I scream and scream… I hear the basement door shutting with a dull thud behind me.
One of them grabs my wrists and jerks me along the corridor. Then the other is pulling as well, his hand on my throat so I can no longer scream. I no longer want to scream, for fear of being strangled. They’re both tearing away at me, instantly I’m on the floor. Something comes clinking out of my jacket pocket, must be my key ring, with the key to the building. I end up with my head on the bottom step of the basement stairs. I can feel the damp coolness of the floor tiles. The door above is ajar, and lets in a little light. One man stands there keeping watch, while the other tears my underclothes, forcing his way—
I grope around the floor with my left hand, until I find my key ring. I hold it tight. I use my right hand to defend myself. It’s no use. He’s simply torn off my suspender belt, ripping it in two. When I struggle to come up, the second one throws himself on me as well, forcing me back on the ground with his fists and knees. Now the other keeps lookout, whispering: ‘Hurry up, hurry up.’
I hear loud Russian voices. Some light. The door opens. Two, three Russians come in, the last a woman in uniform. And they laugh. The second man jumps up, having been disrupted in the act. They both go out with the other three, leaving me lying there.
I pull myself up on the steps, gather my things, drag myself along the wall towards the basement door. They’ve locked it from the inside. ‘Open up,’ I say. ‘I’m all alone, there’s no one else.’
Finally the two iron levers open. Everyone stares at me. Only then do I realize how I look. My stockings are down to my shoes, my hair is dishevelled, I’m still holding on to what’s left of my suspender belt.
I start yelling. ‘You pigs! Here they rape me twice in a row and you shut the door and leave me lying like a piece of dirt!’ And I turn to leave. At first they’re quiet, then all hell breaks loose behind me, everyone talking at once, screaming, fighting, flailing about. At last a decision: ‘We’ll all go together to the commandant and ask for protection for the night.’
And so finally a small platoon of women, along with a few men, heads out into the evening twilight, into the mild air smelling of fire, over to where the commandant is said to be staying.
Outside it’s quiet. The guns are silent. A few men are sprawled in the entranceway – Russians. One of them gets up as we approach. Another mumbles, ‘They’re just Germans,’ and turns back over. Inside the courtyard I ask to speak to the commandant. A figure breaks away from the group of men standing in the door that leads to the rear wing of the building: ‘Yes, what do you want?’ He’s tall, with white teeth and the features of someone from the Caucasus.
He looks at the pitiful group of people come to complain and laughs, laughs at my stammering. ‘Come on, I’m sure they didn’t really hurt you. Our men are all healthy.’ He strolls back to the other officers, we hear them chuckling quietly. I turn to our grey assembly: ‘There’s no point.’
We leave and return to our basement. I don’t want to go back, don’t want to look at their faces any more. I climb upstairs, together with the widow, who’s hovering over me as if I were sick, speaking in hushed tones, stroking me, watching my every move to the point where it’s annoying. I just want to forget.
I undress in the bathroom – for the first time in days – and wash up as well as I can with the little water I have and brush my teeth in front of the mirror. Suddenly a Russian appears in the doorframe, as still as a ghost, pale and tender. ‘Where, please, the door?’ he asks in a quiet voice – in German, too. He’s evidently strayed into the apartment. Frozen in shock, wearing nothing but my nightgown, I point the way to the front door, leading to the stairwell, without saying a word. ‘Thank you,’ he says, politely.
I hurry into the kitchen. Yes, he broke in through the back door, which the widow had blocked off with a broom cupboard – he simply pushed it aside. The widow is just coming up the back stairs from the basement. Together we barricade the door again, this time more thoroughly, piling chairs in front and shoving in the heavy kitchen dresser for good measure. That should do it, says the widow. As always she bolts the front door and turns the lock twice. We feel a little secure.
A tiny flame is flickering on the Hindenburg lamp, casting our overlarge shadows on the ceiling. The widow has set up a place for me in her living room, on the sofa bed. For the first time in ages we didn’t let down the blackout blinds. What for? There won’t be any more air raids this Friday night, not for us, we’re already Russian. The widow perches on the edge of my bed and is just taking off her shoes when all at once we hear a clatter and din.
Poor back door, pitifully erected bulwark. It’s already crashing down, the chairs tumbling against the floor tiles. Scraping of feet and shoving and several rough voices. We stare at each other. Light flickers through a crack in the wall between the kitchen and the living room. Now the steps are in the hall. Someone pushes in the door to our room.
One, two, three, four men. All heavily armed, with machine guns on their hips. They look at the two of us briefly without saying a word. One of them walks straight to the chest, rips open the two drawers, rummages around, slams them back, says something dismissive and stomps out. We hear him going through the next room, where the widow’s tenant used to live before he was drafted into the Volkssturm. The three others stand around murmuring among themselves, sizing me up with stolen glances. The widow slips back into her shoes, whispering to me that she’s going to run upstairs for help from the other apartments. Then she’s gone; none of the men stop her.
What am I to do? Suddenly I feel insanely comical, standing there in front of three strange men in nothing but my candypink nightgown with its ribbons and bows. I can’t stand it any longer, I have to say something, do something. Once again I ask in Russian, Shto vy zhelaete?’
They spin around. Three bewildered faces, the men lose no time in asking: ‘Where did you learn Russian?’
I give them my speech, explain how I travelled across Russia, drawing and photographing, at such and such a time. The three warriors plop down in the armchairs, set aside their guns and stretch their legs. As we chat, I keep my ear cocked for any noise in the hallway, waiting for the widow to return with the neighbours and the promised help. But I hear nothing.
Meanwhile the fourth soldier comes back and leads number three into the kitchen. I hear them busy with the dishes. The other two speak quietly to each other, evidently I’m not supposed to understand. The mood is strangely restrained. Something is in the air, a spark, but where will it land?
The widow doesn’t come back. I try to draw the two men into conversation again, as I get under my quilt, but nothing comes of it. They look at me askance and shift around. That’s a sign things are about to happen – I read about it in the papers, when there still were some – ten or twenty times, what do I know. I feel feverish. My face is burning.
Now the other two men call them from the kitchen, and they get up clumsily and stroll over there. I crawl out of bed, very quietly, put my ear to the kitchen door and listen a moment. They’re obviously drinking. Then I slink down the pitch-dark corridor, silently, on bare feet, grab my coat off the hook and pull it on over my nightgown.
I cautiously open the front door, which the widow has left unbolted. I listen at the stairwell, silent and black. Nothing. Not a sound, not a shimmer of light. Where could she have gone? I’m just about to go up the stairs when one of the men grabs me from behind. He’s sneaked up without a sound.
Huge paws. I can smell the alcohol. My heart is hopping like crazy. I whisper, I beg: ‘Only one, please, please, only one. You, as far as I’m concerned. But kick the others out.’