Berlin Wolf

by Mark Florida-James

  Peter came to the surface, his lungs screaming for air. He knew this type of plane was normally used to carry passengers. If that were the case he was anxious as to what he might find. The war had brought death to Berlin on an almost daily basis. The prospect of confronting it in the water was something he did not relish.

  Bracing himself, he dived under the surface once more. Whatever his fears, he had to insure that there was nothing of practical use on board. Secretly he hoped he might find a radio set or a pair of binoculars. He was almost disappointed when he reached the cockpit. The single pilot’s seat was empty.

  ‘He must have bailed out,’ he thought. There was no sign of any fire. He wondered whether he had been shot down or crashed for other reasons. Many planes crashed without help from the air defences.

  Coming back up for air, he passed the mid-section where the five passengers would normally sit. Instead of two rows of seats there was a number of wooden crates, all stamped with a black swastika, about twenty centimetres tall. He broke the surface, took one more deep breath and descended again, the last thing he saw being Wolfi’s large face, peering anxiously into the water.

  The door to the rear of the aircraft was ajar, where the hinges had been damaged. The pressure of the water was such that Peter had great difficulty in opening it. The door finally moved to one side and he swam deftly through the opening. Tugging at one of the crates, he managed to dislodge it by a few centimetres. There were loops of string on each end and by pulling on one he managed to drag the crate through the open door and then followed as it bobbed to the surface. Treading water, he passed the string handle on one end through a mooring ring and fastened it with a knot. He hoisted himself onto the side of the boat in a continuous athletic movement, then exhausted, wriggled over the side and onto the deck where Wolfi greeted him with excited licks to the face. Peter quickly put on his vest for warmth and then, untying the knot, he hauled the crate into the boat.

  ‘Let’s see what we’ve got here,’ he said aloud. Wolfi was sniffing the wooden box. With some difficulty Peter prised open the crate with his pen knife. There was straw inside. Rummaging around, his hand felt the familiar touch of cold glass.

  ‘Cheers!’ he shouted, as he pulled out a bottle of champagne and held it up for Wolfi to admire. He pulled out another, then yet another and another. There were six bottles in total in the crate. Wolfi was unimpressed.

  Peter took off his damp vest, and slid from the side of the boat into the water. It felt much colder this time. Diving again and again, he retrieved another nine crates. There were at least another six crates and he was now completely exhausted, cold and hungry. This was a valuable cargo and if the pilot had survived he was bound to search for it. He could not stay here for too long.

  In spite of this concern, he forced himself to dive just one last time. Wolfi looked somewhat uncertain as Peter rose out of the water wearing a life jacket and with a gas mask held aloft in his hand. With the life jacket he would resemble an amateur sailor even more; the gas mask would be the final touch in his Hitler Youth disguise. Peter was thrilled.

  He stowed as many of the crates in the small cabin as possible and covered the rest with the original canvas sail he had taken off the rigging. He dressed without drying himself off, and only when he had put on his hat and gloves did any warmth flow back into his body. Without stopping or detouring he sailed back to his regular mooring on the side of the lake.

  Instead of carrying his haul straight back to camp, Peter decided to open each crate. ‘More champagne,’ he said disappointed as he opened the first of the crates.

  The next two crates were similarly disappointing. They contained cognac. He had sampled the odd glass of wine or champagne on special holidays, and like most children had wondered why adults were so keen on the taste. ‘Ah well, we can always cook with it,’ he thought.

  The other crates were more interesting. In one there were small tins of something labelled ‘caviar’, forty all told. Peter had heard of it, though never tried it. He knew from the movies that it was something that was eaten with toast and champagne. Another crate had jars of preserved fruits in brandy and Armagnac. Gradually he began to fear that all the crates contained alcohol of some kind, or caviar. Then they struck gold.

  ‘Look Wolfi, meat!’ Peter held aloft tins of paté and cured meats. Wolfi barked. Most things he liked came from tins. Peter was pleased to find that there were another three crates that contained meats of some sort, either dried or tinned.

