The Russian is coming

Short story by Hans-Jürgen Moritz

"What the man offers in heroism on the battlefield, the woman offers in eternally endured devotion, in eternally endured suffering and suffering."

(Adolf Hitler, speech to the Nazi Women's League in Nuremberg 1934)

Mother didn't miss Father, we knew that. We children secretly fished the one field post card he had sent from the Russian campaign out of the trash. "Dear Bertha, I'm well. Ivan is deserting. I'll be home for Christmas." Father never came back. There was one more letter, but not from him, rather from his company commander: "Sad duty... Hero's death... Fatherland... Final victory." In the death notice, Mother omitted the then-customary addition "In proud mourning"; the word "hero's death" was also absent.

Father, whom I only remember from his early leaves from the front, wasn't even a picture on the bedside table after that. Mother had put it away. She didn't talk about him again until after the war. "He was a handsome fellow, always with a cheeky grin, and such a sassy curl in his forehead," she would describe him then, pressing her lips together, jerking the thread off the darning stocking until it broke, or peeling the potatoes too roughly. "But he was a drunk. A womanizer too. He followed Schmidt from the fourth floor around like he'd only ever followed Adolf before. No, Father didn't show up. I raised you all on my own. Only little Anne... well. God bless you."

Mother took the Adolf Hitler effigy down from the wall the first time we heard the Stalin organs. "Mein Kampf" had been playing in the fire for us shortly before. She tore the book page by page and stuck them into the stove one by one, as if Adolf had to disappear from head to toe, body part by body part. The next morning, she carefully raked through the ashes to see if anything of Adolf remained. The leather binding of the Führer's wedding gift was too precious to throw away, but it had to go in the fire too. "We could make a window covering out of it. But we don't have any windows left."

Uncle Dietrich took us in when our home in Zehlendorf was bombed. That meant we didn't have to go to the assembly point and be billeted with strangers. At that time, Uncle still ran his medical practice in his beautiful old villa in the Berlin suburbs. We often played in his garden, and gardener Wagner taught us the names of many plants: laburnum, larkspur, foxglove. Each word a Grimm's fairy tale.

Now the villa was only half standing; the top floor was completely gutted by fire. Potsdam had largely been spared the terror of bombing, but every now and then an American or British plane would drop an incendiary device while flying towards Berlin. The villa had been unlucky. But at least back then the fires were extinguished immediately.

The old medical practice wing and the three adjoining rooms were still usable. The women had glued washed-up old X-rays into the kitchen window frames on the ground floor as replacements for the broken panes, and I found them horrifying. When I helped in the kitchen, I looked at lungs and broken bones.

Uncle Dietrich no longer needed the recordings. At the end of September 1944, he was drafted into the Volkssturm (People's Storm). They gave him an old rifle, like the ones he remembered from the Great War. He didn't get a smart uniform like Father, just an armband. Uncle Dietrich pinned on the Kaiser's Iron Cross, hugged us, and said, "Stay alive." That was the last we heard from him.

My brother Heinz, then the only man in the house, had recently joined the Volkssturm and was digging anti-tank ditches. When Heinz came home with shining eyes from his instruction on how to use the Panzerfaust, Mother gave him such a good thrashing with the old carpet beater that you could still see the marks of the lesson on his back two days later.

Heinz still rode off again for the final victory, two Panzerfausts mounted on his bicycle handlebars. Tough as leather, quick as dogs, hard as Krupp steel. For us girls, the motto was: Be true, be clear, be German—that's what we'd been taught. I admired my brother. And I admired Adolf.

Where was he, anyway? We used to see him so often, and every girl in my class dreamed of giving him a bouquet of flowers. But now there hadn't been school for a few months. I was glad I could already read quite well, and I did it often, especially in the air-raid shelter, where there wasn't much else to do. I liked to chew licorice while I did it; there was plenty of it right up until the very end. "Haribo makes children happy!" Above all, the licorice suppressed my hunger. My favorite books were "Girls Go Out into the Summer" and "Of Nordic Women, Kings, and Farmers."

During those Potsdam nights, I would have loved to have a doll to cuddle in the cellar. But the bombing terror in Berlin had struck right into the middle of my dollhouse.

People were speaking more and more negatively about the Führer; even Mother joined in. She used to sound different, because there were holiday resorts and KdF trips for mothers. "Adolf," I can still hear Mother saying today, "put everything right. We're saving up for a KdF car now, and then we're going to Italy." Adolf must have done something wrong after that, I thought.

In April 1945, there were nine of us in Uncle Dietrich's villa, a community of people swept together by the war from all parts of the Reich. Else Rabner and her daughter Gertrud had managed to escape from burning Königsberg. The Russians must have wreaked havoc there. But the Waffen-SS was worse, Mother said. They had blown up all the food depots when they retreated from East Prussia. Many who couldn't get out of Königsberg starved to death.

We didn't have much to eat in Potsdam either. During the summer, Mother had managed to snag a piece of butter while hoarding. We didn't even know what butter was anymore; there was only that substitute fat available. Unfortunately, the piece melted in Mother's bag on the way back. We even licked the keys out of the bag afterward.

Mrs. Rabner had once worked at Uncle Dietrich's medical practice before the war. She never said what had brought her to Königsberg, or how she and Gertrud had managed to get back. If you asked her, she would look right through you and remain silent. Her daughter was barely twelve years old, but already had gray streaks in her hair.

At night in the cellar, during air raid sirens, Mrs. Rabner cried a lot. Sometimes she would scream "nyet, nyet!" in her sleep and wake up drenched in sweat. "Nyet" was Russian, Mother said, and that was all I needed to know. When things got too bad with Mrs. Rabner, and there wasn't an air raid alarm, Mrs. von Stiller would go upstairs to Uncle Dietrich's office, draw up a syringe, and give it to Mrs. Rabner. Then there would be peace.

