A Woman in Berlin : Eight Weeks in the Conquered City: A Diary (30 page)

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.

We went on washing for an eternity. 2p.m., 3p.m., 4p.m., 5p.m., 6p.m. We washed without a break, under constant supervision. We soaped the clothes and wrung them out and fetched water. Our feet ached; our knuckles were close to bleeding. The Russians watching us enjoyed the spectacle; they rubbed their hands in gleeful revenge, thinking they’d really got to us with the washing. ‘Ha ha ha, now you have to wash for us, serves you right!’ The woman from Danzig merely grinned. I played deaf and dumb, smiled all around, and washed and washed. The men were amazed. I heard one say to another, ‘They work well. Always cheerfully, too.’

We dragged out the work on the last hand towels until it was 6p.m., then cleaned the washtubs and wandered over to the canteen, where everyone was given a dollop of mush. After that all the women started to head home, us included, but when we reached the gate the guards chased us back, crying, ‘
Rabota!
’ The women started screaming all at once and pushed their way to the gate, ready to mutiny. But the eight-hour day doesn’t apply to the vanquished. A soldier pushed at us, brandishing his rifle and calling out threateningly: ‘Woman!
Rabota!
’ That’s one Russian word everyone’s learned by now.

Everyone had to return to the hall and load more iron parts. Silent and worn out, we passed one another the rods and plates. Handling cold iron when your hands have been washing all day hurts something fierce.

Finally, towards 8p.m., our overseer called out that the freight wagon was full. That was an understatement: it groaned when the locomotive hauled it away. Perhaps the floor will give way before the train reaches Moscow. One old worker, who’d been sitting on top of the car, jumped off as it was moving. He claimed they should have let him stay right where he was so he could go with the rest of the transport; after all, ‘What’s left for us here?’ And he pointed at the hall, deserted and stripped bare. ‘Where are our husbands going to work now?’ the women asked.

An hour later I was home, dead tired this time, with hands so stiff I don’t feel much like writing. At the same time I’m still a little intoxicated by the rich meal and the size of the portions. Tomorrow we go on washing; our boss already informed us that there’s more laundry waiting.

SATURDAY, 26 MAY 1945

Once again the cattle count at the factory yard took forever, though our Viennese should have mastered it by now. And once again the day started off with some hot barley soup; the women were pleased to see whole pieces of meat. And I’m happy not to have Herr Pauli keeping track of every bite I put in my mouth.

In vain I looked around for my co-washer, but the small, pert woman from Danzig didn’t show up. So I persuaded two other women - one very young, the other around forty, both friendly looking - to join me at the washtubs. The uniforms were waiting, having already been put to soak. They were covered in oil stains, since this is a motorized unit.

The day passed just like yesterday. The new washerwomen were nice and hard-working. Once again the Russians crowded round us. We fended them off with our elbows and silly laughter. One slit-eyed individual was determined to provoke us. He took a few tunics already hanging on the line to dry and tossed them back in the tub, pointing out several stains that were still visible. Of course the stains were still there. The pitiful bit of soap we had wasn’t enough, and all our brushing couldn’t make up for that. Other men were friendlier, placing pieces of bread next to their tunics.

Towards noon our boss rigged up a kind of dining room in front of the building, consisting of a crate and two overturned drawers. He asked us to sit down and served us a large pot of the rich stew - always with the same friendly but deadpan expression. We sat in the sun and took our time eating, enjoying the meal greatly. Both my fellow washers gave evasive answers to my usual question about how often it had happened to them. The older of the two, a spirited woman with bad teeth but humour very much intact, said that it was all the same to her - as long as her husband didn’t find out about it when he came back from the western front. Apart from that she subscribes to the saying, ‘Better a Russki on top than a Yank overhead.’ She’s in a position to know, too; her building was hit head on and she and the other residents who had retreated to the basement were buried in rubble. Several people were wounded and one was killed. It took two hours for help to arrive and dig them out. She became very agitated when she started speaking about the person killed, an old woman. ‘She was sitting by the wall, right in front of a mirror.’ The builders had hung the mirrors low because the basement was originally intended as a shelter for the children from the kindergarten housed in the ramshackle building next door. When children were evacuated from Berlin, the kindergarten was closed and the basement was freed up for the people in the building. ‘The mirror exploded into a thousand pieces, which flew right into the old woman’s back and neck and head. And in the dark and with all the to-do, no one noticed she was quietly bleeding to death.· Still outraged, she waved her soup spoon in the air. ‘Fancy that, a mirror.’

An amazing death, no doubt about it. Presumably the children for whom the basement shelter was designed were supposed to comb their little locks in front of the mirrors each morning after the nightly air raid - a luxury clearly installed back when the raids first started, back when the shelters still offered a measure of comfort as well as confidence.

We scrubbed the afternoon away, rubbing tunics, trousers and caps with our wrinkled, swollen hands. Around 7p.m. we were able to sneak out onto the street through a side gate. A wonderful feeling of freedom - a combination of finally getting off work and playing truant.

At home the widow, Herr Pauli, and I drank what was left of the burgundy r d stolen from the police barracks. Tomorrow is Sunday, but not for me. The Viennese gave a little speech today, the gist of which was that if we didn’t show up for work tomorrow, they would come to our apartments and take us to the factory by force.

