Berlin Wolf

by Mark Florida-James

  ‘Only ten kilometres to home, Wolfi, so a nice long walk for both of us,’ he said.

  Where possible it was better for both to walk on soft ground. They were less likely to come across any other pedestrians if they avoided the paths. The combination of the blackout and the blackness of the night allowed them to cover ground rapidly. Whereas a man might struggle across rough terrain in the darkness, Wolfi’s instincts enabled him to lead Peter around the various bushes and shrubbery that might otherwise have been an obstacle.

  Peter’s navigation technique was quite simple: he would retrace their route and stay as far as possible next to the river. This admirable approach was successful to a point; however he knew that in parts the river opened into lakes and tributaries making for tiring detours. In normal circumstances he would have relished a long walk with Wolfi. He was exhausted from the two recent duckings, he was cold and still very wet and most of all, apart from Wolfi, he was alone and scared.

  As he walked he still wondered about the wisdom of returning home. He knew, in spite of Papa keeping it from him, that they were on a list to be deported. He had heard Papa telling Mama the night before their flight. Perhaps the Nazis would be waiting for him?

  ‘Where else can we go?’ he thought. With no obvious alternative, they continued their journey, only stopping to try and regain their bearings.

  After some time he noted that they were approaching the more densely built-up part of the river. He knew at some point he would have to brave the streets.

  He tried to guess the time, estimating that it was somewhere between eleven and midnight. At some stage he hoped to hear the chime of one of the many clocks on public buildings or even to see the face of a clock. At least when he got home he could retrieve his wristwatch. He had cursed himself when he had earlier realised he had left it behind. Why hadn’t he listened to Papa? All the times he had chastised him for arriving home late for the evening meal when Peter’s excuse was always the same – he had forgotten to wear his watch. He could easily spend hours with Wolfi in Grünewald and on Schlachtensee shutting out the outside world, losing all track of time. Often it was the realisation that he was hungry that made him return.

  Now he was free of any restraints as to where he went, what he did and when he returned, Peter yearned to be chastised by Papa once more.

  ‘Ah well, let’s just get home first,’ Peter sighed.

  His thoughts abruptly returned to their current predicament. A distant rumble like approaching thunder was getting closer and closer. Then the air raid siren started wailing and the bombs began to fall. The explosions were still some way from them. Wolfi cowered with fear nonetheless.

  ‘If only you were a gun dog,’ Peter said, only half in joke.

  Wolfi, fearless in nearly all situations had, like many civilians, not overcome his terror of the air raids. Peter knelt down and began scratching Wolfi’s ears. Usually both dog and boy would hide under the oak table in the drawing room. Papa had often found them there, comforting each other. Here they were in the open air some distance from home with only a few sparse bushes for shelter.

  Peter knew that, frightening though it may be, this was their best opportunity to cover a large distance quickly. The only persons on the streets would be the anti-aircraft battalions, the air raid wardens and fire-fighters trying to limit the damage. None of them would have the time or the desire to concern themselves with a boy and a dog.

  ‘I’m sorry boy, we must go,’ he whispered in Wolfi’s ear. Peter got up and began walking briskly.Wolfi did not move. He was still trembling. Tugging the lead harder, Peter moved off. Wolfi took a few hesitant steps. He was shaking uncontrollably.

  ‘We have to go boy,’ Peter urged.

  He knew the air raid shelter was not safe for them. He bent down and stroked Wolfi’s large fluffy ears whilst whispering words of comfort at the same time.

  ‘There boy, it will be all right. Those bombs will save us one day.’

  Little comforted, Wolfi licked Peter’s face and began to walk. Within an hour they had travelled a distance of almost six kilometres. For the most part they were able to take the most direct route, always keeping the river in view. Everywhere there was the chaotic noise of sirens and the sound of bombs falling. Usually these raids were over quite quickly. This one seemed more prolonged. For once Peter welcomed the raid, even though it terrified Wolfi. By now they had reached the suburbs of Wilmersdorf. It was an area Peter knew well. He had once gone to school there. They could take a more direct route, temporarily leaving the river behind. Soon they rounded the corner into Kleiststrasse, in the borough of Zehlendorf and Peter’s pace quickened.

