Berlin Wolf

by Mark Florida-James

  ‘We can’t boy,’ Peter said, looking out the kitchen window at the same time. ‘Damn!’ He had been so engaged in his search that he had failed to notice that it was now daylight and getting lighter. His plan to sneak off in darkness would either have to be abandoned or postponed. He couldn’t be seen with a rucksack heading into the woods in broad daylight. On the other hand he knew it was only a matter of time until a spacious empty house in an affluent area would attract the attention of the authorities. Or looters.

  ‘We can’t hang around here,’ Peter said aloud.

  It was a real dilemma. Instinct told him to get out of there as soon as possible; emotion told him that waiting for darkness in these surroundings, surroundings that he knew so well, would be so much more pleasant. After some thought, emotion won the day and he determined to wait until darkness. The decision made, he was once more aware of Wolfi, still sitting patiently with a ball in his mouth.

  ‘All right then. But only in the garden. And quietly.’

  The borders of the well-kept garden were planted with tall trees, mainly evergreens. It was a secluded spot in which he could let Wolfi run around. What he could not risk was throwing his ball, as this was bound to cause him to bark. Wolfi, unaware of any danger, kept dropping the ball on his foot and then sitting with a longing look on his face. Peter relented. It was daytime and most people would be engaged in essential wartime work. In any case the house was still theirs, at least for the time being. Perhaps it would never be taken over. For a brief moment, as he threw the ball and watched as Wolfi retrieved it again and again, he forgot the troubles of the past few days.

  After some twenty minutes of playing, his mind inevitably came back to their current situation. He had resolved to leave by the back garden. As a precaution he decided to place his rucksack in the garden shed along with his satchel and sack of food. The shed was at the end of the garden and was shielded from the house by a row of mature conifers. He opened the door and placed the rucksack and satchel under a hessian sack. As he closed the door Peter spotted the shiny bell.

  ‘A bicycle!’ His bicycle had long ago been confiscated ‘for the war effort’. This bicycle had never been used. Papa had bought it some years ago for Ilse. She had been their part-time housekeeper and cook. It was a birthday present so that her journey home would be easier. Unfortunately she never received it. Ilse had left their employ. She had no choice. She was an Aryan female under the age of forty-five and therefore by law could no longer work for a Jew.

  Then the bicycle was simply too big for Peter. In any event Papa forbade anyone to ride it. It was a painful reminder of what had become of his beloved Germany. A brand new chain and padlock with key hung from the handlebars.

  ‘I’m sure Papa will understand,’ Peter thought.

  Sitting astride the bicycle, he began to ride it up and down the garden. It had been many years since he had ridden, for once Wolfi was fully grown the faithful dog went almost everywhere with Peter, trotting or walking as if glued to his side. It had somehow seemed unfair to make the poor animal run after him while he cycled, depriving him of the regular smells along the way. In their current predicament that would have to change.

  Having made several trips from one end of the lawn to the other, Peter stopped and called Wolfi over to him. He gave the command to sit. Wolfi instantly responded. He attached the lead to the dog’s collar, looped the other end around one handlebar and then cycled off, encouraging Wolfi to come with him. Wolfi remained firmly seated on the ground. Peter crashed to the earth.

  ‘Bad dog! Bad dog!’ His anger quickly turned to laughter as he realised he had not given the release command. Wolfi would not leave his sit position unless told.

  He repeated the experiment, this time giving the appropriate instruction. He and his dog happily rode and ran together in circles. He tried this several times with Wolfi off the lead. Wolfi complied perfectly.

  ‘At least now I know you will follow the bicycle,’ Peter said. Wolfi gave a knowing look in reply.

  He took the bicycle to the very end of the garden and hid it in the shrubbery behind the vegetable patch. This was a spot he was very familiar with. There was a gap in the fence that he had often squeezed through unnoticed on the occasions when he had come home very late. The sack of food was tied to the basket on the handlebars.

  It was now several hours since they had last eaten. Peter was hungry again. Using the salt beef and some vegetables he created a tasty stew which he shared with Wolfi.

