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 7 p.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 I’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 4 p.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 the lovely 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 5 p.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 7 p.m. we heard a rumour that we were done for the day, but that proved false. Zinc, zinc and more zinc… Finally, at 8 p.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 Ivans 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 corner 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 bedside-table 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.
I stared at her as she told the story, quietly ashamed, speaking to her washboard. I tried to picture the horrible scene. No one could ever invent such a thing.
Our taskmasters spurred us on all day with cries of, ‘Davai, pustai, rabota, skoreye!’ ‘Move, get on with it, work, faster!’ All of a sudden they’re in a tremendous hurry. Maybe they’re planning to leave soon.
One problem for us washerwomen is how to use the toilet. The place is so awful you can barely set foot inside. We tried cleaning it out with our laundry water the first day, but the pipes are clogged. Moreover there are always Russians lurking around. So now two of us stand watch at either end of the corridor while the third uses the toilet. We always take along our soap and brushes, since otherwise they disappear.
At noon we spent an hour lingering at our upturned-drawer dining table, enjoyed the sun, ate rich soup and took a nap. Then we went back to washing, and washed and washed. We were soaked with sweat by 7 p.m. when we headed home, once again sneaking out of the side entrance.