When Berlin Fell

In the final days of the Second World War in Europe, a Soviet translator and his two colleagues accept a sex-for-protection offer from three young German women.

Author’s Introduction: This is a piece of historical fiction. It is set during the final days of the Second World War in Europe when the Soviet Union’s Red Army was advancing throughout the suburbs and into the heart of Berlin, the German capital city. Nazi Germany was in its death throes. Its vulnerable citizens had no protection. The conquering troops, many of them illiterate, uncultured ruffians from the far reaches of the Soviet Union, were actually encouraged by Josef Stalin to engage in the mass rape of German women as an act of vengeance. The term “women” is used very loosely here. Any German female from young schoolgirls to elderly women were likely to be sexually assaulted—many of them repeatedly. Moreover, they were commonly murdered afterwards, especially if they offered the slightest resistance to being violated. Suicides were often common, too. Conservative estimates put the number of rape victims in and around Berlin at 90,000. The story is told by a Soviet linguist, Vasily, a non-combatant, who had been conscripted into the Red Army to serve as an interpreter.

Part One

My name is Vasily. I am 32 years old. My last name is unimportant, so I won’t mention it. Before the Great Patriotic War (as we call it in the Soviet Union), I was a linguist employed at a major university. My job was to teach gifted students various languages so they could work for the country’s foreign ministry. I myself could speak six languages. I was especially good at German, so when the war broke out, my country promptly sought my services. Without ever volunteering, I became a member of the Red Army. I was often called upon to translate captured German documents. That job I liked. Occasionally, I assisted with the interrogation of German prisoners. That job I didn’t like. I hated the Germans and was disgusted by the sight of them. I knew in my heart that a great many of them were not hard-core Nazis, but ordinary Germans who were swept into the war by time, place and circumstances. By 1943, I didn’t care. Ther Germans had destroyed huge tracts of the Soviet Union and were barbaric in their subjugation of the population. I didn’t waste time trying to determine which Germans were evil and which ones were just typical soldiers. To me they were all contemptable scum.

When Stalingrad was liberated in January 1943, it was the beginning of the end of Nazi Germany. There were no more great advancements for the invaders. They would be in constant retreat from that point onward for the next two years. By late April of 1945, the Soviet Army had advanced well into Germany and was on the doorstep of Berlin. Victory was inevitable, but the well-trained German troops fanatically resisted. Many chose to fight to the death, as Adolf Hitler advised them to do, rather than surrender. The casualties on both sides were staggering. I did not carry a gun, but I witnessed history unfolding not far from the front lines. Now I was constantly needed to help interview captured Germans to pry information from them. Often it was a pointless exercise. The typical German soldier was merely a peon. He knew very little about the grand scheme of things. As his world collapsed around him, all he knew was the name of his company and its approximate size—which was constantly dwindling. By the time he was interrogated by me, his information was already obsolete and thus useless to the Red Army.

I saw what was happening to the German civilians as the Red Army advanced westward through city after city. They were left to fend for themselves as their army retreated. Housefuls of women, children and old men were defenseless. Soviet soldiers, entered the abodes, took whatever they wanted as spoils of war, and did whatever they liked to the hapless occupants. Not surprisingly, they liked to sexually ravage the females—and they weren’t particularly choosy about their ages. It was partially an act of revenge and partially pure lust. A soldier engaged in combat, who doesn’t know if this day will be his last, doesn’t have a lot of scruples directing his behavior toward the women of his enemy. If a German had a vagina, she was likely to be raped regardless of her age.

Furthermore, this behavior seemed to be casually dismissed by Soviet leader Josef Stalin. At least he did not publicly condemn the widespread mass sexual violence committed by the Red Army in occupied Germany. Instead, he broadly dismissed the troops’ actions, allegedly saying to one concerned Yugoslavian communist leader, "Can’t you understand if a soldier who has crossed thousands of kilometers through blood and fire and death has fun with a woman or takes some trifle?" On another occasion, Stalin was reported to have said, "We lecture our soldiers too much; let them have some initiative!"

Some German females who were raped over and over again simply expired from the cumulative physical abuse. Others felt shame and committed suicide afterward. Any German male who tried to intervene to prevent his wife, daughter or mother from being violated was quickly shot.

After a while, some German women figured it was best to take the initiative and personally approach Soviet soldiers with offers of sex in exchange for their protection and perhaps gifts of food which was in short supply for the local population. That was basically what happened to me.

