Alice Quan | Originally Published: 16 November 2025
On April 20, 1945, a woman in her early 30s began a diary in a Berlin basement as the Red Army closed in. Despite the relentless advance of Soviet forces, Joseph Goebbels shamelessly exploited the Germans’ historical fear of Eastern invaders, weaving nightmarish tales of impending mass atrocities. Astonishingly, this was a rare instance in history when wartime propaganda aligned with the truth. As the city’s defenders dwindled to young boys and elderly men, nearly two million Berliners, primarily women and children, were left behind without evacuation plans. Berlin teetered on the precipice of catastrophe as vengeful Russian troops neared, seeking retribution after years of conflict.
A Woman in Berlin offers an unapologetic portrayal of the lives of women thrust into the crucible of war. The author’s meticulous recordings span three notebooks and fragments of paper, each word etched onto the page as a form of therapeutic release, an attempt to “get all this confusion out of [her] head and heart.” Beyond its addresses of mass rape and other horrific crimes, the diary sheds light on the dangers of nationalism, the significance of language, and the regression of human progress to archaic times. It stands as one of the most chilling condemnations of war and is among the most important historical discoveries from the Second World War.
The path to the publication of A Woman in Berlin was a long and reluctant affair. The author, a journalist and editor before and after the war, finally witnessed her account translated into English in 1954. Unfortunately, it faced a lack of enthusiasm and denunciation, largely due to society’s struggle with wartime guilt and a disturbing trend of victim blaming.
Accusations of “besmirching the honour of German women” and the discomfort of taboo subjects hindered further publication during the author’s lifetime. It was only two years after Marta Hillers’ passing in 2003 when her identity was finally disclosed. This wartime chronicle is significant as it represents the legacy of an ordinary woman who left behind an extraordinary public record. Her anonymity, driven by fear of societal shame and ostracism, paradoxically grants readers to witness the raw face of war through the eyes of its victims. A Woman in Berlin surpasses simple statistics; it is a visceral exploration of emotions, struggles, and the pursuit of mere survival.
The diary unfolds with a narrative so vivid, it plunges readers deep into the heart of the mass rape it portrays. The faceless assailants of the early pages take on a complex, three-dimensional existence, with distinct personalities and names, such as Petka, a soldier known for his “lumberjack” arms and “bristly blond hair.” What sets this diary apart is its intimate exploration of the author’s own reflections and internal struggles. Her quest for a protector against random acts of violation reveals the transactional nature of relationships forged during wartime. Yet, this dynamic often forces the author to confront cognitive dissonance and engage in moralistic contemplation. As Anatol gives way to “the major,” she questions whether she has unwittingly entered into a form of transaction akin to prostitution, where her body becomes a means to secure sustenance. She wrestles with the fundamental truth that, despite their heinous deeds, the Russian “Ivans” are still men who experience moments of tenderness and empathy. Even amidst looting watches, shredding clothes, slitting throats and beating workers, they bring bread, share stories, and exhibit affection towards infants. Hillers’ storytelling prowess lies in her ability to humanize both victims and aggressors. She refrains from reducing the Russians to mere savages or vessels of evil. Instead, she strips away their veneer, revealing a spectrum of characteristics encompassing brutality and empathy while hinting at their yearning for human connection.
A Woman in Berlin is more than an account of sexual violence; it transcends this dark subject matter to provide a comprehensive portrayal of life during wartime. Hillers masterfully captures the atmosphere inside a bomb shelter, the disintegration of urban life and civil order, and the surreal behaviours of the occupying forces, such as Ivans learning to ride a bike. Her initial exploration of what she aptly dubs “the carcass of Berlin” is a vivid, haunting portrayal of a city in ruins. As she ventures deeper into the bomb shelter, her narrative technique replicates a camera panning across a scene, capturing the faces of shelter occupants as they await the ominous sounds of approaching bombs or scramble to salvage the last remaining edible potato scraps. While the broader context of the war serves as a distant and mostly rumoured backdrop, what sets her account apart is the unwavering focus on the immediate world unfolding before her eyes. No detail eludes her keen observation, from the eerie silence that envelops an entire city as it braces for impending danger, to the eyes of Russian soldiers greedily scanning for war spoils.
Moreover, the diary inadvertently underscores the potent influence of nationalism, even over the thoughtful and analytical. The author, in her pursuit of solace and collective suffering, wishes to “give [herself] over to this communal sense of humanity,” and “belong to the nation.” This yearning for a sense of belonging emphasizes humanity’s desire for collective endurance, even if it arises from shared tragedy. Hillers’ intentional use of “we,” such as in “we have surrendered,” effectively conveys a collective responsibility for the nation’s choices. This shared despair illustrates the emotional and psychological toll of a state complicit in its destruction, highlighting how blind loyalty to nationalistic ideals can result in disillusionment and moral reckoning. Moreover, Hillers’ portrayal of the German people requiring “leadership, orders, [and] command”7 critically examines the role of leadership in a nationalistic context. Germany’s defeat in World War 2 emphasizes that nationalism is fragile, easily turning a powerful source of unity into a destructive force that prolongs suffering when dissolved. Not only does it erode individual agency but nationalism also makes the nation vulnerable to the perilous consequences of misguided leaders.