Frau von Stiller came from even further east than Else Rabner. She believed in wonder weapons that would save us. Her husband was a high-ranking SS officer. At night in the cellar, she liked to talk about the estate in Ukraine she had ruled over. Until Ivan stopped fleeing and came back. Her housekeeper, Olga, a Ukrainian, hated the Russians and had accompanied Frau von Stiller on his escape to the Old Reich. SS-Standartenführer von Stiller was on a "secret mission for the final victory," his wife said. "Werewolf," Mother whispered in my ear.

I didn't know what that meant back then, and no one explained it to me. There were many such words. When we still lived in Zehlendorf, I once asked my mother what "subhumans" actually were. Were they the Rosenbergs, who lived on the floor below us and were taken away one morning? My mother didn't answer.

Frau von Stiller was something special. Even so, she only moved in with two suitcases when she was billeted with us. Among her most prized possessions was a casket of medals and decorations, which she guarded like the apple of her eye. Once (Mother was out foraging with Anne again; my older sister liked to take her along because Anne was so pale and thin and aroused the farmers' pity; I was a bit chubby, despite half rations) she took the casket out of her suitcase and showed me its contents.

We sat alone in the kitchen; outside, columns of refugees rumbled westward, trying to reach the Americans. They were supposed to be near Michendorf, but no one knew for sure. The Russians hadn't yet surrounded Potsdam. An endless stream of people with handcarts and a few wagons passed by. Most were on foot, carrying backpacks and suitcases or small children in their arms. The children were completely silent, too weak to cry.

Frau von Stiller peered through a gap between the X-ray images at the street. "There are a few young men out of uniform, draft dodgers and underminers of the war effort! Every decent German woman should send them to the front with a rag, just like the Reichsführer SS said!" She snorted contemptuously and turned to me. Then she stroked my hair and looked at me seriously.

She was a tall woman with her blonde hair pulled back tightly. Her fingernails were still meticulously manicured; I have no idea how she managed it. We didn't even have enough water to wash with anymore, and we rubbed ourselves with alcohol when we started to smell too bad. But Frau von Stiller refused to wear nail polish or lipstick—un-German, she said.

Else Rabner was grazed by a bullet while fetching water from the pump the day before yesterday. Fetching water was becoming increasingly dangerous, as was queuing at the bakery. Low-flying aircraft would suddenly appear and fire their cannons into the long lines of people. Luckily, Mrs. Rabner only suffered a scratch on her arm, and there was plenty of bandages at Uncle Dietrich's clinic. Mrs. von Stiller expertly tended to the wound. She had met her husband during fighting in the Baltic states, back when the war was still progressing and she was a stormtrooper nurse.

Mother had advised me to beware of her: “That’s a hundred and fifty percent, just watch what you say! Don’t call Jörging Mr. Meyer, like we always do, and say Heil Hitler in the morning when you come into the kitchen, otherwise we’ll be taken away in the last few days!”

“Erikalein,” said Mrs. von Stiller, looking me straight in the eye, “Times are hard, but better ones will come again. You must always be cheerful and bright, full of life and brave! We just mustn’t lose our unwavering faith in our beloved Führer, shall we?” I nodded. The Führer could do anything, everyone knew that. I wondered if he was perhaps ill at the moment; otherwise, he surely would have helped us already.

Frau von Stiller took me onto her lap and opened the lid of the box. The inside was lined with black velvet, on which lay three medals. One looked very beautiful. It was round and made of silver, with a red cross in the center and a small crown at each end. To the left and right, beneath each crown, was a letter; I could recognize them all and read them aloud to Frau von Stiller: W, R, A, and V. She praised me for it, stroked my braids again, and then said, "This is the Red Cross Medal, Second Class. My mother received it from the Empress for her work as a nurse in German South-West Africa."

The emperor had been a kind of leader with a crown, I knew that. But that he had a wife was news to me. The Führer didn't have one either. But there was a lot of whispering about an Eva Braun.

German South-West Africa, I'd heard about that too, was living space for the Blacks that we Germans had lost. That's why we needed the space from the Poles and the Russians. But back then, in our three-room apartment in Zehlendorf, we had more space than here in Potsdam, where nine of us huddled in the cellar during air raid alarms.

Ms. von Stiller took the second medal, which hung from a red ribbon, from the case and held it up in the palm of her hand in front of my face. What I saw seemed familiar. In the background was the cross again, but this time not red. And in front of it was the German imperial eagle, clutching the swastika in its talons. Ms. von Stiller turned the medal over and read to me what was written on the other side: "Medal for German Public Welfare." "I received this from the Führer," she said proudly. "For my service in the Baltic."

“And this one?” I pointed to the third decoration. It wasn’t a medal, but a blue enameled cross. “That’s the Cross of Honor of the German Mother in bronze,” Frau von Stiller said quietly, abruptly setting me down from her lap and closing the box. She was still holding the beautiful medal with the red cross. “If you like, I’ll pin it on you, because you helped admirably with Frau Rabner’s bandages. You’re welcome to wear it, but you have to give it back to me this evening!” I nodded eagerly, beaming with pride. When Mother and Anne returned with some sugar beets and some coltsfoot they’d picked along the way for tea, there was a scene and a thrashing. I had to return the decoration immediately.

Mother didn't like it when I hung around Frau von Stiller. She also tried to keep me away from Tilly Hausen. She was an actress who claimed to have slept with Goebbels: "Let me put it this way: lies don't just have short legs."