  As he began prising open the last of the wooden boxes he tried guessing what this one might hold.

  ‘Probably more wine,’ he thought. As the last of the nails lifted out of the wood he looked inside hopefully. As with all the others there was a layer of straw on top. He pushed the straw to one side and felt around the box with his hands.

  ‘Coffee! It’s Coffee!’ he shrieked. It had been many months since he had tasted even the horrendous ersatz coffee. ‘And chocolates!’ Wolfi looked at him, wondering what all the fuss was about.

  It was not just slabs of ordinary chocolate. These were handmade chocolates from Bruges just like those Papa had brought back from a business trip. Eight boxes of chocolates and four large sacks of coffee beans. He filled his rucksack with the most valuable of the commodities and took them back to camp. The remainder, the bottles of champagne, the cognac and most of the caviar he replaced in the boxes, and nailing down the lids, hid them near the boat. No chocolates or coffee were left behind. One of the bottles of champagne he suspended in the water from the side of the boat, something he had seen done in a film.

  That evening they dined like kings. Instead of their usual diet of fish or meat stew, man and dog enjoyed several courses. The first course was the caviar. They had no toast to accompany it and as the tins seemed very small Peter had selected two. With a spoon he scooped out a generous portion and placed it in his mouth. The caviar burst on his tongue releasing an overwhelmingly salty flavour and not much else.

  ‘Yuck!’ The look on his face instantly told Wolfi that something was wrong. This was confirmed when Peter spat out the tiny black eggs. ‘Disgusting!’ he exclaimed, looking at the tin for signs that it had been damaged. ‘Perhaps it needs the champagne and toast, Wolfi,’ he joked.

  For once Wolfi was oblivious to Peter. He had gobbled down the caviar on the ground and was leaning over with his tongue licking out the small tin.

  ‘Well, well. At least one of us likes it.’ Peter took the tin away from Wolfi and scraped the remainder of the contents into his bowl. Within seconds it had disappeared and Wolfi sat down, eyeing up the other tin.

  ‘Okay, okay!’ Peter proceeded to open the second tin. That disappeared more rapidly than the first.

  The second course was savoured by both Wolfi and Peter, consisting of a tin of compressed meat with a wild berry jam. This was followed by some apricots in brandy. The final course comprised four of the delicious chocolates accompanied by fresh coffee. The simple task of grinding the beans on a stone and then brewing the coffee in his homemade percolator, brought immense pleasure. It was not that he had drunk much coffee in the past. It was the association with his family, particularly Papa who had often declared that ‘dinner without good coffee is a meal not a feast.’

  ‘Mama and Papa,’ he toasted, as he drained the last mouthful of coffee from his cup and washed it down with a swig of the cognac as he had so often seen his father do.

  * * *

  The following day Peter returned to the wreck of the Siebel aircraft, this time early in the morning. He had worn his Hitler Youth outfit, just in case he was disturbed. He was not, and after twenty minutes of diving he had retrieved another four cases. Two he had been unable to budge as they were wedged in a damaged part of the plane. He resolved to try one last time.

  ‘Last two cases Wolfi,’ Peter cried and dived into the icy cold water. His eyes were now accustomed to the light under the water and he soon found his way to the rear of the cockpit. He tugged as har
d as he could on the rope handles. They did not budge. A combination of tiredness and cold had weakened him.

  ‘Better leave it,’ he thought and started the swim to the surface. He was now almost completely out of breath as a result of his exertions. He pulled himself through the open door of the cockpit, kicking his legs at the same time. He was half way through the opening when he could move no more.

  ‘I’m stuck! I’m stuck!’ Panic began to take hold. He knew he could not hold his breath much longer. He wriggled as hard as he could, aware of Wolfi staring into the water above him.

  Desperately he reached behind to find the cause of his distress. His underpants were snagged on the door handle. A few more seconds passed and his wriggling ceased. His eyes began to close. His mouthful of air had gone and he knew he could not keep his lips closed any longer as the instinct to breathe would overcome him. His mind returned to the terrible day when he had almost drowned rescuing Wolfi from the River Spree. The traitorous Captain’s face appeared and seemed to be laughing at him until the even more terrible vision of his parents swept the image away.

