The End of War - A Novel of the Race for Berlin - [World War II 02] (72 page)

No one can speak. It seems an act of courage to comment and none of the women is up to it, not even the old mouthy one. The street above is shed of gunfire. Now the world sounds ordinary, crisp with traffic and voices.

Freya stands. All the women’s chins lurch up as though they are tethered to Mutti. Only Lottie continues to gaze where the Red soldier stood.

“Come on,” Freya says, gripping Lottie under the arm, “come on.”

Lottie lets herself be towed up the steps. The women of the shelter stay put, there are no words of farewell, no wishes for luck.

The two emerge into the dry goods store. Days ago the shop was looted for its last bits of cloth and thread. Lottie and Mutti walk fast through empty shelves and broken glass. Mutti pushes open the door to dusk falling on the Savigny Platz. She gets a solid grip on Lottie’s hand.

The Soviet army is setting up camp in the plaza. Trucks come and go delivering men and supplies. Tents go up, stakes are driven between the cobblestones. A field kitchen already does a brisk business; a line of Russian soldiers waits with metal plates, smoke from a large brazier films the whole plaza. Well-groomed horses in livery are tethered to lampposts. Moseying up Knesebeck Strasse into the square is a herd of sheep and lowing cattle accompanied by horse- and ox-drawn carts. The Savigny Platz becomes a Russian barnyard.

Freya and Lottie stay close to the buildings, skirting the massing soldiers. The odors of the men and animals are tangs in Lottie’s nostrils. A Russian soldier strolls past them on the sidewalk carrying a pink summer parasol. He inclines his head.

Lottie laughs.

Freya hears this. Her squeeze on Lottie’s hand hardens. She quickens her pace until the two are at a trot out of the plaza. Lottie runs behind her mother, continuing to gawk at the conquerors of Berlin.

Most of the Russians don’t appear to have been in a city before. They can’t ride bicycles, trying and falling, jiggling the handlebars back and forth in awful balance. They complain when they get up, scraping knees like little boys. Many Reds stand with hands on hips looking at the ruins, as though the buildings are still intact and they’re just tourists marveling at Berlin’s architecture. One soldier stops them, rolling back his coat sleeve to display an arm mailed in watches. His whole arm ticks. He points at Mutti and Lottie, who do not have watches. The soldier shrugs, almost friendly, and waves them on. The two women are out of breath. They walk part of the way to Goethe Strasse, past soldiers defecating in alleys, shepherds of smelly goats and pigs, weapon-laden dirty men with women’s shawls lapping their shoulders. When Mutti can, she drags Lottie again into a run.

The Soviets have been heavy-handed in their battle for Charlottenburg. On some blocks the destruction is as bad as the aftermaths of the
Amis’
air raids, though the Russian demolition is of a different brand. Where the Allies’ bombs crushed entire structures to dust and rubble, the Reds have clawed into Charlottenburg. Buildings bear gaping holes hollowed by artillery, smaller bite marks range from several meters to the tinier mauls of bullets and shrapnel. For the first time the dead in Berlin’s streets are not civilians or foreign workers but soldiers. Freya and Lottie hurry past and notice the bodies are only German; the Reds have claimed theirs and left the defenders where they fell. The corpses are of every age, smooth boys and young soldiers and the elder
Volkssturm,
all men who thought they could make a difference, and have, for they are dead.

There is no single appearance to the Soviets. They are swarthy men, blond and fair, red-haired and freckled, olive-skinned, bearded and shaggy, or trimmed and neat. Their eyes are round or slanted or almond-shaped. Their uniforms are green, gray, brown, they wear dozens of hats and colorful caps and helmets. After years of Nazi tirades about the horrible Russians, these men simply look like foreign soldiers—ethnic, deadly, even a bit barbaric and out-of-date.

Lottie knows she must fear the invaders. She sees what their guns have done. German bodies in the road display the Russian resolve and cruelty. But Lottie in her heart has left Berlin, and the fear she senses of the Russians is the same she would feel if she were sitting safe in another land reading about Berlin. She worries for her city and her Mutti but not for herself. The Reds cannot touch her because she has protected herself, she is gone.

Freya leads Lottie back to Goethe Strasse. Reaching their block, Freya halts, bringing a flat hand to her breast at the sight of her spared house. There are marks of battle everywhere. The Russians’ indiscriminate shelling has left smoke rising from many buildings. Freya’s home is in the center of a row of attached stone faces that has withstood the assault. She tows Lottie to her steps. Soviet soldiers are on the street, walking with guns and heads lifted, searching rooftops and high windows for snipers. Apparently the fight for this block has ended just minutes before. Brass casings litter Freya’s steps. An upstairs window has been blasted out. One bullet hole is in the door.

“Ach,”
Mutti sighs, ”dear God.” She turns to Lottie. “We’re home. I was so worried.”

Lottie is curious, not angry at the suggestion. She asks, “About Julius?”

Mutti cocks her head. Her smile is slow, reluctant. It is honest.