  ‘Almost home,’ he thought. At the speed they were travelling they might make it within the next hour.

  * * *

  It was the sound of buildings on fire and collapsing timbers that Peter noticed at first. Then the calls of rescue workers digging amongst rubble adjacent to the same building, as volunteer fire-fighters sought to put out the flames. A soldier in the grey uniform of the Wehrmacht was barking orders. Turning to retrace their steps, Peter heard a shout from behind.

  ‘You boy, over here! We need as much help as we can get.’ Peter ignored the shout.

  ‘You, with the dog, come here now!’

  Peter looked back, then reluctantly he and Wolfi walked towards the soldier. As they approached he could see that he was an officer, a major he guessed from his insignia. Whilst Peter deliberated whether to salute, the Major reached out his hand to stroke Wolfi who obligingly turned his head to accommodate him. Wolfi clearly had no fear of the Major.

  ‘Great dog!’ the Major shouted above the din. ‘Now bring him over and let’s see if he can sniff out any survivors.’

  Peter wanted to say that he was a sheep dog, not a sniffer dog. Instead they followed dutifully. The Major came to a stop by a mass of entangled concrete and metal. He stooped down and, caressing Wolfi under his chin, whispered into the dog’s ear. Peter did not hear what was said. Whatever it was it had an effect. Wolfi clambered over the pile of smoking rubble, sniffing as he went. After some ten minutes, when all hope seemed lost, the dog began digging frantically. Loose masonry and half bricks were sent flying by the dog’s powerful paws. Just seconds later Wolfi suddenly sat down and began to bark loudly.

  ‘Over here!’ the Major yelled, beckoning the auxillary firemen to the spot where Wolfi sat.

  The firemen were tired and hungry. They had seen so much death and destruction that they longed to return home. Their faces were black with smoke and grime, yet even that could not hide their disbelief that a mere dog was dictating the rescue effort.

  In spite of their concerns, after almost an hour of careful digging a wounded and bedraggled man in his fifties was pulled free of the ruins.

  ‘Thank you! Thank you so much!’ he spluttered, seized by a coughing fit. He was covered from head to foot in dust. The only object clearly visible was his lapel badge with the Nazi Party emblem still prominent.

  Even though not trained in this work, the three rescuers, Wolfi, Peter and the Major spent the next two hours climbing over the rubble and then digging when Wolfi barked to indicate the presence of life. In this unsophisticated way they located three survivors, all grateful to be rescued.

  When eventually it became clear that it was hopeless to continue, they switched their efforts to dousing the flames. As there was little either the Major or Peter and Wolfi could do, the three of them stood back at a distance.

  ‘What is your name boy?’ the Major asked.

  ‘Peter.’ Peter was about to say his surname when the Major, raising his right hand, signalled him to stop.

  ‘You have a fine animal there Peter. Look after him well.’

  He reached into the breast pocket of his tunic, took out a slab of chocolate and broke off two pieces. One he gave to Peter, the other he ate. Peter quickly devoured the small square of delicious chocolate. The Major laughed and handed the rest of the slab to the young boy. Pe
ter hesitated.

  ‘Go on take it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Peter politely replied, as he took the chocolate and placed it carefully in a wet coat pocket.

  ‘Now get out of here quickly Peter Stern,’ the Major urged.

  ‘But how..?’ Peter stammered. His face was white. He was about to speak further when the Major took Wolfi by the collar and pointed to his dog tag.

  ‘Be more careful Peter. These are dangerous times.’

  Peter thanked the Major once more and, a little shaken, walked away. He did not look behind him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘Idiots! Bloody idiots!’ Peter seldom swore, and never in the house. And never when his mother was around. This time he could not help it.

  He was pleased to be home at last. Except it was not the home he had left less than twenty-four hours ago. In his hand he held a piece of broken crockery. It was Mama’s fine china. There was barely a cup or saucer left on the large oak dresser that stood against the wall by the kitchen door. The shards of fine bone china were scattered wantonly all over the floor. Several chairs were broken and fragments of glass lay everywhere. There was no doubt that someone had come looking for them.

