A Woman in Berlin is a journal the author kept during a few weeks when Berlin fell to the Russians. It is insightful and heartbreaking. Her descriptions are so vivid that I found myself feeling as though I was with her and her fellow tenants in the basement hiding from the approaching Russian Army. Having heard rumors of what the soldiers might do to them, the women cowered in fear and attempted to save themselves by any means possible (one brilliant ploy revealed in this book is that some women were hidden in the typhoid ward at the hospital). The women soon discovered that the victors were not discriminatory about who their victims were- the old, the infirm, the married, the unattractive. One woman who had eczema on her face (a disfigurement that made the author a bit queasy) was spared for a bit, but eventually fell victim to the Russians as well. The author tells of daily discussions with other women about “it”... some women are too ashamed to discuss it, others cope by joking around. One woman brags that the Russians went straight for her- but left her ugly sister alone. Like the other women, the author finds her own way to cope.

I was extremely fascinated to discover the German perspective of the war. The realization the Hitler and his cohorts were not the genius leaders they were made out to be unfolds as the Berliners find out that much of what they believed to be true was pure propaganda. They begin to jeer Hitler, as well as the one holdout in town who still sings the praises of the fuehrer. Of Hitler, the author tells of a quip she heard while hiding in the basement: “Just think of how much better off we’d be if his old lady’d had a miscarriage.” (p. 28)

In the beginning, she wrote, “There’s a split between my aloofness, the desire to keep my private life to myself, and the urge to be like everyone else, to belong to the nation, to abide and suffer history together.” (p. 18) To me, this explains why she even bothered to write this journal. Considering the circumstances, it’s amazing that she had the forethought to do so. I admire that, and I feel connected to the author partly for this reason. I feel fortunate to have shared a few weeks of the author’s life with her.