We all—Mother, Anne, Heinz, and I—went to bed together every night, because we only had one bed left, albeit a large one: Uncle Dietrich's old double bed. Adolf had taken his wife away from him quite early on because there was something wrong with her; it was called racial defilement. She was sent to the Ravensbrück concentration camp. I thought that would be nice for her, because she liked music and could play the piano.

Die Hausen slept in the old treatment room and wasn't quite right in the head. She had been buried in the rubble during a bombing raid on Berlin and could only be rescued two days later, having miraculously survived. She had lost everything, including the favor of the Reich Minister of Propaganda. For some reason, she was banned from performing. Uncle Dietrich, however, was one of her few remaining admirers. He had treated her and given her shelter.

In her many stories, things got a bit muddled. But she really did know the Hotel Adlon, that much was clear. I enjoyed listening to her talk about balls and suppers. I didn't know what a supper was either, but it sounded better than Werewolf. I imagined it like the old communal Sunday stew, only with meat in the soup, and everyone at the table wore not a uniform or apron, but a tailcoat and evening gown, like Eva Braun, whose photo I'd once seen. "I know that Eva," Tilly said. "She used to smoke secretly. If the Führer had found out, it would have been all over immediately."

Eva Braun didn't look as good as Zarah Leander or Marika Rökk, I thought. I sometimes dreamed about Leander's and Rökk's evening gowns. But even more often I dreamed about the BDM uniform: a dark blue skirt with a belt and spring pleats, a short-sleeved white blouse, and a black triangular scarf. But before the BDM, at the age of ten, came the Jungvolk. Heinz always laughed at me when I raved about the BDM. "BDM? That stands for 'Bend over, girl,' you're much too small for that," he squawked once. For that, he got a mighty slap from his mother.

On April 14, 1945, my tenth birthday, I woke up very early. Finally! Anne was still asleep, but Mother and Heinz were already up. I rushed into the kitchen. On the table was an Ischler roulade. Mother had somehow managed to get hold of lard, eggs, potatoes, jam, and baking powder. One of the precious candles for the nights in the cellar was also burning on the table. I jumped straight into Mother's arms and squealed with delight.

That evening we all sat together in the kitchen: the Hausens, Mrs. von Stiller, Olga, even the Rabners, who were always so quiet and reserved. And of course, our family. There was acorn-cured blood sausage and semolina tarts. Everyone had chipped in and conjured up something wonderful. There was even lemonade, which I hadn't had in ages. Heinz played the harmonica, we laughed, and were in good spirits.

Then Mrs. von Stiller rose and tapped her glass with her spoon. Mother's expression darkened. "My dearest Erika," Mrs. von Stiller said solemnly, looking deep into my eyes, "soon you will be allowed to serve the Führer as a League of German Girls. Your sister Anne is already doing her German duty in the League of German Girls, and your brother Heinz is bravely standing on the home front, securing our starting positions from which we will advance again, destroy the invaders, and liberate the German regions until the final victory!"

“Cheers!” Hausen called out, raising her schnapps glass. She had recently been raiding the liquor store when a stray aerial mine had struck the grocer around the corner. “Cheers!” Hausen repeated, also standing up. She didn't stand as ramrod straight as Frau von Stiller, who looked at her in astonishment. In fact, Hausen was swaying quite a bit. The two women stood directly opposite each other at the narrow ends of the table.

I sat at the head of the table, because it was my birthday. At the other long end of the table, my mother looked around anxiously. Heinz was still stuffing himself with acorn-fed blood sausage, which contained neither blood nor meat, only whey, acorn flour, potatoes, and white bread. But it was the best thing we had. Anne studied her fingernails. The Rabners looked up, alarmed, anxious as ever. Gertrud reached for her mother's hand. Olga chewed just as intensely as Heinz.

"Cheers, cheers, comrades," Hausen said again, leaning towards Frau von Stiller. Hausen had applied rouge and lipstick for the occasion, but it had all run and blurred. Beads of sweat formed below her hairline. She raised the glass above her head, spilling some of its contents. The cherry liqueur dripped onto her bare right shoulder. Her blouse, which was unbuttoned all the way down, had slipped.

“To the Führer and the final victory!” Hausen slurred. “To a nation of heroes and a hero’s death! To wonder weapons and concentration camps! To the whole damned, bombed-out Greater German Reich!” She emptied her glass in one gulp and looked defiantly at Frau von Stiller. The latter twitched her lips, sat down, and said dangerously quietly, without looking at Hausen: “Greater Germany’s struggle for freedom will end victoriously. Berlin will remain German! I knew you were a politically unreliable element. You are stabbing the fighting troops in the back on this German girl’s day of honor. This will have consequences. I will report you.”

Hausen threw her head back and laughed. Then she sat down again, rested her head on her fists, and stared intently at Frau von Stiller. "You'll amount to nothing, Himmler's whore. The Russians will come soon. Then you'll spread your legs and shut your mouth. And you'll be lucky. I know what you did in Ukraine."

Olga continued chewing, unfazed. Heinz looked at his mother. Mother wanted to say something. At that moment we heard the sirens. Not a preliminary alarm. An air raid alarm.

It was already dark; we had been sitting together for a long time. Everyone jumped up from the table. Our air-raid shelters were ready in the kitchen. Heinz shone his flashlight down the cellar stairs for us. Hausen stumbled in last.

Upstairs, there was a buzzing sound like thousands of giant bumblebees. Anne and I crowded around Mother. Heinz was securing the cellar door. The mast had fallen and lay on the floor in front of him. The Rabners, as usual, had retreated to the furthest corner of the cellar; Else Rabner had started whimpering again. Mrs. von Stiller and Olga sat on the wooden bench they never shared with anyone. Olga crossed herself. Over and over again. Mrs. von Stiller had her eyes closed.

