The Kindly Ones

The Tuesday raid, even though it had involved only half as many aircraft as Monday’s, promised to turn out to be even more disastrous. The working-class neighborhoods, especially Wedding, had been hit hard. By the end of the afternoon we had gathered enough information to form a brief report: we counted about 2,000 dead, with hundreds more beneath the rubble; 3,000 buildings burned or destroyed; and 175,000 people homeless, of whom 100,000 had already been able to leave the city, either for surrounding villages or other cities in Germany. Around six o’clock we dismissed all the people who weren’t doing essential work; I stayed a little longer, and was still on the road, with a driver from the garage, when the sirens began to wail again. I decided not to continue on to the Eden: the bar-shelter didn’t inspire much confidence in me, and I preferred to avoid a repetition of the drinking bout of the night before. I ordered the driver to go around the zoo to reach the large bunker. A crowd was pressed at the doors, which were too narrow and too few; cars came and parked at the foot of the concrete façade; in front of them, in a reserved area, dozens of baby carriages stretched out in concentric circles. Inside, soldiers and policemen barked out orders for people to move upstairs; at each floor a crowd formed, no one wanted to go higher up, women were screaming, while their children ran through the crowd playing war games. We were directed to the third floor, but the benches, lined up as in a church, were already crowded, and I went to lean against the concrete wall. My driver had disappeared in the crowd. Soon afterward the .88s on the roof opened fire: the entire immense structure vibrated, pitching like a ship on the high seas. People, thrown against their neighbors, shouted or groaned. The lights dimmed but didn’t go out. In recesses and in the darkness of the spiral staircases leading from floor to floor, teenage couples clung to each other, intertwined; some even seemed to be making love—you could hear through the explosions moans of a different tone from those of panic-stricken housewives; old people protested indignantly, the Schupos bellowed, ordering people to remain seated. I wanted to smoke but it was forbidden. I looked at the woman sitting on the bench in front of me: she kept her head lowered, I could just see her blond, exceptionally thick, shoulder-length hair. A bomb exploded nearby, making the bunker tremble and throwing up a cloud of concrete dust. The young woman raised her head and I recognized her right away: she was the one I met sometimes in the morning, on the trolley. She too recognized me and a gentle smile lit up her face while she held out her white hand to me: “Hello! I was worried about you.”—“Why?” With the flak and the explosions we could barely hear each other, I crouched down and bent toward her. “You weren’t at the pool Sunday,” she said into my ear. “I was afraid something had happened to you.” Sunday was already another life, it seemed to me; but it was only three days ago. “I was in the country. Does the pool still exist?” She smiled again: “I don’t know.” Another powerful explosion shook the structure and she seized my hand and grasped it strongly; when it was over she let it go, excusing herself. Despite the yellowish light and the dust, I had the impression she was blushing slightly. “Forgive me,” I asked her, “what is your name?”—“Helene,” she replied. “Helene Anders.” I introduced myself. She worked at the press agency of the Auswärtiges Amt

; her office, like most of the ministry, had been destroyed Monday night, but her parents’ house, in Alt Moabit, where she lived, was still standing. “Before this raid, in any case. And you?” I laughed: “I had offices at the Ministry of the Interior, but they burned down. For now, I’m at the SS-Haus.” We continued chatting till the end of the alert. She had gone on foot to Charlottenburg to comfort a homeless girlfriend; the sirens had caught her on the way back, and she had taken refuge there, in the bunker. “I didn’t think they’d come back a third night in a row,” she said softly.—“To tell the truth, I didn’t either,” I replied, “but I’m happy it’s given us the chance to see each other again.” I said that to be polite; but I realized it wasn’t just to be polite. This time, she blushed visibly; her tone still remained frank and clear: “Me too. Our trolley will probably be out of service for a while.” When the lights came back on, she got up and brushed off her coat. “If you like,” I said, “I can take you home. If I still have a car,” I added, laughing. “Don’t say no. It’s not very far away.”