  By now the daylight hours had almost passed and it would soon be possible for them to leave. It was a bitter sweet moment. It was not safe to stay and Peter was understandably nervous. On the other hand this was his home. Reluctantly he decided to carry out one final sweep of the house.

  He climbed the stairs for almost the seventh or eighth time that day, and went into each bedroom, leaving his own until last. As he turned to leave his room a furry head popped up above the metal bedstead. Wolfi had taken up his usual place and was expecting Peter to join him.

  ‘I know boy, I know. I am tired too, but we have to leave.’ As he said these words he sat on the bed next to Wolfi, placing his head on his flank. He began patting the dog’s side. In a few minutes, the exhaustion and strain of the last thirty-six hours overtook him and Peter fell asleep.

  * * *

  ‘Stand up or I’ll shoot!’ a loud voice thundered. ‘I mean it. Stand up immediately!’ the same voice repeated, this time with more irritation. It was not the man’s voice that finally woke Peter, rather it was Wolfi’s very fierce barking. ‘And shut the dog up or I’ll shoot it! Now get up and get out of my son’s bedroom.’

  Peter sat upright and as he did so saw the hazy outline of a man of about his father’s age in a uniform of some kind. Even though the room was in semi-darkness, Peter could see that he was pointing a pistol at him. From behind he heard another voice, less mature, egging the man on.

  ‘Shoot him Papa!’ the boy screamed. ‘I know him. He is a Jew boy.’

  Peter was now very alert. Behind the man he glimpsed a boy of similar age to him in the uniform of the Hitler Youth. A boy of about fifteen, with blonde hair and a look of hatred in his eyes. Peter vaguely recognised the young intruder, although in his panic he could not place him.

  ‘Shoot him Papa!’ the boy screamed again.

  The hatred in the boy’s face triggered a memory for Peter. It was the face of the boy from school who had taunted him so badly in the past. A boy who had once called himself a friend and even been to a birthday party at this house. A boy also called Peter. A boy who had shunned him then bullied him. It was clear he and his father had deliberately chosen this property. Why smash the china in the kitchen? Why not just leave it there? Few things made sense any more. That one act enraged Peter so much his fear was momentarily replaced by anger and defiance, until Wolfi brought him back to their current danger.

  Wolfi was barking uncontrollably and pacing backwards and forwards towards the two intruders. He did not accept the Reich’s law which allowed these two to take over his house.

  ‘Up! Now! Or I will shoot!’ The man’s face was contorted in anger. He swung his hand at Peter’s face catching him a hard blow to the jaw with the muzzle of the pistol. As Peter fell backwards onto the bed, Wolfi sprang through the air, knocking father and son to the ground in one movement. The surprise of the attack caused the father to drop his pistol and he was dazed as his head hit the bedroom wall. In considerable pain, Peter sprang to his feet and rushed to the end of the bed.

  ‘Wolfi! Come boy!’ Peter called out, whistling at the same time. Wolfi moved away from the man and his son. The boy was pinned to the floor by the weight of his unconscious father. The gun was nowhere to be seen.

  A frightened Peter and his dog ran from the room, pulling the door behind them. He grabbed the sides of a large wardrobe at the top of the stairs and began to rock it from side to side. Using all the force he could summon, he managed to topple the wardrobe so that it barri
caded the door.

  He rushed downstairs, jumping several steps at a time. He was relieved to hear Wolfi’s noisy footsteps behind. They passed through the kitchen and into the garden, removing the key from the door as they went. With shaking hands he tried locking the door.

  ‘Come on! Come on!’ The key would not turn in the lock. Anxiously he tried again. Finally the key turned and he heard the bolt of the lock slide into place.

  ‘At last! Oh!’ he gasped. The face of the Hitler Youth was pressed against the glass pane in the door.

  ‘It can’t be,’ Peter thought. The gun was in his hand. He was pointing it at Wolfi. Peter was rooted to the spot with fear.

  ‘No!’ Peter managed to shout and stepped in front of his dog.

  ‘Click! Click!’ The pistol had misfired. The noise brought Peter back to the present danger. He grabbed Wolfi and both ran down the garden path. Fortunately, this was their garden and they easily found their way in spite of the dark. As they ran behind the trees shielding the garden shed, a shot whistled past them and cracked the woodwork.