Then it began.

It whistled. It crashed. Not at our house. But Uncle Dietrich's villa still rose and fell. The planks we'd used to barricade the cellar windows shifted. A bright light streamed in from outside. The cellar ceiling crumbled. Then it got hot. Very hot. We felt a choking pressure. Mother screamed. Olga prayed. Mrs. Rabner wept. Heinz took Anne and me in his arms. In all the roaring, whooshing, banging, bursting, breaking, trembling, swaying, burning, and stinking, Mrs. von Stiller remained motionless.

We dipped cloths into the waiting buckets of water and passed them around. The stench became unbearable. "Phosphorus bombs," Mother said. Mrs. Rabner whimpered even louder. The light in the cellar flickered. Again and again, there were explosions outside. "I'm suffocating!" Hausen screamed, clutching her throat. "Shut your mouth, you stupid woman, your screaming is taking our last breath!" hissed Mrs. von Stiller. We children had learned that during the first few nights of bombing: no screaming, no crying, no whining—that uses up too much air in the cellar.

The lights went out completely. Mother lit a candle. In the dim light, I saw Heinz grab the fire swatter so he could extinguish the flames immediately. He had put on his grimiest face, but his hands were trembling.

Mrs. Rabner had fainted; her head lay in her daughter's lap, who stroked her hair. Mother, ever practical, tilted Else Rabner's head back so she wouldn't choke on her own tongue. Mrs. von Stiller didn't lift a finger and continued sitting beside Olga with her eyes closed, as always ramrod straight. Because it was getting hotter and hotter in the cellar, we had all torn our clothes off down to our underwear, except for Mrs. von Stiller. Even the top button of her blouse was still fastened.

Outside, the bombing continued. Incendiary bombs, high-explosive bombs, block-busters. No German anti-aircraft fire could be heard. The whole house shook. My ears ached, I couldn't breathe. Hausen, who seemed to have calmed down, said, breathing heavily, "This time they mean business." For a long time, it had been said that the enemy had declared Potsdam a "protected zone." That was probably just a rumor after all.

The Hausen family's eyes darted back and forth between the cellar windows and the door. "We mustn't be buried alive!" She jumped up and tried to clear the dislodged planks completely aside so she could climb out of a window. Heinz grabbed her by the hips and held back the struggling, flailing woman. My brother had become a strong man in the Volkssturm; you could rely on him! My brother was a German hero.

Then it was suddenly over. We lowered the pillows we had pressed to our heads. The attack had lasted half an hour, which felt like an eternity. We had escaped. Potsdam hadn't.

As we climbed upstairs and bent aside the X-rays, it was as bright as day outside, even in the middle of the night. Ash was raining down, dancing in the strong wind that had sprung up. Sparks drifted like fireflies in the breeze. The houses around us were still standing, but had suffered considerable damage. Across the street, a balcony had half collapsed. In the house next door, a large hole gaped in the wall. Two charred bodies lay in the street. It was impossible to tell whether they were neighbors or passersby desperately searching for an air-raid shelter.

A restless glow of fire haunted the walls of the buildings. The sky was blood red. This, I thought, is what hell looks like. Explosions could still be heard from the old town. As we later learned—because we didn't dare leave our neighborhood for the next few days, except perhaps as far as Zimmerstrasse, which was littered with debris from the collapsed walls of St. Joseph's Hospital—the Garrison Church, the City Palace, the Long Stables, St. Nicholas' Church, the Barberini Palace, the Palace Hotel, the train station, the Kindl Brewery, the open-air theater and the Alhambra, the waterworks, the town hall, the main post office, the city savings bank, the slaughterhouse, the Havelhof, and many entire streets lay in ruins.

Our Potsdam was gone. The next morning, when we went to fetch water, we had to crawl through air mine craters and over broken tree trunks. Luckily, the street pump was still working, and there was an even longer queue than usual.

Mother and we children had dragged our mattresses down to the cellar that very night, where we were to sleep from then on. The others did the same; the cellar was now truly cramped, a real mattress tomb. Many other Potsdam residents fled into the woods in the following nights, fearing further attacks.

In the morning, Heinz and his mother had a row. She categorically forbade him from returning to the Volkssturm, because the Thousand-Year Reich would only last a few more days. She also demanded that he immediately burn anything that might remind him of a uniform.

I heard it from the cellar, where Anne and I were still sleeping. The shrill voice of Mrs. Hausen joined in the argument, also yelling at Heinz. Then there was a brief silence. I ran upstairs. Mother blocked my way to the kitchen. "Back to bed and not a peep!" I obeyed and strained my ears downstairs, terrified. Then I heard Mrs. von Stiller, who must have been in the kitchen now, too. I couldn't understand everything she said because Mother and Mrs. Hausen were shouting wildly at her. I only caught "total commitment," "with all our might," and "final victory." Then a dull thud and a crash. Apparently, there was now a war going on in our villa as well.

I ran back upstairs. Mother stood with her back to me, and at her feet lay Mrs. von Stiller, bleeding from the head. Mother had a rolling pin in her hand. She now raised it at Heinz, who was rushing to Stiller's aid. "One more step, and I'll give you one too," Mother said firmly. "Pick her up and take her to the cellar. Stay with her and make sure she doesn't cause any more trouble."

Heinz did it. As he walked past me with Frau von Stiller in his arms—my God, how strong my brother had become!—he looked at me guiltily. Olga was nowhere to be seen; I wondered what she would think of the whole affair. Hausen had disappeared too.