  Though terrible, the sight of his parents was somehow comforting and he held on to the image as a permanent sleep began to overwhelm him.

  `Uhhh!’ he groaned, exhaling the last remnants of air from his lungs, as suddenly he lurched forward. He was freed! He shot out of the water, gasping for breath. His underpants were half-ripped and still on the door handle. Wolfi paced up and down the boat whining. Peter hung onto the side of the boat for several minutes. His breathing was heavy and noisy. He was glad to be alive, even if cold and naked.

  Back at his mooring point he forced open the crates, one after the other. The day had not been completely wasted for, apart from the disappointment of two cases containing more cognac and champagne, the remaining two had a mixture of the finest sugar, flour, herbs, spices, condiments and dried pasta. The pasta was particularly welcome as for the last few months they had survived on fish, meat and fruit. The straw from the crates was not wasted as he used it to stuff a pillow for himself and a bed for Wolfi. The wooden crates were used either for storage or fashioned into a small table. Some were broken up for kindling. The string handles he tied together into a small net. The collection of tins he had accumulated were used as additional pots, or tied to a string and stretched across the front of the camp as an intruder alarm.

  * * *

  As he sat in his hideaway that evening, the moon illuminating the clearing and reflecting in Wolfi’s blue-grey eyes, Peter reviewed his current situation. It was the 4th November 1942. That day he had almost drowned. On the other hand his countryside larder was bulging with a variety of delicious foods, both those he had salvaged and those he had foraged. There was enough caviar to feed Wolfi for a month. Their den was warm and dry and well-hidden. They had a boat to sail and fish from and as yet the winter was still fairly mild. With any luck the war would be over in the New Year and he could begin the hunt for his parents and go home.

  That night he had eaten his best meal for many weeks. He had allowed himself an extra portion of meat and double the quantity of coffee and chocolates.

  ‘Happy Birthday to me Wolfi,’ he said, raising his cup. As a final celebration of his sixteenth birthday, he popped the cork on a bottle of champagne and drank it straight from the neck of the bottle. It was better than the cognac, but he still preferred coffee.

  Having emptied the bottle, he crawled into his bed, his movement a little clumsier and uncertain than normal. He pulled the covers over him. Wolfi lumbered slowly alongside and flopped to the ground in his special place, next to Peter’s head. Within minutes both were snoring contentedly

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  After the initial euphoria of his discovery in the water, and having experienced his first hangover, Peter made two resolutions: he would not drink alcohol and he would ration the supplies. The non-perishable items he stored separately for when the climate worsened. Rather than depend on the meat and fish he had preserved, he went hunting as usual. Only in the event of returning empty handed did he turn to his larder. As the winter deepened, this became a more and more frequent occurrence.

  * * *

  It was mid-December. Peter and Wolfi had gone foraging as had become their routine. They checked all their snares and traps and then the fishing lines dangling in the water. Often there was ice on the edges of the lake and no matter how much Peter longed to take out his boat, he resisted the temptation. He did not want to attract attention, a situation that was inevitable if he was the only one on the water. To his dismay, as he pulled each of his fishing lines out of the water, it was the same story as had greeted him with the traps. Nothing! At best his larder would last him three months, and then only if he carefully restricted what they ate. He was already worried. In spite of the relative boon in recent weeks, Wolfi looked thinner.

  He dropped the last of his fishing lines in the water and trudged back along the bank to the den. Wolfi, sensing his dejection, picked up a stick which he hurled to one side with a swing of his head. Peter took the hint and began a tug of war with his dog.

  Still wrestling Wolfi for the stick, he walked to the entrance of the tunnel he had carved in the trees so long ago. Suddenly Wolfi dropped the stick and bounded ahead into the centre of the camp.

  ‘Wolfi! Wolfi stay!’ It was no use. His dog was already out of sight. For once he had ignored Peter’s instruction.

