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I keep wandering around these three rooms, but I
can't find any peace. I have systematically searched every single cupboard and
drawer for anything usable, in other words, something to eat, drink, or burn.
Unfortunately, there isn't much. Frau Weiers, who used to clean the place, must
have beaten me to it. These days everything is up for grabs. People are no
longer closely tied to things; they no longer distinguish clearly between their
own property and that of others.
I found a letter wedged inside a drawer,
addressed to the real tenant. I was ashamed for reading it, but I read it all
the same. A passionate love letter, which I flushed down the toilet. (Most of
the time we still have water.) Heart, hurt, love, desire - how foreign, how
distant these words sound now. Evidently a sophisticated, discriminating love
life requires three square meals a day. My sole concern as I write these lines
is my stomach. All thinking and feeling, all wishes and hopes begin with food.
Two hours later. The gas is running on a tiny,
dying flicker. The potatoes have been cooking for hours. The most miserable
potatoes in the country, good only for distilling into liquor, they turn to mush
and taste like cardboard. I swallowed one half - raw. I've been stuffing myself
since early this morning. Went to Bolle's to use up the pale-blue milk coupons
Gerd sent me for Christmas. Not a moment too soon - I got the last drops. The
saleswoman had to tilt the can; she said there'd be no more milk coming into
Berlin. That means children are going to die.
I drank a little of the milk right there on the
street. Then, back at home, I wolfed down some porridge and chased it with a
crust of bread. In theory I've eaten better than I have in ages. In practice,
the hunger is gnawing away at me like a savage beast. Eating just made me
hungrier than ever. I'm sure there's some scientific explanation. Something
about food stimulating the digestive juices and making them crave more. No
sooner do they get going than the limited supply is already digested and they
start to rumble.
Rummaging through the few books owned by the
tenant of this apartment (where I also found the blank notebook I'm using to
write this), I turned up a novel. The setting is English aristocratic, with
sentences like: "She cast a fleeting glance at her untouched meal, then rose and
left the table." Ten lines later I found myself magnetically drawn back to that
sentence. I must have read it a dozen times before I caught myself scratching my
nails across the print, as if the untouched meal - which had just been described
in detail - were really there and I could physically scrape it out of the book. A
sure sign of insanity. Onset of mild delusions brought on by lack of food. I'm
sorry I don't have Hamsun's Hunger
to bone up on the subject. Of course I couldn't read it even if I hadn't been
bombed out, since somebody snatched my copy right out of my shopping bag over
two years ago in the U-Bahn. It had a raffia cover; evidently the pickpocket
mistook it for a ration card wallet. Poor man! He must have been a very
disappointed thief! I'm sure Hamsun would enjoy hearing that story.
Morning gossip at the baker's: "When they get
here they'll go through the apartments and take whatever they can find to eat...
Don't expect them to give us a thing... They've worked it all out; the Germans
are going to have to starve for two months... People in Silesia are already
running around the woods digging up roots... Children are dying... Old people
are eating grass like animals."
So much for the vox populi - no one knows anything
for sure. There's no Völkischer
Beobachter on the stairs anymore. No
Frau Weiers coming up to read me the headlines about rape over breakfast. "Old
Woman of Seventy Defiled. Nun Violated Twenty-Four Times." (I wonder who was
counting.) That's exactly what they sound like, too, those headlines. Are they
supposed to spur the men of Berlin to protect and defend us women? Ridiculous.
Their only effect is to send thousands more helpless women and children running
out of town, jamming the roads heading west, where they're likely to starve or
die under fire from enemy planes. Whenever she read the paper Frau Weiers's eyes
would get big and glaze over. Something in her actually enjoyed that brand of
horror. Either that or her unconscious was just happy it hadn't happened to her.
Because she is
afraid; I know for a fact she wanted to get away. I haven't seen her since the
day before yesterday.
Excerpted from A Woman In Berlin by Anonymous. Copyright © 2006. Excerpted by permission of Henry Holt and Company, Incorporated. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
No pleasure is worth giving up for the sake of two more years in a geriatric home.
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