Mother turned to me. "What did I say?" she said angrily, but let the rolling pin fall. "But it's good that you're here. Have a seat." She pushed a chair toward me. Mother rummaged in the drawers of the kitchen cupboard and picked up a pair of scissors. "Now listen up. The Russian is coming. Little girls, old women—he doesn't care about any of it. They're hordes from the East. They'll hurt you, my child. That's why you're going to be a boy now. Those blond braids have to go, and you'll wear trousers too. No more bitches now!"

So, the day after my tenth birthday, I became a boy, no longer suitable for the League of German Girls. I cried over my hair, which my mother carefully swept together and picked up, saying, "Can something still be done with it?" She also smeared soot on my face to make me as unsightly as possible.

Hausen was sitting outside in the garden when I fled Heinz's kitchen, howling, with stubble, a smeared face, and wearing short, baggy trousers. That day I was enlightened. About men, women, and the Russians.

"Come here, sweetheart," said Hausen, patting the seat next to her on the old park bench, its cast-iron legs shaped like lion's paws. The bench stood beside the small fountain, its basin now cracked and filled with dead birds. It could have been a beautiful day filled with birdsong; the winter had been harsh, but spring had arrived early. As early as March, the sun had warmed the air and coaxed all sorts of flowers from the ground. But now everything around us was covered in ash. Little remained of the garden shrubs, just charred chaos and shards of glass, which must have come from the houses around us. But the bench was still there. I sat down next to Hausen.

She smelled of liquor, sweat, and tears. She turned to me and lifted my chin so I would look into her eyes. Her eyeballs were crisscrossed with burst blood vessels; whether from crying, smoking, or drinking, it was hard to tell. I glanced back shyly.

“Now listen,” said Mrs. Hausen, looking at me once more, appraisingly but tenderly, releasing my chin from her dirty hands, turning to her other side, rummaging in a bag beside her, and lighting a cigarette. She inhaled the first precious puff of smoke deeply, held it in her lungs for a long time, exhaled it with relish, and turned back to me. “With the Russian, it’s like this…” she began. Then she took another drag on the cigarette. “The Russian,” I interrupted, “he’s a subhuman, isn’t he, Mrs. Hausen?”

Hausen coughed. “Yes, uh, no, well…” she said nervously, holding the cigarette in front of her face, staring at it for a long time, and taking another deep drag. The index and middle fingers of her right hand had yellow stains where the cigarette had been.

Hausen looked rather unappetizing, but that was probably the plan. Underneath a baggy blouse, she wore drill trousers that she must have found in the gardener's shed. I had fond memories of Mr. Wagner, who had reliably tended the garden for Uncle Dietrich for many years and taught us children a great deal about sowing seeds, propagating plants, and the important role of bees. I told Hausen this.

She sighed. "Exactly. The bees." She tossed her spent cigarette butt behind her in a high arc. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about."

"About the bees? I thought it was about the Russians?"

"That too."

A silence fell. Pots and pans clattered in the house. Mother was busy in the kitchen. She was cooking in bulk, because we expected more bombing raids in the coming days and couldn't rely on being able to leave the cellar for long.

Hausen shuffled her feet. I was getting bored. I was about to get up when she pulled me back by the hand and said, her voice strained: “The Russians are coming. In just a few days. The Russians are our enemy, but we started it. We wreaked havoc in the East. Many men, women, and children are dead. Not just ours. And now Ivan's got us by the throat. He'll take his revenge. And you know—when he comes, even women and children won't be able to hope for mercy. That's war.”

"So Ivan will kill us all?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. But he will do other bad things."

"What kind of things?"

Hausen needed another cigarette. Apparently, she still had a good supply, from wherever.

"So, I really don't know how to tell you, darling. Do you still believe that the stork brings the babies?"

"The stork? Not the leader?"

I was astonished. I knew that the Führer had given his blessing to my mother's marriage. And Frau von Stiller had received a Mother's Cross in bronze from him, even though no one knew where her children actually were. So I had assumed that the Führer had something to do with having children.

Hausen's face turned bright red, and she choked on her cigarette smoke.

"No, not the Führer. Certainly not him. Goodness, didn't your mother ever talk to you about that?"

"Well."

Another sigh, another deep drag on the cigarette.

"Now listen up. Men are different from women. Whether Russian, fellow German, Chinese, Lilliputian, Hottentot – it doesn't matter. They always want one thing. They want you…"

The next cigarette butt flew backwards.

"Hurt?"

"Yes. The Russians certainly will. Those who come will definitely. But they won't just beat you, child, they won't just pull your hair."

"I don't have any more." It all became too unsettling for me. I started to cry.

"You no longer have braids for your protection; your mother did the right thing. You must be as ugly as possible; ideally, the Russian would mistake you for a little boy."

Her gaze slid over my chest, examining me.

"Well, it still looks quite flat there. Good."

I looked at her breasts, which could only be vaguely discerned in her shapeless blouse.

"I'll get breasts too, won't I?"

"Of course. A really beautiful one. You're a pretty girl anyway. That's exactly why you have to watch out for the Russian. The Russian, or let's say, the men, are interested in your breasts. And your garage."

„Garage?“

"Yes, down there, between your legs, where you pee. That's where men like to park. Like cars driving into a garage door."

Parking? A car? A Strength Through Joy car my parents had saved up for? Absurd. It was perfectly clear to me now that the bombing had driven Hausen even crazier. How could I get rid of her? Call for Mother?