  Looking over his shoulder, Peter could see the silhouette of the boy still in the kitchen, his outline visible in the artificial light. The glass pane in the kitchen door was shattered where he had shot through it. His hand was reaching through the broken pane and feeling for the door key.

  ‘Fool! Why did I leave it there?’ Peter cursed himself.

  He wrenched the shed door open and fumbled in the darkness for his rucksack and satchel and ran to the hole in the hedge where he had hidden the bicycle. Wolfi was running ahead of him, apparently aware of the urgency of the situation. The bicycle was heavy and awkward. The handlebars twisted with the weight of the sack. With a tremendous effort he lifted the bicycle through the gap in the hedge and encouraged Wolfi to jump. Wolfi easily cleared the hedge in one effortless leap. Peter stepped through the same gap and balanced the bicycle against the hedge.

  With trembling hands he pulled the straps of the rucksack over his shoulder and hung the satchel round his neck, then mounted the bicycle. He began to pedal as hard as he could with Wolfi running alongside. The weight of the satchel almost pulled him over, however fear and determination drove him on.

  ‘Come back you thief! You can’t get away!’ He did not look round though he heard the angry shout from behind. It was his old class mate.

  ‘Peeeong!’ A bullet screeched past his ear.

  ‘Faster Wolfi! Faster!’ Peter screamed. Wolfi did not need any more encouragement and soon he was ahead.

  * * *

  After ten minutes furious cycling they were a safe distance from the house and Peter stopped to allow both of them to catch their breath. His heart was pounding from fear and exertion.There was no sign of pursuit. They were close to Schlachtensee. It was early evening. Not wishing to hang around he cycled into the woods and began to search for a hiding place.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Peter’s plan was to hide out in the woods around Schlachtensee or Wannsee. He had spent many happy holidays camping with his father throughout the mountains and forests of Germany. A successful middle-class banker, Papa’s first love had always been the great outdoors. From an early age he had taught his only son how to hunt, snare rabbits and fish. Peter had learnt which mushrooms and berries were edible, all of which were plentiful in the woods at certain times of the year. He was very familiar with these surroundings and knew many places where few people, if any, ever ventured.

  This had seemed a reasonable plan in the comfort of his own home. As the reality of the situation began to dawn on him, doubt crept in. It was one thing to survive in the wild in the summer or even autumn months, but this was Berlin. Winter temperatures would often be well below freezing, with lakes too frozen to fish and very few rabbits to snare. He had packed a good supply of food. That would inevitably run out and he could not return to his house. Even if he could manage to feed himself, he had Wolfi to look after. Worst of all, he wondered, ‘can we survive the freezing temperatures?’

  He climbed off his bike and walked along the western edge of Schlachtensee, Wolfi next to him. He thought about where to camp as he walked. This side of Schlachtensee was closest to Wannsee with a vast area of forest in between. It was criss-crossed by paths and roads. One such major thoroughfare was Kronprinzessin Weg, a place he was keen to avoid as it was almost always busy. He knew Schlachtensee and the immediate vicinity very well as it was so close to home. Wannsee might be safer as it was a much vaster area of water, lying next to the huge forest, Grünewald. On the other hand, Wannsee was an important tourist destination for all Berliners and seldom free of visitors. He could not risk staying in the area close to home as his former school friend, from the Hitler Youth, also knew Schlachtensee well. He had played there with Peter’s friends many times and was aware of the best hiding places. It began to snow.

  ‘We need to find shelter, and soon,’ Peter thought.

  For tonight, at least, it would have to be the more familiar woods of Schlachtensee. As the snow fell in soft flakes, the cold temperatures brought one benefit: there was no-one around and hardly anyone had witnessed his furious cycle ride.

  He travelled further along the western side of the lake and stopped by a bench on the water’s edge. It had the now too common sign ‘Aryans only’ attached to it. It was only just visible in the small amount of moonlight breaking through the clouds.

