A Woman in Berlin

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!’

‘No, no.’ No, not at all, you can go right on being the way you are. I just can’t force myself into this role, to feel at ease so quickly. I have this repulsive sense of being passed from hand to hand; I feel humiliated and insulted, degraded into a sexual thing. And then once more the thought: And what if its true? What if Anatol really has disappeared? What if my taboo is gone, this wall I’ve taken such trouble to erect? Wouldn’t it be good to create a new taboo, one that might last a little longer. To build a new wall of defence?

The major takes off his belt and puts aside his jacket, all in slow motion, with sideways glances at me. I sit, wait, feel my palms sweating. I want to help him and I don’t want to. Then suddenly he says, ‘Please, give me your hand.’

I stare at him. More etiquette manual? Is he trying to grace me with a kiss on my hand? Or is he a palm reader? He takes my hand and clasps it firmly with both of his, then says, with pathetic eyes and trembling lips, ‘Forgive me. It’s been so long since I had a woman.’

He shouldn’t have said that. Next thing I know I’m lying with my face in his lap, sobbing and bawling and howling all the grief in my soul. I feel him stroking my hair. Then there’s a noise at the door. We both look up. The door is ajar, the widow is standing there holding a candle, asking anxiously what the matter is. The major and I both wave her away. She undoubtedly sees that nothing bad is being done to me, I hear the door dosing once again.

A little later, in the dark, I tell him how miserable and sore I am and ask him to be gentle. He is gentle and silently tender, is soon finished and lets me sleep.

That was my Tuesday, the first of May.