  Peter crawled along behind as fast as he could. He was still midway along the tunnel when he heard Wolfi’s fierce bark followed by a long, low growl. Whatever it was he had no choice but to follow. He could not desert Wolfi. Terrified at what he might find, he rushed from the end of the tunnel to be greeted by the vision of Wolfi crouched in the attack position, intermittently barking and growling.

  ‘Oh please! Please!’ A boy, little more than twelve or thirteen was shuddering with fear and retreating from the angry dog. His hands were raised in front of his face as he repeated the same words again and again.

  He seemed to be dressed in striped pyjama bottoms with an overcoat over his top half, many sizes too big. On his head was a thin, round cloth cap, also striped. His feet were wrapped in nothing more than sack cloth. He had not even noticed Peter, he was watching Wolfi so intently. Each time the dog moved or barked, the young boy recoiled in absolute terror.

  ‘Down Wolfi! Down!’ Peter commanded. Wolfi immediately obeyed, sitting back on his hind quarters, never removing his eyes from the boy. Peter walked across to his dog and, as a measure of reassurance for the boy, clipped Wolfi’s collar onto the lead.

  Any anger Peter initially felt at the intrusion dissolved almost instantly. The boy was still shivering from cold and fear. He looked about twelve, yet he was so incredibly thin with sunken cheeks and the outline of his jaw protruding, it was hard to say. Under the cap Peter could see that his hair was shaved off.

  ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ Peter asked.

  He instantly regretted adding the second part of the question. It was obvious what he wanted and what he needed. He was starving and very cold. Without waiting for a reply, Peter lifted the cover to his underground hideaway and taking his only spare coat, gave it to the boy. The boy hesitated, still staring at Wolfi, rather than Peter.

  ‘Don’t be scared,’ Peter said. ‘He won’t bite, honestly. He is a friendly dog. He was only protecting our home.’ Slowly the boy reached out and took the coat from Peter and, slipping his arms into the sleeves, placed it over the clothes he was wearing.

  ‘You must be hungry,’ Peter said by means of encouragement. At the word ‘hungry’ the boy’s eyes left Wolfi for the first time. Peter went to his larder in the ground and removed a piece of dried meat. With his pocket knife he cut off a thin slice and handed it to the boy. The boy snatched at it greedily and within seconds it had gone. Peter cut another slice, thicker this time. This was dispatched with the same speed. He handed the remainder of the meat to the boy.

  ‘Thank you,’ the boy
said and this time ate the meat more slowly.

  ‘So you speak German,’ Peter said, ‘but are you German?’ Since the outbreak of war there were thousands of foreigners in forced labour in Berlin.

  ‘Yes,’ came the reply, ‘I am German. I come from Berlin.’

  ‘Are you a Jew?’ Peter asked, wondering at how such a question would have been irrelevant before the war.

  ‘No,’ the boy replied. ‘I am an enemy of the state.’

  Peter almost laughed. The look on the young boy’s face told him he was serious. With some encouragement the boy sat in Peter’s hideaway, even allowing Wolfi to sit next to him. Peter would normally avoid lighting fires in the middle of the day. On this occasion he knew that he had to feed his visitor with something warm. With a mixture of some of his smoked rabbit and apples in brandy he prepared a stew. He even added an extra cupful of cognac. As each ingredient was added, the boy gave an approving look.

  They ate in silence, the boy so rapidly, he hardly seemed to breathe between mouthfuls. In spite of giving him the largest portion of the stew, it was clear that the boy was still hungry. Peter took out the last box of chocolates and offered them to the boy. The look of delight on his face softened any doubts that Peter had. He removed one and popped it in his mouth motioning to the boy to do the same. Once the chocolate had dissolved on his tongue, Peter offered him another. He took it once more saying ‘thank you’ as he did.

  ‘It looks like you’ll have to stay here for a while,’ Peter was saying, as he placed the box of chocolates back in its hiding place. ‘What did you say your name was?’