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When the Russian army took Berlin in 1945, it carried out the largest mass rape of women of that era. In Treptower Park on the outskirts of Berlin stands a twelve-metre statue depicting a Soviet soldier holding a sword in one hand and a little German girl in the other, with a shattered swastika beneath his feet.
This is the final resting place of 5,000 of the 80,000 Soviet soldiers who died in the Battle of Berlin between 16 April and 2 May 1945. The colossal scale of the monument reflects the scale of the sacrifice. At the top of a long flight of steps you can look down toward the base of the statue, illuminated like a religious shrine. One inscription prominently declares that the Soviet people saved European civilisation from fascism. Yet some Germans call the memorial the “Tomb of the Unknown Rapist.”
Stalin’s troops assaulted countless women as they fought their way toward the German capital, although after the war this was rarely discussed in either West or East Germany, and it remains a taboo subject in Russia to this day.
Russian media regularly dismiss discussion of rape as a Western myth, although one of the many sources describing what happened is the diary kept by a young Soviet officer. Vladimir Gelfand, a young Jewish lieutenant in the Red Army, wrote with extraordinary frankness in a diary from 1941 until the end of the war, despite the Soviet military ban on keeping diaries, which were regarded as a security risk.
The manuscript paints a picture of disorder in regular battalions: miserable rations, lice, routine antisemitism and theft, with men even stealing their comrades’ boots. In February 1945 Gelfand was on an embankment by the Oder River preparing for the final assault on Berlin, and he describes how his comrades surrounded and overpowered a battalion of female combatants.
“The captured German women said that they were taking revenge for their dead husbands,” he writes. The soldiers shouted that they should be killed without mercy. Some then suggested stabbing them through the genitals in order to save ammunition, but Gelfand, as a lieutenant, ordered that they simply be shot, in accordance with orders from Moscow. There was no possibility of keeping prisoners in that battle.
What followed was worse. One of the most revealing passages in Gelfand’s diary is dated 25 April, when he reached Berlin. Gelfand was riding a bicycle along the Spree—something he had never done before—when he encountered a group of German women carrying suitcases and trunks.
Speaking to them in poor German, he asked where they were going and why they had left their homes. “With horror on their faces they told me what had happened on the first night after the arrival of the Red Army,” he writes.
“They poked me here,” a pretty German girl explained, lifting her skirt, “all night. They were old, some were covered in pimples, and they all climbed on me and poked me—at least twenty men,” she said through tears as she described what had happened.
“They raped my daughter in front of me,” her distraught mother added, “and they may still come back and rape her again.” The thought terrified them all.
“Stay here,” the girl suddenly begged him. “Sleep with me! You can do whatever you want with me, but only you. We need protection, please!”
By this time German soldiers had been committing sexual violence and other atrocities in the Soviet Union for nearly four years, and Gelfand knew this as he advanced toward Berlin. “He passed through many villages where the Nazis had killed everyone, even small children. And he saw evidence of rape.”
The Wehrmacht was supposed to be a well-organised army of Aryans who would never consider sex with non-Aryans. But that prohibition was ignored, says Oleg Budnitsky, a historian at Moscow’s Higher School of Economics. Nazi commanders were so concerned about venereal disease that they created an entire network of military brothels throughout the occupied territories.
Direct evidence of how German soldiers treated Russian women is difficult to find—many victims did not survive—but at the German-Russian Museum in Berlin-Karlshorst, director Jörg Morré shows a photograph taken in Crimea from the private wartime album of a German soldier. It depicts the body of a woman stretched out on the ground.
“It looks as if she was killed during a rape or after being raped. Her skirt is pulled up and her hands are frozen in front of her face,” he says.
“It is a shocking photograph. At the museum we discussed whether we should show photographs like this—this is war, this is sexual violence as part of German policy in the Soviet Union. We show the war. We do not merely talk about the war; we show it.”
As the Red Army advanced toward what the Soviet press called the “lair of the fascist beast,” posters urged the troops to display their anger: “Soldier: you are now on German soil. The hour of revenge has come!”
They encouraged anything directed against the Germans. The political department of the 19th Army, advancing into Germany along the Baltic coast, declared that a true Soviet soldier would be so filled with hatred for the Germans that the thought of sex with German women would repel him. Once again the soldiers proved the ideologues wrong.
While researching his 2002 book Berlin: The Downfall, historian Antony Beevor found documents concerning sexual violence in the State Archive of the Russian Federation. They had been sent by the secret police to NKVD chief Lavrentiy Beria at the end of 1944.
“They were passed on to Stalin,” Beevor says. They reported mass rapes in East Prussia and described German women trying to kill their children and themselves in order to avoid such a fate.
Another wartime diary, this time written by the fiancée of an absent German soldier, shows how some women adapted to these terrible circumstances in order to survive. Beginning on 20 April 1945, ten days before Hitler’s suicide, the anonymous author, like Vladimir Gelfand, is unsparingly honest, sharply observant and at times capable of flashes of black humour.
Describing herself as a “pale-faced blonde, always wearing the same winter coat,” the diarist draws vivid portraits of her neighbours in the air-raid shelter beneath a Berlin apartment building, including “a young man in grey trousers and tortoiseshell glasses who, on closer inspection, turns out to be a young woman,” and three elderly sisters, “all seamstresses, huddling together like a great black pudding.”