“Yes,
Liebchen.”

Still hand-in-hand they walk into the house.

In the parlor Mutti lets Lottie go.

“Wait here.”

Freya walks down the long hall to the yellow door. Lottie cannot hear what her mother says to the Jew. But her mother speaks, then listens, so he is still there.

Freya returns to the front room carrying a straight-backed kitchen chair. In her other hand is a towel and a pair of scissors. Tucked under her arm is a broom.

She sets the chair in the middle of the room.

“Sit down.”

Lottie takes the seat. The towel is wrapped around her shoulders.

Mutti stands in front of Lottie. The two say nothing, though Mutti’s eyes express, I’m sorry, I have to do this. Lottie does not let her own face convey anything.

Freya walks behind Lottie. The scissors snip. A lock flutters to Lottie’s lap. She brushes it away with the back of her hand.

With every rasp of the shears another soft cascade tumbles off Lottie’s shoulders. Her blond curls pile on the parlor rug. Gazing down at them, she refuses the tug of metaphor. Spilled gold. Lost innocence. The hair falls with no sound or impact, it is not a momentous thing. It’s just hair, she thinks. Why make up images, why see or feel more than you have to?

Freya is glum at her work, chopping her daughter’s hair back to a boy’s crew cut. At first there is no talk between them, just the slice of the scissors. Mutti clucks her tongue when she exposes the scab on the back of Lottie’s head from the iron gates of the Zoo.

Halfway through the cut, Lottie notes the pace of the shears speed up. Mutti seems to clip with agitation, flinging bits of her daughter’s hair to the floor.

Mutti says, “Lottie, when we’re finished, I want you to go upstairs and put on some old work clothes. There’s a pair of baggy pants and some sweaters in your dresser. I have a pair of boots for you too. You’ll put them on and keep them on.”

Lottie makes no answer.

Snip.

Freya continues.

“I’m going to burn a cork. We can smear it on your face and hands.”

Snip.

“Then we’ll hide the silver and the good picture frames. And my rings. There’s a little food left, we’ll put that away somewhere.”

Lottie feels the weight falling from her head.

She says, “It doesn’t matter.”

Next to her ear the scissors make an angry cut.

Mutti’s tone is taut. “Don’t fight me on this, Lottie. Do as I say.”

Lottie repeats, “It doesn’t matter.”

One more snip, and Freya stomps her foot. She marches in front, shaking the scissors in Lottie’s face.

“You have got to snap out of this! Right now! You’ve got to stop being so selfish. I can’t fight you every step of the way. I can’t bear any more.”

Lottie focuses on the point of the scissors. Freya lowers them. She stops herself from saying more and moves behind her daughter to finish the haircut.

The shears snip for several minutes.

Mutti speaks again, this time in a restrained voice, not to kindle an argument.

“I want you to hide. I want you to go upstairs and find a place.”

“No.”

Freya continues as though she did not hear.

“Go down in the basement with Julius. I’ll keep them from looking for you.

Lottie hawks up a laugh.

“How do you expect to do that?”

Mutti does not answer.

Lottie shakes her head. This stops Freya from cutting.

Lottie says, ”No, it doesn’t matter. Hide everything in the house. They’ll find what they want anyway. They’ll look, they’ll tear the house apart until they do.”

Mutti strides again in front of Lottie.

Lottie runs fingers through her butchered hair. She makes her voice gentle for her fraying mother.

“They’ll find me.”

Freya takes a step forward. Her hands rise to cup Lottie’s chin, the scissors come close to her face. Her mother draws a breath, it becomes a shudder. Freya shakes her head in solemn motion.

“I know,
Liebchen.
I know.”

Mutti rubs a palm over Lottie’s shorn head. There’s little left on her scalp but bristles.

“Ach,
your hair.”

“It’ll grow back.”

“I’m finished,” Mutti says. “I can only make it worse.”

Mutti takes her daughter’s hand. The two look at each other in silence. Though they’re alone, the parlor feels crowded by the Jew, the Russians, the war, the future.

Freya grows teary.

“I’ll cut mine too,” she says. “That’ll make it up to you.”

“You don’t have to.”

Freya takes the towel from around Lottie’s shoulders. She shakes it out on the floor.

“I’ll sweep up.”

“Mutti?”

“Yes,
Liebchen?”

“How will you keep them away from the basement?”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m an old woman.”

Freya grabs the broom and begins to clean the carpet. Lottie asks again, “How?”

Freya stops. She faces her daughter.

Lottie changes her mind. She rattles her head and looks down to her lap.

“No, Mutti. Don’t tell me. It doesn’t matter.”

Freya clings to the broom.

“Stop saying that. It does. Now more than ever, when it seems like everything hurts. This is when we matter most.”

Freya leans the broom against the parlor sofa. She stands erect, preparing herself. She smooths her hands down her dress.

“The food I’ve been bringing home the last few months. Since Julius moved into the basement. You know the ration cards were never enough.”

“I know.”

“I will never let the two of you starve.”