  ‘Careful boy! Stay there! We don’t want you to cut yourself.’ Peter was anxious. A bleeding dog was the last thing he needed.

  Wolfi sat patiently watching as he swept up the debris. In a few minutes the task was finished and it was safe for Wolfi to move freely around the room. Peter filled a bowl with water and placed it in front of Wolfi. The dog lapped the water noisily.

  The sight of the mound of broken china and glass upset Peter. He recalled clearly the events not so many hours earlier when Mama and Papa had argued over that china.

  ‘You can’t take it,’ Papa had said forcefully.

  ‘But it was my mother’s and her mother’s and her mother before her,’ Mama had replied.

  ‘I know my darling. We have to take only the essentials. If we are stopped with precious china it will be obvious that we are escaping,’ Papa responded less harshly.

  ‘What is more essential than our history? Our past? This is our identity,’ she said and looking away, started to cry. Papa had taken her in his arms and kissed her gently for several minutes. In the end she packed two particularly beautiful matching egg cups. Now the rest of Mama’s family history lay in pieces on the floor.

  * * *

  The house was in semi-darkness. It was a few hours until dawn. Peter had remembered the advice from the kind Major and had sneaked into the house. Luckily the spare key was still under the plant pot outside the door. Wolfi did not understand the need for caution. As far as he was concerned he was home and ready for breakfast. Peter knew he could not risk a light in the kitchen. Gradually his eyes accustomed to the half-light. Wolfi was sitting hopefully in front of the tall cupboard where his food was kept.

  ‘Poor boy! You haven’t eaten since that bit of cheese and cracker,’ he said. Wolfi’s ears pricked at the word ‘cheese’ and his tail wagged vigorously. Peter could not help smiling. It was almost like any other morning as far as Wolfi was concerned.

  He opened a can of Wolfi’s favourite dog food and spooned a generous portion into his bowl. Still sitting, his dog shuffled from one paw to the other, licking his lips at the same time. In just a few gulps his breakfast disappeared. Wolfi stared at his master, hopeful for more.

  ‘All right then,’ Peter said. He picked up the clean bowl and emptied the rest of the tin into it, then placed it on the floor. After a few more seconds the bowl was empty. On seeing the dog’s clear satisfaction Peter was hit by the realisation that he too was extremely hungry.

  ‘My turn,’ he said and walked across to the larder in the corner. He was cold and half-starved. As he opened the door a dreadful thought entered his head.

  ‘Whoever did this will have taken all the food.’ With a heavy heart he passed through the larder door.

  ‘Cheese! A whole round! And a whole joint of salt beef!’ he cried out. The joint hung invitingly from the ceiling.

  He could have jumped for joy. Not as full as in pre-war times, there was still a treasure trove of food. Tins of meat, fruit, soups and vegetables as well as flour, powdered milk, sugar, coffee and tea, a large bag of salt and a bottle of vinegar. Several jars of homemade jams and pickles as well as a large tin of syrup and a tin of molasses were neatly stacked on the shelf above his head. On the floor in the corner were stored a variety of vegetables in hessian sacks: potatoes, beets, turnips, cabbages and carrots as well as a sizeable quantity of onions.

  Apart from the items Mama had removed for their picnic, virtually everything else of their wartime larder remained. Mama had been keen to take as much food as possible or at least give it away. Papa had persuaded her not to. It would be too suspicious.

  ‘Strange,’ he thought, `why smash Mama’s china and leave all this food?’ Peter blessed their stupidity and the wisdom of his Mama.

  He had never understood how she had managed to accumulate such a range of foodstuffs when the whole of the city was chasing smaller and smaller supplies. It was even more surprising as the authorities’ restrictions on the Jews prevented them exploiting the opportunities presented to their fellow Germans. Yet until the previous evening Peter had never known real hunger. In spite of the general shortage of metal, Mama had even been able to get hold of Wolfi’s tins of dog food.

  He took two eggs from a bowl and a generous slice of the cheese, and went back into the kitchen. He felt the old cast iron stove. It was still warm after all this time. Peter recalled how they smiled when Mama had stoked the fire and placed several more logs in the stove just before they had left. Living so close to Grünewald they had a good supply of wood.