While waiting for the Red Army to arrive, they joke crudely about whether Russians or Americans would be preferable. But when Russian soldiers enter the cellar and try to drag women away, they ask the day labourer among them to use her knowledge of Russian to complain to the Soviet command.
Confronted with chaos in the debris-clogged streets, she manages to find a senior officer. He shrugs. Despite Stalin’s order prohibiting violence against civilians, he says: “It happens anyway.”
The officer returns with her to the cellar and reprimands the soldiers, but one of them boils with rage. “What do you mean? Do you know what the Germans did to our women?” he shouts. “They took my sister and…” The officer calms the men and leads them outside.
But when the diarist returns to the cellar to make sure they have gone, the men catch up with her and seize her. She is brutally raped and nearly strangled. Her frightened neighbours—the “cave dwellers,” as she calls them—slam the cellar door shut in front of her.
“At last the two iron bars open. Everyone stares at me,” she writes. “My stockings are rolled down to my boots, and I am still holding what remains of my braces. I begin to scream: ‘You pigs! I was raped here twice in succession and you left me lying there like a piece of dirt!’”
Eventually the diarist realises that she needs to find a “wolf” in order to avoid gang rape by the “male beasts.” The relationship between aggressor and victim becomes less violent, more transactional—and more ambiguous. She shares a bed with a senior officer from Leningrad, with whom she discusses literature and the meaning of life.
“One cannot possibly say that the major is raping me,” she writes. “Am I doing this for bacon, butter, sugar, candles and canned meat? To some extent, I am sure I am. Besides, I like the major, and the less he wants from me as a woman, the more I like him as a person.”
Many of the diarist’s neighbours made similar arrangements with the conquerors amid the ruins of Berlin.
When the diary was published in German in 1959 under the title A Woman in Berlin, the author’s frank account of the choices she made in order to survive was attacked for “dishonouring” German women. Unsurprisingly, she refused to allow the book to be republished during her lifetime.
Seventy years after the end of the war, new research continues to appear on sexual violence committed by all Allied forces—American, British and French as well as Soviet. For decades, however, the subject escaped official attention. Few people reported it, and even fewer were willing to listen.
Alongside the social stigma, in East Germany it was sacrilegious to criticise the Soviet heroes who had defeated fascism, while on the other side of the Wall, in West Germany, guilt over Nazi crimes made German suffering almost impossible to mention.
In 2008, however, the Berlin woman’s diary was adapted for film under the title Anonyma, starring the well-known German actress Nina Hoss. The film had a cathartic effect in Germany and encouraged many women, including Ingeborg Bullert, to tell their stories.
Ingeborg, now ninety, lived in Hamburg in an apartment filled with photographs of cats and books about the theatre. In 1945 she was twenty, dreamed of becoming an actress, and lived with her mother on an affluent street in Berlin’s Charlottenburg district.
When the Soviet assault on the city began, she, like the diarist, took shelter in the cellar of her apartment building.
“Suddenly there were tanks on our street, and the bodies of Russian and German soldiers lay everywhere,” she recalls. “I remember the terrible wailing sound made by those Russian rockets—we called them ‘Stalinorgeln’ [Stalin’s organs].”
During a lull in the air raids, Ingeborg left the cellar and ran upstairs to find a piece of string that could serve as a lamp wick. “Suddenly two Russians pointed pistols at me,” she says. “One forced me to undress and raped me, then they changed places and the second raped me too. I thought I was going to die, that they were going to kill me.”
Ingeborg told no one about what had happened either then or for decades afterward; she says it was simply too difficult. “My mother liked to boast that nobody had touched her daughter,” she says.
But rape affected women in families throughout Berlin. Ingeborg remembers women between fifteen and fifty-five being forced to undergo tests for sexually transmitted infections. “To receive food ration cards you needed a doctor’s certificate, and I remember the waiting rooms of all the doctors issuing those certificates being full of women.”
How extensive was the rape?
The most widely quoted figure is 100,000 women in Berlin and two million across Germany. The figure is heavily disputed and was extrapolated from the limited medical records that survived.
At a former munitions factory that now houses the State Archive, Martin Luchterhand shows an armful of blue cardboard folders. They contain records of abortions performed between July and October 1945 in Neukölln, one of Berlin’s twenty-four districts, and it is something of a miracle that they survived intact.
Abortion in Germany was prohibited under Section 218 of the Criminal Code, but Luchterhand says that “there was a small window for these women because of the exceptional situation created by the mass rapes of 1945.”
Altogether, 995 applications for abortion were approved in this Berlin district office between June 1945 and 1946. The files contain more than a thousand fragile sheets of paper in different colours and sizes.
In a round, childlike hand, one girl testifies that she was assaulted in the living room of her home in front of her parents.
We will probably never know the true scale of the rapes. Soviet military tribunal records and other sources remain classified. More recently, the Russian parliament adopted a law under which denigrating Russia’s achievements in the Second World War can be punished by a fine and up to five years in prison.
Vera Dubina, a young historian at the Moscow University for the Humanities, says she knew nothing about the rapes until an academic placement brought her to Berlin. She later wrote an article on the subject but struggled to get it published.
“The Russian media reacted very aggressively,” she says. “People want to hear only about our glorious victory in the Great Patriotic War, and it is becoming increasingly difficult to conduct full and proper research.”