"I think I need to…"

Hausen got angry. "Stay here. Now listen: Women have a slit, and men have a penis. In the front. You've probably seen it with your brother. Men put their penis in your slit. They ejaculate in there, and if you're unlucky, a child will grow inside you. In your tummy. The child has to come out through the slit. That hurts a lot. It can also hurt when the man puts his penis in your slit. It hurts the most if you don't want his penis. And a Russian penis, believe me, child, you definitely don't want that. But the Russians, they want all of us, grandmothers, mothers, daughters."

She grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me. I didn't know what to say. She let go, leaned back exhausted, and stared into space. I was terrified.

"Now stop howling, you stupid goose!" Hausen was sweating profusely and smelled even worse. I couldn't take it anymore. I wanted to go to my mother. I wanted to call for her, for Heinz, for help. Then Hausen did something that left me speechless.

She undressed. From the waist down. She had hair there. She ran her fingers through it. Then she lifted her index finger. It was a little damp. She licked it, making it even wetter, tucked it between her pubic hair, and moved it back and forth. "Like this," she said. "That's how it goes. In and out." She slid forward on the bench. I forgot my fear, because Hausen suddenly looked completely different, so... different, relaxed. Her eyes were closed, and she was smiling. She spread her legs, inserted two fingers into what she called "the garage," and rubbed her thumb above them.

I wanted to see it more closely. Hausen opened her eyes to narrow slits, saw my interest, and nodded at me. I slid off the bench, knelt before her, and looked at her exposed lap. Strange, all that hair. Would I grow some there too? And would Mother cut it off? And if hair did grow there, and if I developed breasts, would they be hairy too?

The house cat was making strange noises. Was she in pain? No, she was still smiling. I glanced around briefly. I had a feeling we might be caught doing something wrong. But no, we were still completely alone in the garden.

Hausen sighed and squeezed her thighs together. "Performance over," she whispered, pulling her drill trousers back on. She gestured for me to stand up and sit next to her. She pushed her hair out of her face and said, slightly breathless, "My sweetie, there's more you can do with your garage than just pee. You just saw that. But now listen up."

She stood up and searched for something in the bushes behind the bench. She emerged with a thick, charred club. She held it up, stood in front of me, and spread her legs again. "You saw what fits in a garage like that. Two fingers. Maybe three. And yours is even smaller than mine. Now imagine..." She pressed the branch between her thighs. "Imagine something like that being forced into your garage."

“Ouch,” I exclaimed involuntarily.

“Exactly. Believe me, child, the Russians are coming with clubs. You don’t want to experience that. So from now on, be a good little boy and listen to your mother. And one more thing…” She winked at me conspiratorially. “Not a word—to anyone—about what I just showed you.”

She could bet her life on it. Mother called me into the kitchen. I was glad to get away from Hausen and obeyed immediately. In the kitchen, Mother was sitting at the table with the Rabners, Anne, Heinz, and Olga. Hausen came in behind me. Only Mrs. von Stiller was missing. The medal box lay on the table in front of Olga. "Is that all?" Mother asked Olga. She nodded silently. Mother pulled the box toward her and opened it. "Oh, shit. It all has to go. No more swastikas if the Russians find them! The Mother Cross has to go too—what did she even have it for? Where are they, the children?" Mother glared at Olga suspiciously.

"They're all dead. Still in the womb." Olga shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

"What? A mother's cross for miscarriages? Good heavens, Captain! Where can I find that?"

"If you're an SS sweetheart, you get everything," Hausen, equally bewildered, was swept up in her mother's Berliners. Normally she spoke very clearly and articulately, except when she was drunk. Mother turned the bronze Mother's Cross over and contemptuously read aloud the inscription on the back: "The child ennobles the mother! Heinz, bury that nonsense in the garden, deep, do you hear? And cover it with leaves."

Mrs. Rabner started whimpering again. Mother ignored her and took the Empress's Red Cross medal from its case. She examined the piece of metal thoughtfully, turning it over several times. Everyone in the kitchen was completely silent. It was clear: Mother was now in charge.

"Anne," she finally ordered, "see if there are any of Uncle Dietrich's doctor's coats around here. Heinz, get Stilla's suitcases. If she makes a fuss, you'll give her a good whack. Gertrud, let Mother cry and go through all the drawers in the practice. Get out all the medical equipment: syringes, thermometers, hearing aids, and that sort of thing; you know, the stuff a doctor wears around his neck. Erika, get all the sheets off the mattresses. Else, stop crying! You used to help out in this practice, didn't you? Good. Help Gertrud find all this old junk. And caps. Didn't you wear caps here? They must still be somewhere. And find everything with the Red Cross on it! And do you know where else here?" "Is there chloroform in the cupboards? We might need that for the breastfeeding."

I had never heard Mother talk so much at once. And she wasn't finished yet.

"Tilly, we need all your makeup. I know you've got some stashed away. You're a great actress, aren't you? Well, now you can prove to me that you're better than Dagover. And Olgachen, hand over the keys to the suitcase."

"Has Your Grace."

"Well," said Mother, "then let's do a little body search." She leaned resolutely from the table and said to Heinz: "Leave the suitcases for now, I'll call you when it's time. Better keep an eye on Olgan here. Come on, Erika, come down to the cellar!"

Downstairs, Frau von Stiller sat on the wooden bench, tied to it with a clothesline. Heinz had done a thorough job; they must have taught him how to tie people up in the Hitler Youth. Or in the Volkssturm? In any case, Frau von Stiller was bound like a package and expertly gagged. Her usually carefully styled hair hung wildly in her face. Bloodstains were drying on her blouse. A little blood was still seeping behind her right ear, and a prominent bulge was already beginning to appear.