SUNDAY, 27 MAY 1945

A long, bleak and weary day, the longest Sunday of my life. We worked without stopping in the factory yard from eight in the morning until eight in the evening. No laundry today. Our Russians have the day off. We stood in a chain across the yard, passing zinc ingots and sharp jagged bits from hand to hand while the sun beat down us without mercy. Our chain, which spanned about a hundred yards, was stretched thin, so that you always had to carry the heavy metal two or three steps to hand it to the next woman. My head was soon aching from the sun. On top of that my back hurt and my hands were still raw from all the washing.

At first there was just stupid gossiping and bickering on all sides, until finally a kind of singing started up, more like a droning, the same verse over and over: ‘Shine on, dear sun, we don’t give a whit, the mayor is sitting and taking a sh- Shine on, dear sun...’ And on and on. That’s how the women vented their anger over their stolen Sunday.

Every now and then a tall bony woman would reach into some cranny of her undergarments, fish out a wristwatch wrapped in a handkerchief and announce the time. The hours crept by, interrupted only by a hasty serving of gruel.

Back into the shadeless blaze. Zinc, more zinc, and no end in sight. By around 4p.m. we had filled the first freight wagon until it was gleaming silver. Then with a ‘heave-ho’ we shoved the wagon a way up the track, and rolled the next one into place, a French wagon from Bordeaux with the SNCF lettering I knew so well. It gave off a horrible stench -the men had used it as a latrine. The women laughed. One of them called out, ‘Looks like the shit’s being freighted to Moscow as well.’

Onwards, no end of zinc. Finally even our two overseers grew bored. We know them pretty well by now. We call one ‘Teddy’ and the other ‘Squint’. Today they weren’t as strict as usual; twice they even shouted thelovely word ‘Break’. Squint went so far as to risk a dance with one of our girls while the rest of us clapped time. Both soldiers suddenly disappeared around 5p.m. But just because they were off duty didn’t mean we were, unfortunately. All at once the whole place was unnaturally quiet -no shouts driving us on, no chatter, no moaning, nothing at all. Only the grating of our feet and the occasional weak cry of ‘Watch out’ when one of the women dozed off. And of course someone was always asking what time it was.

Word came from the basement - where the women were also on their feet all day - that the masses of zinc ingots still stored there were inexhaustible. Around 7p.m. we heard a rumour that we were done for the day, but that proved false. Zinc, zinc and more zinc... Finally, at 8p.m., a Russian showed up and waved us over to the canteen. We gulped down the rich soup and trudged home. I was keeling over, my hands were dark grey. When I washed up, the water was full of thick grey flakes. I lay down for a bit and let the widow pamper me with tea and cake.

The electricity is back on as of yesterday. The time of candles is over, now people can ring instead of knocking - the quiet has come to an end. The Berlin station is broadcasting on the radio, generally news reports and disclosures that reek of blood, corpses and atrocities. They say that millions of people - mostly jews - were cremated in huge camps in the east and that their ashes were used for fertilizer. On top of that everything was supposedly carefully recorded in thick ledgers - a scrupulous accounting of death. We really are an orderly nation. Late in the evening they played Beethoven, and that brought tears. I turned it off. Who can bear that at this moment?

MONDAY, 28 MAY 1945

Back in the laundry. Today our I vans were in particularly high spirits. They pinched and pawed us and repeated their standard offer in German: ‘Bacon and eggs, sleep at your home,’ and then, just to make sure we understood, they rested their heads on their arms like Raphaelesque angels.

Bacon and eggs -we could certainly use those. But delicious as the prospect was, there were no takers as far as I could see. And rape seems pretty much out of the question, here in the wide-open factory yard in broad daylight with so many people milling about. People are busy everywhere you look, there’s no quiet comer to be had. That’s why the boys add the bit about where they’ll sleep -what they want are willing, bacon-craving girls who’ll take them home. I’m sure there are plenty who fit that description here in the factory, but they’re also afraid and fear is an effective damper.

Once again we washed tunics, shirts, and handkerchiefs, one of which turned out to be a little rectangular bed-sidetable cover, hemmed in red and embroidered with the cross-stitched words, ‘Sleep Well’. For the first time in my life I was washing handkerchiefs sneezed in by strangers. Was I nauseated by the enemy snot? Yes, even more than by the underwear - I had to struggle not to gag.

Evidently my fellow launderers didn’t have the same reaction - they went on washing with great vigour. By now I’ve come to know both of them fairly well. Little nineteen-year-old Gerti, gentle, reflective - half-whispered a confession involving all kinds of amorous mishaps. One boyfriend left her; another fell in the war... I steered the conversation to the end of April. Finally, her eyelids lowered, she described how three Russians had hauled her out of the basement into a stranger’s apartment on the ground floor, threw her on a sofa and had their way with her - first one after the other, then in no particular order. Afterwards, the three of them turned into pranksters. They rummaged through the kitchen, but all they found was some marmalade and coffee substitute - in other words, the typical pantry fare at that time. Laughing, they spooned the jam onto Gerti’s hair, and once her head was covered they sprinkled it generously with coffee substitute.