A Woman in Berlin

Up again early and off to work in the clear morning. Women marching in from all directions. Today most brought their own dishes; I too had a soldier’s mess kit dangling from my belt. We lined up as ordered, first in rows of three, then four – after which they spent an interminable time counting, sorting and registering us. Our supervisor was the same Viennese man who had been in charge at the carts; they say he’s a musician. It took him nearly an hour to list all of us. Some women were new recruits. ‘Well, we have to work one way or the other,’ I heard one of them say. At least here we’ll get something to eat.’

Sure enough, we started off with some thick barley soup. Then we crossed over the railway embankment to the work halls, where we saw German prisoners slaving away – old men in shabby clothes, probably Volkssturm. They groaned as they lifted heavy gear wheel flanges onto the trains. They milled about alongside us, eyeing us intently. I didn’t catch on, but some others did, and slipped them bits of bread on the sly. That’s not allowed, but the Russian guard looked steadfastly the other way. The men were unshaven and emaciated, with the gaping eyes of wretched dogs. They didn’t look like Germans at all to me. They resembled the Russian POWs we used to see while the fighting was still on, the ones forced to clear rubble from the ruins. This, too, is a logical reversal.

Back in the hall. Our first task was to haul unwieldy iron bars, in groups of two or three, after that we passed rods and pieces of plate metal down the chain out to the freight wagon. A Russian came in, looked us over, waved two women aside and then a third. The third was me. We trotted after him. Where to? One of us speculated, ‘Maybe to peel potatoes?’ They’d already taken a dozen women to do exactly that out by the railway embankment where the Russian trailers with those fancy curtains are located.

No, he was taking us some place else, over to a dilapidated shack and down a dreary corridor where the faecal stench grew more and more unbearable. One woman decided to take off; she simply bolted back, cutting across the landing. After that the Russian made the two of us who were left march in front of him. He led us into a room with a stone floor. We saw a boiler, tubs, washboards, buckets. He pointed at the equipment and made a gesture of washing laundry.

That was fine with us, but not there in that hovel. The other woman, a pert little person with lively eyes, helped me drag the largest washtub outside the shed, onto a kind of porch. We felt safer there, and it didn’t stink so much. The Russian didn’t object. He brought us two pieces of hard soap and a number of previously white overalls, shirts and handkerchiefs, and signalled to us to wash them. Although his tone was curt, he wasn’t unfriendly, and he didn’t grope us in any way, not even with his eyes.

My fellow washerwoman revealed that she was from Danzig and exchanged a few snippets of Polish with the Russian. So much the better! That way I don’t have to talk, I can keep my Russian hidden. I don’t want to speak with them as a washerwoman.

Other soldiers kept coming over in groups, lounging around the washtubs and gossiping about us. Two of them debated how old we might be. After much back and forth they decided I was twenty-four: Not bad!

The hours crawled by. We soaped and rubbed and fetched warm water from the company kettle, cold water from the hydrant on the street. I rubbed my fingers raw on all the filthy clothing. The towels were rigid with grease. They were all monogrammed hand towels from German families – war booty. I scrubbed away with a hairbrush – quite a struggle. Meanwhile the Russians refused to leave us in peace, pinching us where they could. I batted them away like a horse switching at flies, and sprayed them with water from my hairbrush, but didn’t say a word. Now and then our boss came over and chased off the Romeos. Then he brought us some underwear – fastened with laces instead of buttons.

The whole time the woman from Danzig was telling me in a monotone how several Ivans went at her mother, who already has grandchildren. Using her Danzig Polish, she had asked if the men weren’t ashamed to rape such an old woman. To which they gave the classic answer, in German: ‘You old, means you healthy.’

I was on the verge of keeling over right at the washtub when our boss showed up and announced it was time for lunch. He brought each of us a mess tin full of rich, fatty soup with meat, cucumbers and bay leaves, and a tin plate of pea porridge well laced with bacon. It seems he is a cook, and a good one at that. The food tasted fabulous. I could feel my strength reviving.