  Facing away from the bench and into the trees, he began walking up a slope. He carried the bicycle for the first few hundred metres to avoid tracks in the mud. Fortunately the snow was now falling thick and fast and was already lying several centimetres deep, covering both paw and footprints. After a distance of a few hundred metres they stopped. He picked up the bicycle and placed it in the middle of a thick thorn bush. From this point he walked to his left and stopped in front of a huge oak tree. With his hands he felt around the base and soon found a gap between the large roots. He began digging away at the snow and leaves.

  Fifteen minutes later he had created a fox hole big enough for him, Wolfi and his baggage. He took his hat, gloves and scarf and sleeping roll from the rucksack and dressed warmly for bed. He lay next to Wolfi and placed an overcoat over them to cover the gap above their heads.

  ‘Good night Wolfi.’ As he lay there he remembered what Papa always said, ‘there is no such thing as bad weather, just inappropriate clothing.’ With one arm around his dog, he tried to sleep. All the while he was hoping they would not be buried in snow.

  * * *

  In spite of the freezing temperatures, they both slept. Wolfi’s body provided heat without which Peter knew he probably would not have survived. Whilst he dreamt of happier days with Mama and Papa, Wolfi dreamt of rabbits, his legs occasionally twitching as he chased his prey. Peter’s dreams moved from pleasant thoughts, through disturbing images, until once more he was either fighting to the surface in the River Havel desperately gasping for air, or running from the Hitler Youth as he fired at Wolfi.

  As a shot rang out in his head, Peter sat bolt upright, waking Wolfi and dislodging the layer of snow on his coat. It was the period just prior to dawn which is neither completely dark nor light. Drawing his coat back fully, he scrambled out of the hole and stretched his arms in a yawn. Wolfi also stretched, as if readying himself for a race.

  Peter’s jaw ached where he had been struck with the pistol. He moved his lower jaw from side to side and was content that nothing was broken.

  However desperate he was to light a fire, he knew that this was not the place to do it. The ex-school friend Peter (or Hans Peter as he had been known), would certainly alert the authorities that a Jew had assaulted him and his father and, Peter smiled wryly as he thought, stolen food from ‘their house’. He hoped they had not noticed the camping equipment he had taken from home, otherwise Peter’s plans would be all too clear to them. This spot was one of the places he had played with Hans Peter and other school friends in the past, even pretending to hole out in the same enormous tre
e roots. It was not nearly far enough away from the closest path and the prospect of a stranger coming across them by accident would always be present.

  Peter munched on some bread and cheese, while Wolfi ate the remainder of half a tin of dog food. He found himself unusually envious of the unknown meat in the tin. It certainly looked more appetising than his frozen breakfast. How he wished he could make a hot drink. That would have to wait.

  With the empty tin of dog food packed in his rucksack, he walked over to the thorn bush where his bicycle was hidden. He lifted the bicycle and shook the snow from it, dusting Wolfi in the process. As always Wolfi was close by.

  ‘We’d better hide the food for now.’ As he spoke it dawned on him that he had not talked to anyone other than Wolfi for some time.

  As he made to leave the woods he struggled to wheel the bicycle across the rough terrain. The deep snow hampered his progress even more. After a few frustrating minutes he laid the bicycle on its side and walked back to the oak tree where he had sheltered for the night. He attempted a few times to climb the massive trunk. The ice that had formed in the soles of his boots and the frost on the bark, made progress impossible. Each time he simply fell backwards onto the icy ground. All the while Wolfi simply sat and observed this strange game, only once approaching his master to check he was all right.

  From the base of the oak he paced towards the thorn bush where he had hidden the bicycle the previous night. Further behind this was a similar bush, except slightly taller and broader. He measured the distance between this new hiding place and the giant oak. It was 170 paces from the base of the tree.

  Forcing his way into the centre of the bush, he reached as high as he could, and with his pen knife cut away a few smaller branches. This allowed him to sling the rucksack over a branch higher up the trunk. He tied the sack of food to the same branch. He gathered up the cut branches and retraced his steps, smoothing the snow as he went. Back at the tree trunk he cut a gash in the base of the tree to mark the direction of the thorn bush. Underneath this, with some difficulty, he carved the single word ‘Prokofiev’.