V Alexander - The Taster

The women were asked to haul water and rations for the men digging the trenches. We did so and even lifted shovels full of dirt. We all came back to the apartment exhausted. Helga, because she was young and pretty, was able to collect a few extra rations from the soldiers. We were grateful to have the additional food.

One night as we were all sleeping, a different sound crept into our ears. It was not the drone of Allied bombers high overhead. This time, unlike past nights, everyone woke up, the sounds were so unfamiliar. These were faster, smaller jets and they roared over the city. In the distance, to the east, shelling broke out. I recognized the sound from the farmhouse. The Red Army was on Berlin’s doorstep.

The Wehrmacht could not stop them. Soon they would be at our door.

The bombings continued night and day. Many times we thought we’d have to evacuate the humble home Irmigard’s family had made. We were jolted awake in our beds or forced to take cover during the day. Protecting ourselves was not an easy task because most buildings around us were already destroyed. At night, we would flee down the stairs to a clearing decimated by bombs and hope the devastated area wasn’t in the line of fire.

According to spotty radio reports from the Reich, the attacks came from all the Allied forces, including the Red Army. Rumors spread that the Allies were racing toward Berlin in a rush to capture the city. Frederick participated in mock drills on the street as the Reds approached. These exercises, conducted by Wehrmacht and SS officers, became increasingly frequent and militaristic as conditions around the city worsened.

“Such nonsense,” he told us one evening at supper. “As if a bunch of amateur street fighters can hold off a well-trained army.”

We, the women, were forced to build barricades with our bare hands. The material was easy to come by: Burned timbers, broken bricks and stones, carts and destroyed car parts were plentiful. However, the work was backbreaking and lasted until our fingers bled and our arms quivered with exhaustion. The army constructed one barricade down the street from our building. It was piled high with building debris and scrap metal. Irmigard even contributed the last of her bricks because she could no longer sell them. Any notion the city could be reconstructed by the Reich faded under the reality of our harsh existence.

On Hitler’s birthday in April, the bombings ceased, creating an eerie calm in the skies. Our respite was short-lived, however, for the heavens opened up with a rain of rockets launched from the outskirts of Berlin. These weapons were more terrifying than bombs because there was little advance warning as the missile screamed toward you. The Red Army was relentless in its shelling. What little was left was blasted to pieces as we prayed for our safety and covered our ears against the thunderous explosions.

On the evening of the twenty-third, Inga called us to the front windows. She wore a housecoat and her hair was drawn back in a ponytail. Although it was near seven and growing dark, I cautioned her against standing in the open. The sky was inky blue in the east while streaks of pink painted the western clouds. Frederick was at the barricade below with several soldiers and an SS officer. The officer barked orders and the soldiers fired at an unseen assailant to the northeast. I sensed something was about to go terribly wrong.

Suddenly, several grenades landed in front of the barricade. They exploded in powerful blasts, throwing shattered rocks, metal and dirt high into the air. We watched as the shrapnel fell, the smoke cleared and our soldiers peered cautiously over the top of the barricade.

“Look,” Inga said. She pointed out the window toward the next street. Five Wehrmacht soldiers were running toward the barricade. As they neared the corner, they were cut down by machine-gun fire. They fell in the street like limp dolls, their weapons flying into the air. Several soldiers in uniforms I didn’t recognize raced around the corner toward the barricade. The men were ragged looking and dressed in gray, with rifles slung in front of them. I assumed they were Reds.

“My God, he’ll be killed,” Inga screamed. “Freddy, Freddy, look out!”

Bullets spattered above our heads, filling the air with dust. We dropped to the floor. “Are you all right?” I asked Inga.

She nodded and shook the dust from her head. “What’s going on? Can you see anything?”

I told the others to remain on the floor while I peered over the top of the casement. Another round of gunfire broke out. The Reds had made it to the front of the barricade and were crawling up it. One was about to throw a grenade when a Wehrmacht soldier scampered up the pile of rubble and started firing. He was cut down, but not before he had killed his opponent. The German fell atop the barricade while the enemy fled from their dead comrade. I ducked, closed my eyes and listened for the explosion. The blast shook our building and Irmigard and her sister began to cry.

“Be quiet,” I said. “We don’t want the Reds to know we are here.”

Again, I peered out the window. The advancing soldiers had retreated for a moment. Only the bottom half of the dead Russian’s body remained on the street. The SS officer shouted orders at Irmigard’s father. The officer wanted him to top the barricade as the soldier had done. Frederick shook his head, threw down his rifle and ran toward the apartment building.

The SS officer ordered him to stop, but Frederick ran on. The officer aimed his pistol and fired twice.

The bullets struck Frederick in the back. He stumbled down the street and then collapsed on the sidewalk. His head smashed against the curb. I knew he was dead.

“What’s going on?” Inga asked. She reared up as if to look below.

I pulled her back. “It’s too dangerous here,” I said. “We have to get out of the building.”

“Why?” Irmigard asked.

“The Reds are on our doorstep. We only have a few minutes.” I crawled toward the other room, encouraging the others to follow.

Another explosion shook the building. Then gunfire rang out, followed by hideous moans of pain.

Irmigard, her mother and sister collapsed on the floor. Inga wept, for she knew her husband was dead. The soldiers below cheered and shouted in Russian. Their cries echoed through the broken windows.

When we got to the room, I closed the French doors and cradled Inga in my arms. She pushed me away.

“I want them dead,” she said in an angry whisper. “I want them all dead. The Germans, the Reds, the Americans…” She sank against my shoulder and cried out, “My husband is gone.”

I had no time to console her. “Don’t look down the street,” I said. “Grab your coats and head for the stairs.”

For a moment, everyone realized the seriousness of our situation and that mourning would have to wait. We gathered our coats and were about to go down the dark hallway when we heard voices below. The Reds were climbing the stairs.

I pushed them back into the room and quietly closed the door. “Get under the blankets and don’t make a sound,” I ordered. They scurried to the bed as I stood near the door.

The soldiers made no attempt to knock. One kicked the door open and shined his torch into the room. I stared back through the blinding glare. The disheveled appearance of the beds was not enough to fool the soldiers. Five of them burst into the room. They were hardened men, two of mixed descent with Asian eyes. The torches gave them a ghostly look, adding to the horror I already felt. One of them poked the bed with his rifle and Helga screamed. He ripped off the blankets, exposing the women.

I could not understand what they were saying, but they made it clear what they wanted by their gestures. Four of them spread out through the apartment while one stood guard with us, his rifle aimed and ready. There was not much to see or find in the three rooms, so soon they were back.