One day I was in a Berlin suburb interrogating a group of captured boy soldiers with two other interpreters. They were all under the age of 15 and had just surrendered to a Soviet tank crew. They were offering very little useful military information, so I just passed them down the line to an army unit that was busily processing German prisoners. In the distance, but rapidly approaching us, I was surprised to see three German women who seemed to be in their early twenties. They were slowly walking toward me and my colleagues with their arms raised to show us they did not present any sort of threat. One was holding a white handkerchief aloft to symbolize their surrender to us. When they got within 20 yards of us, one of them shouted in German, “We will provide sex to you in exchange for food and protection.” I suspected we had been purposely selected by these desperate women because we looked clean and presentable, quite unlike our battle-weary soldiers who often had hygiene problems and generally stank.

When I answered her in perfect German, their spokeswoman was pleasantly surprised. I told her, “Come forward, you three. You will not be harmed by us. We will discuss your situation.”

All three of the young German women were surprisingly well dressed. It occurred to me that they probably donned their finest clothing so they could look their very best when they offered to prostitute themselves for food and protection. The one who did the most talking was named Marta. She claimed she was 22 years old, which I did not doubt. She also said the she and her two friends (who were about the same age) all lived in what was left of an apartment building half a mile away. Half of it had been blasted into smithereens, but somehow their units survived generally unscathed.

“We are frightened and hungry,” she candidly informed me. “We will gladly be your sex partners in exchange for food and your protection from the regular Russian soldiers.” I did not answer right away. I asked them to tell me what they had experienced since the Red Army had arrived. It was beyond awful.

One’s ten-year-old sister had been sexually molested but not raped by a young Russian soldier who was perhaps 16. When he prematurely ejaculated, the girl laughed at him. He angrily responded by slitting her throat with his army knife. Another saw her mother being gang-raped by an entire battalion of inebriated soldiers who shot and bayonetted her afterwards for no particular reason. All three of them had been raped at least three times, so they were looking for a way to make life under Soviet occupation easier for themselves. Marta said that we officers were at least “clean and presentable” and would be preferable as sex partners than “the drunken, smelly, ordinary, Russian soldiers.”

My two colleagues and I all thought this was an excellent idea. We each chose a girl as a mistress. I picked Marta. I thought she was attractive both facially and physically. We gave them hand-written notes in Russian that said they were the girlfriends of officers assigned as translators to our Army group and they should not be molested in any way. We also taught them a few phrases in Russian, such as “I am a Soviet officer’s girlfriend. Do not harm me.”

With that agreement settled, we separated into three pairs and went inside a bombed-out shell of a former municipal office building. Marta accompanied me to one room that had some usable chairs. She disrobed in a very businesslike fashion. I had not had intercourse with a woman for seven months, so I quickly became aroused at the mere prospect of having sexual relations with this appealing German girl. I sat on a chair, dropped my pants, and began tugging on my penis to get an erection. Marta, now fully nude, helped me with that. She even gave me oral sex which almost caused me to ejaculate in her mouth. When my dick was fully erect, Marta climbed aboard me. The feeling of my penis penetrating her vagina was quite lovely. I didn’t care that she was a German enemy. She could have been a Martian for all I cared at that moment. I lifted her up and down on my stiff shaft and fondled her breasts. Within two minutes I had reached an orgasm. I fired my jism deep into Marta’s womb. It was a thoroughly enjoyable experience for me—and I told her so in her native language. I referred to her as my “buxom fuck friend.” Marta laughed at the accurate description.

My two colleagues lasted about as long as I did before they ejaculated inside their respective German girls. We procured some food for them and escorted them back to their dwellings. The girls were surprisingly affectionate to us, plying us with kisses, because we had shown them kindness—unlike the rapist Soviet soldiers who had terrorized them and their families.

The next morning, Marta reported to me again. She told me that the letter I had written for her had already served its purpose well. It had scared off a battalion of soldiers who had arrived to rape them. Marta was crying with joy from having escaped an awful fate. In gratitude, she performed oral sex on me again—basically right in the middle of the street. German girls prostituting themselves to Russian officers had become so commonplace that nobody paid much attention to it. I laid Marta on her back and gave her a good screwing, once again coming in her vagina. When I pulled my dripping penis from Marta’s body, one of my interpreter colleagues said jokingly to me in Russian, “Well done, Vasily! Comrade Stalin would approve.”

This routine went on for several days. Marta and her two friends would arrive where we were stationed. We would give them food and they would give us their bodies to enjoy. I did not realize it at first, but I was growing fond of Marta. That didn’t stop me from being sexually liberal, however. One day my colleague Yuri suggested that the three of us swap sexual partners that day “for the sake of variety”. Ivan and I quickly agreed. The girls had no say in the matter. I fucked Yuri’s regular partner, a 21-year-old fair-haired lass named Greta who was very busty. I rode her joyfully and thoroughly, but instead of coming inside Greta, I pulled out and ejaculated across her ample breasts. I began to laugh at my achievement, but I stopped when I saw that Ivan was being very rough with Marta—which I did not like to see. He was crudely trying to insert the neck of a vodka bottle inside her vagina. Marta began whimpering with pain. I immediately objected to how Ivan was manhandling “my fraulein.” This led to a loud argument; we nearly came to blows. I allowed Ivan to finish fucking Marta in the normal manner. I heard him grunt which indicated he had ejaculated. The moment he pulled out of Marta, I gathered her in my arms and took her away to safety. She was crying from the ordeal. I consoled her in German. I promised her that would never happen again as long as I was nearby to prevent it. Those few words seemed to cheer Marta up. Somehow, I was developing feelings for this lovely enemy girl—which surprised me greatly.

