A Woman in Berlin

On the other hand, writing this makes me wonder why I’m being so moralistic and acting as if prostitution were so much beneath my dignity. After all, it’s an old, venerable line of work, practised in the highest social circles. Actually I’ve had only one conversation with a bona fide member of the profession. It was on a ship in the Mediterranean, not far off the coast of Africa; I had got up very early and was wandering the deck as the sailors were scrubbing the planks. Another woman was up as well, someone I didn’t recognize; she was plump, modestly dressed and smoking a cigarette. I joined her at the railing and started a conversation. She knew a little English and addressed me as ‘Miss’. Smiling she offered me a cigarette. Later the head steward informed me in a dramatic whisper that the woman was a ‘bad person’, that they’d had to take her along but only let her on deck early in the morning before the passengers were usually up. I never saw her again, but I can still see her plump, friendly, female face. What is that supposed to mean anyway – a bad person?

But morality aside, could I actually slip into that profession and still be pleased with myself? No, never. It goes against my nature, it wounds my self-esteem, destroys my pride – and physically it makes me miserable. So there’s no need to worry. I’ll be overjoyed to get out of this line of work, if that’s what I have to call my present activity, as soon as I can earn my bread in some more pleasant way, better suited to my pride.

Around 10 p.m. the major deposits his Uzbek in the room behind the kitchen. Then once again a belt rattles against the bedpost, a revolver dangles down, a soldier’s cap crowns the post. But the candle goes on burning, and we talk at length. That is, the major talks, telling me about his family and showing me some small snapshots he carries in his wallet.’ There’s one of his mother, who has wild, slanting black eyes against a white head of hair. She comes from the south of the country, where the Tatars settled ages ago; she married an ash-blond Siberian. Judging by appearance, the major takes after his mother, but now I realize that his general demeanour comes from this mix of northern and southern temperaments: his mercurial character, the alternation of speed and gravity, of fire and melancholy, the lyrical upswings and the sudden dark moods that follow. He was married but divorced a long time ago – he himself admits he was a difficult partner. No children, which is unusual for a Russian. I know this because they always ask if I have any, then shake their heads in wonder, amazed that there are so few children here and so many childless women. They also have a hard time accepting the fact that the widow has no children.

The major shows me one more photo, of a good-looking girl with scrupulously parted hair, the daughter of a Polish professor in whose house the major was billeted last winter.

He starts to grill me about my own situation, but I answer evasively, I don’t want to talk about that. Then he wants to know about my schooling, and is full of respect when I tell him about the Gymnasium and the languages I speak and my travels all across Europe. ‘You have good qualifications,’ he says, appreciatively. Then all of a sudden he wonders why German girls are all so slender, with no fat – had we really had that little to eat? And after that he starts going on about what it would be like if he took me back to Russia, if I were his wife, if I could meet his parents. He promises to fatten me up with chicken and cream; they used to live very well at his home before the war… I let him go on fantasizing. It’s clear how impressed he is by my ‘education’, though admittedly his Russian standards are pretty modest. My schooling makes me desirable in his eyes. That’s a far cry from our German men, for whom being well read does little to enhance a woman’s appeal, at least in my experience. In fact, my instinct has always been to play down my intelligence for them, to make a pretence of ignorance – or at least to keep quiet until I know them better. A German man always wants to be smarter, always wants to be in a position to teach his little woman. But that’s something Soviet men don’t know about – the idea of the little woman tending her cosy home. In the Soviet Union, education is highly valued; it’s so rare, so sought after and so much in demand that it has a special aura, particularly with the authorities. It also brings special pay, which is what the major is getting at when he explains to me that I would have no difficulty finding a ‘qualified job’ in his homeland. Thank you very much, I know you mean well, but I’ve had my fill of the Russian brand of schooling. Too many. And as soon as they’re finally over I intend to reclaim the evenings for myself.