  ‘We can’t let the stove go out,’ she had said. ‘A cold kitchen is a miserable kitchen. And a miserable kitchen makes a miserable home.’ She had even gone to the trouble of tidying the kitchen. ‘For when we return,’ she had said.

  Within minutes Peter was voraciously forking pieces of cheese omelette into his mouth. It was delicious. Mama had taught him well. Papa could not understand why his son should learn to cook, but Mama was adamant.

  ‘What for?’ Papa had joked. ‘Men don’t cook. He will be a banker like his father!’As he swallowed the last piece of omelette Peter noticed Wolfi looking intently at him. He was clearly disappointed.

  ‘Still hungry? Don’t worry you can have some beef.’ This seemed to satisfy Wolfi, who sat patiently, his tail wagging noisily as it swept across the floor. Peter cut two slices from the joint and gave one to the hungry dog. As always Wolfi was very gentle, taking the meat from his friend with the softest of touches. Both licked their lips with satisfaction.

  ‘Coffee time, Wolfi!’ Peter declared.

  Minutes later the water began to gurgle in the percolator on the stove and the delicious aroma of fresh coffee filled the air. He blessed both his aunt in America for sending the precious coffee beans and Mama for showing him how to eke out the supplies by reusing half of the old coffee grounds.

  Whilst the coffee brewed he removed all his clothing and hung as much as he could over the metal rail at the front of the stove. The rest he hung over the back of the kitchen chairs.

  In the dark he went silently around the rest of the house. From each room he took items useful for his survival: clothing from his bedroom, as well as his best leather boots and overcoat and a warm woolly blanket; camping equipment from under the stairs, including an old alcohol burner, camping pots and pans, a tin mug and plate and a bed roll; his fishing rod, his penknife, his torch, his compass and of course his watch all from the study; a tin and bottle opener and knife, fork and spoon from the pantry; a small towel and soap from the bathroom, as well as some razor blades; wirecutters and twine from the garden shed. All were stashed carefully in the old rucksack he had left behind. To avoid suspicion he had been forced to use his school satchel instead.

  * * *

  After an hour he returned to the k
itchen. Wolfi was snoring gently in front of the stove. His ears pricked as Peter entered the room. He stroked Wolfi, running his hand from the centre of his head, between his ears, all the way down his back to his thick tail. With a seemingly effortless movement Wolfi flipped onto his back, front legs folded at the elbow joint, his belly exposed. His head was raised from the ground and to one side and his tail wagged back and forth.

  As he had done so many times, Peter bent over and rubbed his dog’s tummy. Wolfi started snoring again. After a few minutes Peter stood up, took the coffee pot in his hand and poured the steaming black liquid into a cup. Adding a spoonful of sugar, he stirred the coffee rapidly and then took a sip. In his eagerness he burnt his tongue. He didn’t mind. He was dry and warm and, for the moment, in his own house. He finished the last of the coffee, then gathered the tins and all the perishable items onto the kitchen table.

  ‘I’ll have to come back for the rest,’ he said out loud. There was so much it was impossible to carry everything. Wolfi snored.

  Once packed, he felt the weight of the bulging rucksack. It was reassuringly heavy. The remainder of the tins and vegetables he placed in a sack, along with the salt beef and cheese round. He kept a piece of the salt beef to one side to eat later.

  ‘One more thing,’ he thought and went into Papa’s study. On the wall was a framed map of Berlin. He took the map out of the frame and carefully rolled it up. As he rolled, he spotted Papa’s framed Iron Cross, First Class. He carefully took it off the wall and removing it from the wooden frame, he placed it in his jacket pocket.

  ‘It might be useful one day,’ he said, wistfully.

  He pulled open the left hand drawer of his father’s large oak desk and felt inside. His hands soon found what he had been looking for: a silver hip flask with leather carry strap. He smelt the remnants of the liquid inside, Papa’s favourite cognac. It would be a small, yet useful water canteen.

  Back in the kitchen he emptied his damp school satchel and wiping it dry with a towel, began to fill it with the few remaining tins of dog food and Wolfi’s enamelled bowl. Once he had squeezed everything into the satchel, he turned around and saw Wolfi, sitting expectantly with his ball in his mouth.