Hillers also delves into the significance of language in intimate interactions. Amidst the brutal realities of wartime violence, the author and her neighbours adopt a blunt and explicit use of language, discarding euphemisms in their conversations. Words once rich in meaning and expression lose their power to convey the depths of their suffering. The author’s grasp of the Russian language emerges as a distinctive skill; it allows her to discern power dynamics and quickly assess individuals around her. For instance, she astutely recognizes the effects of Anatol’s rural upbringing when he struggles to “keep up with the others” during a debate. Her command of their language enables her to look beyond the surface and perceive the individual beneath, distinguishing “who’s truly evil and who is bearable.” This skill proves invaluable when she encounters “the major,” the first Soviet soldier to address her as a grazhdanka–meaning “citizen,”1 paving the way for a relatively respectful relationship. The author’s approach to language becomes increasingly deliberate. She underscores the importance of ensuring factual accuracy before translation, meticulously verifying what she hears to maintain the authenticity of her accounts. Her question, “Did you hear that? Or see it yourself?” reflects her background as a journalist and highlights her commitment to intellectual honesty amidst the dissemination of propaganda and lies.
From a linguistic perspective, the diary also reveals a “gallows” humour that infiltrates the accounts of these women. Their conversations with each other often commence with a grimly ironic question: “How many times were you raped?” The responses, equally laced with dark humour, might be, “No idea, I had to work my way up through the ranks, from supply train to major.” This bleak levity, born of necessity, births a new form of language. However, this narrative does not seek pity; it maintains a stark, unvarnished portrayal of the horrors of war, openly recounting the tragedies of the final days of the battle for Berlin. In the realm of survival narratives, readers are often moved to tears, empathy, or at the very least, an acknowledgement of the narrator’s courage, even decades later. Yet at every inclination, the author maintains a cynical, half-mocking stance while resisting any hint of sympathy. There is no demand for it, no desire for it, and this perspective offers a refreshing departure from the usual.
The author employs this vivid language to convey the archaic regression of humanity at war, a return to primal instincts reminiscent of animal ancestors. The preference for women who are fat and plump, as the Russians favour, harkens back to ancient ideals where such women were symbols of abundance and fertility. This regression sheds light on the survival-oriented aspects of attraction, the drive to preserve the human species amidst the relentless spectre of death. Moreover, evocative imagery emerges from the author’s writing, such as the depiction of a small group of people “huddled in a cave, a clan, just like prehistoric times.” Even the sanctity of death is lost; the freedom to bury the deceased wherever there is available space reflects the erosion of structured rituals and ceremonies. This senseless and often incomprehensible ability of humans to send their kind to their doom suggests a loss of humanity, likening them more to “certain fish or insects that eat their own offspring.” Hillers’ morbidly candid observations peel away the layers of civilization, exposing a core driven by primal instinct when confronted by the imminent threat of death.
It is crucial to approach A Woman in Berlin, not as a conventional novel, replete with neatly tied endings and coherent arguments, but as a candid open-ended account. Readers may never fully comprehend the driving forces behind the author’s decisions, nor the enduring ambition that compelled her to rebuild a publishing company. Yet, this enigmatic quality amplifies its authenticity, rendering it an unfiltered reflection of life under foreign occupation, devoid of the neat resolutions often found in fiction.
It would be dangerous to dismiss A Woman in Berlin as a mere relic of the past. Instead, the diary’s major themes remain a poignant and relevant piece of literature, chronicling the stories of those who have been forgotten and forsaken by the outside world. She has penned a true literary masterpiece, abundant with character and insight while ignoring the idealized notions of wartime heroism. Hillers courageously paints war in its truest form: merciless, senseless, and devastatingly ugly. In doing so, she staked claims that remain strikingly important to the contemporary world. Her observations on the cancerous nature of nationalism, the erosion of individual identity under foreign occupation, and the devastation of human progress in war provoke ongoing dialogues on matters such as human rights, the scope of state intervention, and the strategies for peacekeeping.
A Woman in Berlin is an indispensable literary testament to the unsung voices of history; a story that has endured the test of time and transcended the boundaries of a bygone era. By courageously shedding light on the dark corners of nationalism’s allure, the transformative use of language, and the chilling regression to prehistoric times, the diary invites readers to engage in vital conversations about the perseverance of human dignity and the responsibilities of states in times of crisis. A Woman in Berlin demands attention and serves as a reflection of universal truths that persist today, reminding readers that the pages of history are never truly turned; they remain open, waiting for readers to learn, empathize, and ensure that such suffering is never again repeated.
References
1. Anonymous. A Woman in Berlin. Edited by Antony Beevor and Hans Magnus Enzensberger. Translated by Philip Boehm. London: Virago, 2006.
The Attaché 