Mrs. von Stiller glared hatefully at Mother. Mother stood before her, legs wide apart, and hissed, "Erika, the sheets. Hurry up and get back to the kitchen!" Then she unbuttoned the squirming woman's blouse. "I knew it!" Mother ripped a chain from Mrs. von Stiller's neck, from which hung two small keys.

I had gathered the sheets and slipped past Mrs. von Stiller without looking her in the eye. On the cellar stairs, I glanced back. Mother was leaning over the bound woman, whispering something in her ear. Mrs. von Stiller began to twitch violently again and tried to kick Mother, but she couldn't lift her bound legs. I quickly ran back up the stairs.

The kitchen table was now full. The others had gathered everything a doctor's office could offer: stethoscopes (I knew the word; we'd learned it in school, I could even spell it correctly!), syringes, gowns, rubber gloves. Nurse's caps had also been found, as well as several bottles and ampoules of clear and cloudy liquids. I laid the sheets beside them, unsure of what to do next. We stood around the table and waited; only Olga sat with her palms flat on the table. Heinz stood watch behind her. Mother called his name. He pushed Olga further into her chair, just in case, and hurried down to the cellar. A little later, he reappeared with Mother in tow, a suitcase in each hand.

Olga hadn't moved an inch. Mother looked around the table, nodded approvingly, gathered some medical supplies, took the two suitcases from Heinz, and placed them on the table in front of Olga. Heinz disappeared back into the cellar, apparently ordered by Mother to guard Frau von Stiller. Everyone was silent. Even Rabner didn't whimper for once.

Mother sat down next to Olga and placed the keys in front of her. Olga pulled one of the suitcases closer, tried one key, then took the other. The suitcase lid sprang open. All of us standing around the table took a step closer. The sturgeon whistled through its teeth.

Inside the suitcase lay a white fur coat—sable—which took up most of the space. Resting on it were a seven-branched candelabra that sparkled silver, and a box. Mother removed the lid, which was secured with two rubber bands. The box was filled to the brim with gold teeth.

Mother looked at Olga. Olga looked at Mother and shrugged. Mother pulled the second suitcase closer. Olga opened it. It, too, contained an article of clothing: a carefully folded nun's habit. A notebook or diary. A photo album. And an even larger box. Mother left its lid untouched.

"Now listen up, everyone," she said, keeping a close eye on Olga. "The Russians are at the door. We can only imagine what they'll do here. So we have to make sure they don't get in."

Die Hausen laughed foolishly at the last remark.

Mother looked at them angrily and revealed her plan to us: “The Russian must be afraid of us. He must be so scared he must shit his Cossack trousers. He must avoid the house like the plague.”

"And?" asked Hausen. "How is that supposed to work?"

Mother took a syringe from the table and held it up to the light. "Quite simply: We're bringing the plague into the house."

“This,” she added triumphantly, gesturing expansively into the kitchen and beyond, “is now a quarantine station. We’ll hang up Red Cross flags. We still need to paint them on the sheets. For that, we need paint, which we might find in the garden shed. Then we’ll put on our nurses’ habits. Olga will paint our nice sign in Russian that says ‘quarantine’ on it.”

"And me?" asked Heinz.

"You, my boy, are sick. Seriously sick and highly contagious. Typhus. You're a patient and lying in bed. Anne, Erika, and Gertrud too. Stiller as well. She's already in a coma." Mother pulled a bottle towards her that read: "Chloroform."

Stunned silence. Even Hausen was speechless. Mother continued to stare intently at Olga. She played a key role in their plan. Olga spoke Russian. Olga had to be our emissary if we wanted to sell Mother's story to the Russians. Everything depended on her own fate being more important to her than that of her mistress. Olga looked up at Mother and gave a barely perceptible nod. Following Mother's instructions, we began the preparations.

The night was quiet, but only in the airspace above Potsdam. We had the radio on in the cellar and heard the warning for the Reich capital: air situation report. Enemy combat units approaching from the north. I would have liked to toss and turn on the mattress, but there was no room. Everything was in turmoil in my mind. Adolf, the Russians, the club. Then the dreams came.

Hausen was suspended from a giant swastika, her arms and legs spread wide. Uncle Dietrich stood before her with his wartime rifle, bayonet fixed, thrusting it back and forth, in and out of her garage. Blood dripped from Hausen's crotch. Mother stood beside her uncle, tapping a wooden spoon on the bottom of a pot to keep time with his thrusts, faster and faster. Heinz was there too, constantly shouting, "Bend over, girl, bend over, girl!" But Hausen couldn't bend over, she was suspended, and moaned, "Eva's smoking, the Führer's burning!" Frau von Stiller arrived in a nun's habit, carrying her religious casket, spat in front of Hausen, and hissed, "German women need clubs!" She opened the casket, and out sprang subhumans, tiny and naked, like garden gnomes, but with enormous penises at the front and back. Their tails were as hairy as the wombs of sturgeon. Then a large bomb fell, and we were all dead.

The next morning we found the Rabners. They hadn't believed in Mother's rescue plan. Clearly, they had experienced too much in Königsberg and during their escape and didn't want to go through it again. They were lying on the floor of the old treatment room, next to them some pill bottles they had found while searching for medical supplies. Mother just shook her head and immediately sent us children back down to the cellar.

There sat Frau von Stiller, still bound and gagged. She must have had a very uncomfortable night. She looked at me with a pleading gaze. I never thought I'd see her like that. I shook my head, squeezed past her, sat down on the mattress, drew my legs up, and wrapped my arms around her. I laid my head on my knees and wept.

I must have sat like that for quite some time and fallen asleep, waking up to a whistling and hissing sound in the air. On the wired radio, which was now on but only broadcast occasionally, they said there was a large anti-aircraft exercise with practice ammunition taking place in and around Berlin today. But all around me I could hear what I knew from the Stalin organ: sizzzzzzzzzzzz (pause) boom – boommm – and BOOM.

