

At last there’s a knock at the front door. It’s the orderly again, now loaded with bacon, bread, herring, a canteen full of vodka. Teetering with fatigue, I search the kitchen for some plates and glasses, then set the table with his help. The herring fillets are fully boned and daintily curled. I yawn. The orderly consoles me, Anatol will be right over.’

And he really does show up ten minutes later, along with the pale blond lieutenant, still limping on his German hiking pole. Anatol pulls me on his knee and yawns. ‘Ahhh, to sleep…’

No sooner have the four of us sat down to eat and drink than there’s another knock at the door. One of Anatol’s men, sent to bring Anatol and his orderly to their commander. Something seems to be going on, or maybe it has to do with the May Day celebration? Anatol sighs, gets up, goes out. The little orderly takes a hefty bite of bacon sandwich and follows his superior, still chewing.

They’re gone, leaving me alone with the blond lieutenant. Restless, he hobbles around the room leaning on his stick, sits back down, fixes me with his eyes. The candle is flickering. I’m so tired I nearly fall off my chair. I can’t think of a single word in Russian.

He gapes in front of him, announces that he wants to stay here. I start to show him to the back room. No, he wants to stay in this room. I put a blanket on the sofa. No, he wants the bed. He whines, on one note, stubborn, like an overly tired child. Fine, let him go ahead. I lie down on the sofa just as I am, fully dressed. No, I should go to bed with him. But I don’t want to. He starts to pester me on the sofa. I threaten with Anatol. He laughs crudely. ‘He won’t be coming back tonight.’

I get up to move to the front room, or in with the widow, somewhere. He gives in, says he’s content to take the sofa, wraps himself in the blanket. So I lie down on the bed and take off my shoes.

A little later I jump up, startled, hearing his pole tapping in the darkness, nearer and nearer. He’s back, wants to get into bed with me. I’m drunk with fatigue, I resist, babble something, that I don’t want to. With a dull, dogged, cheerless insistence, he refuses to give up, peevishly repeating, ‘But I’m young.’ He can’t be more than twenty.

Once, as I’m resisting, I manage to hit his wounded leg. He groans, curses me, takes a swing at me with his fist. Then he bends over the edge of the bed, feeling for something on the floor. A moment later I realize that he’s looking for his hiking pole, which he left next to the bed. A knobbly wooden stick. One blow on the head with that and I’m done for. I try to grasp his hands, pull him away from the edge of the bed. He starts trying to nuzzle me again. I say, keeping my voice low: ‘That’s just like a dog.’