Absolute chaos below: wooden partitions battered down, locks torn off, trunks slit open and trampled. We stumble over things that don’t belong to us, tread on laundry that’s still clean and crisply creased. We hold up a candle stump to light our corner, salvage this and that a few towels, a side of bacon on the string. The widow complains that the big trunk with all her best clothes is missing. In the corridor she dumps out someone else’s suitcase that’s been slit open and starts filling it with the few things she has left, using her hands to shovel flour that’s spilled on the floor, as if she’s lost her mind. Left and right the neighbours rummage about by flickering candlelight. Shrill cries and wailing. Eider down whirls through the air, the place reeks of spilled wine and excrement.
We drag our things upstairs. Andrei is clearly embarrassed about the looting. He consoles us by saying that he’s sure they were only looking for alcohol, and that even though everything else has been turned upside down there shouldn’t be anything missing. Then, half in Russian, half in German, Vanya the Child, who has shown up in the meantime as well, promises the widow with a serious expression in his black eyes, that he’ll go with us in the morning when it’s daylight and stay by our side until we’ve found everything that belongs to us.
The widow cries, sobbing afresh each time she recalls a specific item from her trunk – her good suit, her knitted dress, her well-made shoes. I, too, am despondent. We have no rights; we’re nothing but booty, dirt. We unload our rage on Adolf. Anxiously we ask where the front is, when there will be peace.
While we whisper among ourselves at Herr Pauli’s bed, where he retreated once again after eating his midday meal, Andrei holds a war council with his comrades at the mahogany table. Suddenly all the window casements fly open, pieces of cardboard whiz through the room, an explosion throws me against the opposite wall. Something crunching, grinding, then a cloud of dust in the room… and a wall comes crashing down somewhere outside. As we learn from a neighbour half an hour later, a German mortar shell hit the house next door, wounding several Russians and killing a horse. We find the animal in the courtyard the next morning – the meat neatly removed and lying on a bloody sheet, the fatty entrails coiled on the wet red earth beside it.
Exactly how the evening passed escapes me at the moment. Presumably alcohol, bread, herring, canned meat, coitus, Anatol. Now I have it: a whole tableful of Russians, known and unknown. They keep pulling out their watches, comparing the time, the Moscow time they brought with them, which is an hour ahead of ours. One of the men has a thick old turnip of a watch, an East Prussian brand, with a shiny yellow, highly concave dial. Why are they so fixated on watches? It’s not because of the monetary value; they don’t ogle rings and earrings and bracelets the same way at all. They’ll overlook them if they can lay their hands on another watch. It’s probably because in their country watches aren’t available for just anyone and haven’t been for a long time. You have to really be somebody before you can get a wristwatch, that is, before the state allots you something so coveted. And now they’re springing up like radishes ripe for the picking, in undreamt-of abundance. With every new watch, the owner feels an increase in power. With every watch he can present or give away back home, his status rises. That must be it. Because they can’t distinguish a cheap watch from an expensive one. They prefer the ones with bells and whistles – stopwatches, or a revolving face beneath a metal case. A gaudy picture on the dial also attracts them.
I look at the men’s hands resting on our table, and felt a sudden twinge of disgust at their bald show of strength. What is clinging to those hands? I chase the feeling down with some brandy. They shout, ‘Vypit’ nado!’ whenever I put the glass to my lips and celebrate each swallow as if it were a deed worthy of distinction. This time there’s red wine in addition to the spirits, probably from the basement. A candle fixed to a saucer provides a flickering light, casting the Slavic profiles on the wall.
For the first time we have a real discussion, with at least three highly talented debaters: Andrei with the icy-blue eyes, schoolteacher and chess player, composed and quiet as always. Then a man from the Caucasus, with a hook nose and a fiery gaze. (I’m not Jewish, I’m from Georgia,’ was how he introduced himself to me.) He’s amazingly well read, able to quote fluently both verse and prose, very eloquent and as adroit as a fencing master. The third intellectual is also here for the first time – a lieutenant, extremely young, wounded this evening by some shrapnel. He has a makeshift bandage on his shin and limps around with a German hiking pole, decorated with all sorts of badges from well-known destinations in the Harz mountains. He is pale blond and has an ominous look and a nasty way of speaking. He starts to say, As an intelligent person, I—’ whereupon the Georgian interrupts him.
‘There are other intelligent people here too – the n’emka, for example,’ (meaning me).
We talk about how the war started; they see the root cause in Fascism, in a system driven towards conquest. Shaking their heads, they explain that there was absolutely no reason for Germany to go to war at all – such a wealthy country, so cultured, so well tended, even now, despite the destruction. For a while the discussion turns to the stunted form of early capitalism that was inherited by the October Revolution, and to the later stage that is evident in Germany – where capitalist society is more advanced, in wealth as well as decadence. Suddenly cautious, they put forward tentative arguments for why their country is on the verge of a great development, and therefore should be considered, critiqued and compared only from the perspective of the future.
One of the men points to the nineteenth-century style furniture in the room as an example of a superior culture. Finally they come to the subject of ‘degeneration’ and argue whether we Germans are degenerate or not. They enjoy the gamesmanship, the lively back and forth of the debate. Andrei guides the conversation with a gentle rein and a quiet voice.
Every now and then the wounded lieutenant directs a vicious outburst against me personally. Scorn and ridicule for Germany’s plans of conquest, for its defeat. The others, displaying a sense of tact more becoming to a victor, refuse to follow suit, quickly changing the subject, and telling him to watch his language.
Then in the middle of all this talk Anatol comes bursting in, yawning, exhausted from work. He sits down a while, but soon gets bored. He can’t keep up with the others. He’s from the countryside, from the kolkhoz – he’s told me that he was in charge of milk, a kind of dairy manager.
‘How interesting,’ I said.
‘It’s all right, you know, but milk, all the time, nothing but milk…’ And he sighed.
Half an hour later he goes, leaving the others to debate.
Herr Pauli is sleeping in the next room. Once again the widow has set up her improvised bed dose to him. Otherwise the situation is clear: the apartment is open to a few friends of the house, if that’s what they can be called, as well as to the men Anatol brings from his platoon and no one else. But only their chief, only Anatol, has the right to spend the night. It seems that I really am taboo, at least for today. But who can say about tomorrow? Anatol comes back around midnight, whereupon the debaters disperse on their own. The last one out is the blond lieutenant, who limps away with his hiking pole, sizing me up with evil eyes.
Now there are holes in my memory. Once again I drank a great deal, can’t recall the details. The next thing I remember is Monday morning, the grey light of dawn, a conversation with Anatol that led to a minor misunderstanding. I said to him, ‘You are a bear.’ (I know the word well – m’edv’ed – which was also the name of a well-known Russian restaurant on Tauentzienstrasse.)