One thing I noticed during my time serving in occupied Germany was that there were very few roll calls being taken. Soldiers were often absent for a long time; many were on drunken screwing sprees. It was assumed they would all eventually report back to their units when it was time for them to move out. I determined the current situation was favorable to do something very bold. I decided to travel to an area of Germany that was occupied by the Americans. I would take Marta and we would both defect. I knew that the Americans would love to have me because they were woefully short of interpreters of any sort, much less ones who were fluent in both German and Russian. I figured I would not be missed for a long time. Even if I were marked as AWOL, I had no living relatives in the Soviet Union. There was no one whom the state could punish for my being a deserter.

I traveled to Marta’s shabby home and told her of my plan. She was all in favor of it, although she was fearful about what would happen to the two of us if the plan went awry and we were caught by the Soviet military police. It actually worked out quite easily. Marta and I were allowed to board a westward-traveling truck. I explained that I had been ordered to do some translating for an American unit and that Marta possessed some important information about the German military that the Americans wanted to gain. Marta and I were literally dropped off at the border where the Russian and American sectors met. When I explained to an American MP that I was a translator, I was welcomed with open arms because they knew there was a critical shortage in that field. When I explained that Marta was “my new German wife” I was congratulated.

The next day, I confessed to the Americans that while I was indeed a translator who knew six languages, I was also a deserter who had fled the Soviet Army with a vulnerable German girl. That fact especially endeared me to the Americans. They had heard the horror stories about what was typically happening to thousands of German women at the hands of Russian troops and were appalled by it. Anyone who helped allay this situation in the slightest was considered a hero to them. If the Russians were looking for me, they didn’t find me. They likely assumed I had been killed somehow and my body was never recovered. The Soviet Red Army simply did not value the lives of their own soldiers. The men who wore the Red Army uniforms were merely statistics to them.

Within a short time, I was put to work as a multi-lingual translator for the American Army and given the temporary rank of captain. (That was exactly the same rank I had held during my time in the Soviet Army.) They also gave me and Marta an officer’s quarters to share, not realizing that we weren’t really married. I wasn’t about to correct that misunderstanding. “We better act like we are married, Vasily!” Marta joked. “We don’t want to upset our hosts. They might send us back to the Russian sector.” I wasn’t going to argue with her about that. I knew full well that screwing Marta was something I’d never tire of doing in a thousand years. She was that sexually appealing to me!

For the first time, Marta and I finally shared a bed for sex, rather than copulating on a hard floor, or an office chair, or a city street. It was lovely and an obvious improvement. With no fear of hunger or being repeatedly raped in her own home, Marta seemed to relax more, which was wholly understandable. The end result was that she was a fabulous bedmate for me. Of course, I was delighted. She was a vivacious young female, a decade my junior, who adored me. Most of all Marta was grateful to me for having spared her from the drunken Soviet troops who were occupying her city. She was only too happy to display her gratitude to me as my sexy bedmate. I grew to love her.

Marta was always enthusiastic and loving in bed—and somewhat sexually insatiable. The first night I screwed her from behind as a novelty. That was new to us. I hadn’t appreciated her charming bottom before that night, and I enjoyed caressing her plump cheeks very much. Marta appreciated another aspect of it. “I can take more of your dick when we fuck this way,” she informed me about being screwed doggy-style. I made a mental note of that. Once I had regained an erection, I penetrated Marta with a side-by-side screw that allowed me to fondle her attractive breasts while my penis lovingly plowed her vagina. My second ejaculation was surprisingly stronger than the first one! Marta was bringing out the best in me. I gleefully told Marta in German, “Your vagina is truly wonderful. It is making me do superhuman sexual things in bed.” That praise was totally accurate.

Sometimes I enjoyed sex with Marta three times a day only to hear her say, “Do you have another load in your balls, Vasily? Can you ejaculate a fourth time for me, my dear?” Often, I had to sadly admit I did not.

When the war ended, I decided to stay in the American army. Translators were still needed in postwar Germany. Marta even learned English well enough to become a capable secretary at one of the bases. One day I surprised her by bringing home an army chaplain to properly marry us. By that time, she was six months into her pregnancy. We did the math. By our calculations, Marta had become pregnant on the first day we had copulated on the chair in the bombed-out office building in the Berlin suburb.