“No more return fire from the Wehrmacht out of Wildpark,” Heinz said knowledgeably. “They’ve probably been hit. It won’t be long now. The Volkssturm should really be taking over.” He sighed. “But Wenck’s army is near. They’ll strike back.” This force, formed at the beginning of April 1945, as we later learned, essentially existed only on paper and failed shortly before reaching Potsdam.

Heinz sat on a stool in front of Frau von Stiller, a cloth in his hand. Her head had sunk onto her chest, and she hung limply in the bonds he was now beginning to loosen. A pungent smell, like strong schnapps, hung in the cellar air. "Help me. We have to get her upstairs." Reluctantly, I grasped the woman who had once been my idol by the ankles. She was heavy. But we managed it. I had no idea what would happen to Frau von Stiller next. In fact, Mother killed her that very same day.

Upstairs, things had been rearranged. The old treatment room was now a "patient" room, so the Russian would immediately stumble upon the supposedly doomed and turn right around. We laid Stiller's unconscious wife next to the Rabners' bodies. They lay, covered by sheets, a little way off on two mattresses. "They won't start to stink until tomorrow," Mother said when she saw our wide, horrified eyes. "You don't have to lie there."

Mother wore Frau von Stiller's nurse's uniform, the Red Cross medal dangling from her chest. Red crosses were now also painted on the halves of a divided sheet, which were planted like flags on broomsticks on either side of the entrance door. Above the door hung a cardboard sign with German and Cyrillic lettering: "Quarantine ward. Typhus area. Caution, risk of infection!" Someone had conjured up a skull and crossbones. I suspected Hausen. She stood next to Mother, dressed in a doctor's coat, her hands buried in the coat's pockets. A stethoscope hung around her neck, and she had adopted a very convincing doctor's expression. Olga, too, was now wearing a nurse's uniform and cap.

All three women had wrinkles and folds painted on their faces, making them look years older. Hausen then took her makeup case and approached us. "Well," she said, "you don't look sick at all. Now I'm going to paint you all and prescribe strict bed rest."

Hausen painted heavy shadows under Heinz's, Anne's, and my eyes. She powdered us pale. We were supposed to look feverishly sweaty, and our foreheads were rubbed with alcohol. During the procedure, Frau von Stiller showed signs of life. Mother immediately grabbed the chloroform bottle and gave the defenseless woman another dose. Then we all had to lie down. Space was tight; Anne and I shared a mattress. Heinz lay alone, snorting contemptuously. But he obeyed Mother until the very end. Mother was now our leader.

We lay there and waited. Waiting for something we didn't even want to expect. Hausen and Olga sat around the kitchen table and didn't say a word. Mother stood at the window, peering through the X-rays. As she later recounted, more and more people were now walking in the streets wearing white armbands, if they dared to venture out. But they had to be careful. There were still scattered SS snipers in the attics all around, targeting suspected traitors. The bodies lying in the streets were no longer being buried. Those who knelt beside them didn't pray for them, but rather removed their boots and rings, if they had any, and searched their clothes for cigarettes and food.

In the afternoon, Mrs. von Stiller stopped breathing. Too much chloroform. Mother pulled a sheet over her face as well. Still, not a word was spoken. We had switched off the wired radio; it was useless anyway. The artillery fire had stopped. But outside, the clatter of tank tracks was now approaching.

And then the Russians came. The Russians. There were three of them, and they knocked politely. At first, only the muzzle of a rifle slipped into the crack in the door that Mother had opened. Mother stepped back. A boot kicked the door open completely. The subhuman was right among us. He wasn't much older than Heinz, and he was smiling. "Gitler's finished. Woina out, out," he said. Behind him came two other young lads with machine guns at the ready.

Olga, in her nun's habit, stepped forward with dignity, said something in Russian, and pointed at "Dr." Hausen, us, and the other "patients." The Russians turned pale. The one with the rifle dared to come a little closer and briefly lifted the sheet over the Rabners with his weapon. Then the Ivans fled. "Major's coming!" one of them shouted in German.

That's how it was. The officer appeared a little later, followed by a group of wild-looking figures, whom he nevertheless had well under control. They were slanted-eyed, dirty, with tobacco residue on their tattered uniforms. Some of them weren't even wearing boots. The term "Asian hordes," which we had learned in school, came to mind.

Olga introduced Dr. Hausen and Sister Mutter. The major took brief note of both, glanced appraisingly at the sickbeds, and then left in a great hurry. We breathed a sigh of relief and slept well. It was the first night in days without bombing raids or artillery fire.

The next morning, the Russians returned with a horse-drawn cart. Mother saw them arrive. She stood outside, assessing the situation. Across the way, as she often recounted later, two SS men who had been caught were digging two pits in the neighbors' garden. Russians stood around them, holding them at bay with their rifles. From the house came the sounds of women screaming—Sören's war widow, her two daughters, and the grandmother. Yes, the grandmother, Mother repeated, closing her eyes and shaking her head as she told the story. The SS men had to stand at the edge of the pits with their arms folded behind their heads. Then shots rang out.

The horse-drawn cart was full of typhus-stricken Russians, carried into the house by their comrades. Young men, old men. Stinking men. Dying men. They laid them all down beside us. And every day they brought more.

Our rescue plan had turned into a death trap. Anne was the first to get infected. It didn't take long; she was completely exhausted. Then Hausen got it, and Olga a little later. Within a few days, only Mother, Heinz, and I were left. We fled to Zehlendorf one dark night. I don't want to say any more about it.

End