Berlin Wolf

by Mark Florida-James

  ‘At least we can dine in style,’ Peter joked, trying to hide his increasing concern. It was now the middle of the night and the three were tired and hungry, and a little discouraged. ‘It’s no use. Let’s go home,’ Peter said.

  They had been looking for almost three hours. Since the first RAF ‘terror’ attacks in the early part of the war, Berlin in 1942 had been largely ignored and as a result there were fewer bomb sites. The Allies had been concentrating on the Battle of the Atlantic. In recent months enemy planes were more likely to drop propaganda leaflets than explosives.

  ‘Just one more site, then we can go home,’ Franz replied.

  They were desperate. They walked along the darkened streets, one behind the other, and as far away from the pavement edge as possible. From previous experience, Peter had discovered that this was the best means to avoid accidents or unwanted lights being shone in their faces.

  They had decided that they would not travel beyond Schöneberg, a small district directly adjoining Tiergarten, the area near the centre of the city, with Berlin Zoo at its heart. They had reached the point at which they had previously agreed to turn back when Wolfi stopped in his tracks and began to nudge Peter’s side. The dog was trembling.

  ‘What is it, boy? What is wrong?’ he asked, stroking Wolfi’s ears.

  The wailing of the air raid siren disturbed Wolfi even more. It was a noise that had not been heard for many months. Within minutes the low rumble of the bombers could be heard. And then the dreadful whining as their payloads descended to earth, preceded by parachute flares to light the way, followed by the awful explosions. Tracer fire from the anti-aircraft battery lit up the sky closely pursued by the rat-a-tat-tat as real bullets sought their aerial targets and sixteen pound shells were thrust into the heavens. Soon the large metal shards of flak would fall back to earth, posing as much danger as the bombs themselves.

  ‘We have got to find cover,’ Peter shouted to Franz.

  They were in an exposed area of the city with few residential buildings. Peter was in a quandary. They could not hang around as the danger from the bombs and flak was too great. They dare not risk using a public shelter as neither of them had identification and Peter was by now almost crippled in the boots that had seemed to shrink around his toes. His overall appearance might raise a few eyebrows. Above all, with shelters being so crowded already, it was uncertain whether Wolfi would be allowed in. Neither Peter nor Franz would leave him outside. Wolfi had grown more used to the terror of the air raids, but even in the security of their den, he was always unsettled. They could not stay where they were.

  In the panic of the moment any caution was put to one side. It was the middle of the night and it was unlikely that many people would be out and about, however that could soon change as public shelters filled. The illuminated sky provided some light by which they could navigate.

  ‘Over there!’ Peter shouted, struggling to be heard above the noise of the air raid. He was pointing at a half-demolished building surrounded by a high wooden fence. A poster pasted on the outside indicated that this was not the work of the RAF, rather it was another of Hitler’s grand designs for the capital of the Reich. Inspired by Hitler’s favourite architect, Albert Speer, many buildings were being laid low to make way for huge boulevards and new public buildings on a scale never seen. It was Hitler’s vision of ‘Germania’, a city that would outshine Paris or Rome. Before taking flight with his parents, Peter had admired the ambition in the plan. With Berlin crumbling under Allied bombardments, further demolition seemed a little crazy.

  Peter grabbed the top of a fence plank and pulled as hard as he could. It did not budge. Taking the other side of the plank, Franz wrestled to free the nails and gradually, first the top half and then the bottom of the plank came away. They repeated this with two further planks until there was a space large enough for all three to squeeze through.

  Franz had not stopped to question Peter as to why they were entering a building site. Soon it became clear. This building, like virtually all in Berlin, had a cellar. As this was a building demolished by man rather than by a bomb, the cellar was still intact.

  ‘From the air the bomber pilots will assume it has already been hit and ignore it as a target,’ Peter explained.

  * * *

  A short while later, Peter, Franz and Wolfi were squashed together in the basement. With each explosion, Wolfi crept closer to Peter. After an hour the noise grew more distant. The all clear had not been sounded. They could not wait any longer. It was close to dawn and the site would soon be busy with construction workers.

  ‘We’ll have to go if we want to get back to the camp in darkness,’ said Peter. He led the way out of the basement and back towards the fence. Wolfi was a little way behind with Franz, both struggling over rough bricks and debris. As Peter approached the gap in the fence he heard a clicking noise.

  ‘Halt! You are under arrest!’ Behind him and to one side, was standing a policeman and a soldier. Not a Gestapo officer, a regular policeman from the ‘Kripo’, or Criminal Police. The soldier was pointing his rifle at him. The noise Peter had heard was a rifle bolt being pulled back. He was so hungry and tired he had failed to connect the sound with any danger.

  ‘Down Wolfi! Down!’ Franz spoke under his breath, ducking and pulling Wolfi to the ground at the same time. In the darkness the men had failed to see Franz and Wolfi in the background. Fortunately Franz had recognised the sound.

  ‘You are under arrest on suspicion of looting. Hand over your bag! At once!’ the policeman ordered. Peter passed the loop of the satchel strap over his head and handed the satchel to the policeman. Opening the buckle, the policeman searched inside and with a satisfied grin and a dramatic flourish, held a tablecloth aloft. Peter had forgotten about it. Franz groaned. Useful as it might be, it was not worth being shot for.

  ‘You know the penalty for looting. Dr. Freisler and his colleagues at the People’s Court have given us authority to carry out that penalty. You will now be shot.’

  Franz was torn. He could try and overwhelm them, but with what? He could bluff it out claiming Peter was his prisoner, although why should they believe that? He had no weapon and Peter was obviously stronger than him.

  ‘What shall I do?’ he murmured. Frightened and hesitant, Franz watched as the two men frog-marched Peter towards the perimeter fence. Peter was placed against the fence and the two men moved back a distance of twenty paces. The soldier raised his rifle and took aim.

  Franz stood up. He was holding Wolfi back by his lead.

  ‘Boom!’

  Just as Franz was about to cry out, a thunderous bang reverberated around the building site, knocking him to the ground. It was not the sound of a gunshot, it was much louder. It was a bomb! In the excitement and noise, none of them had noticed the stray plane overhead jettisoning the last of its deadly cargo. Franz stood up. He could see the policeman and the soldier prostrate on the ground, still moving. Wolfi struggled to free himself from Franz’s grip, and having wriggled loose, was sprinting towards the hole in the fence. As he leapt through, Franz could just make out something ahead of Wolfi.

  ‘It’s Peter! He’s got away!’ It was the back of Peter’s head he could see. About thirty seconds later he was being pursued by the two men.

  While Franz was watching Peter and Wolfi disappear from view, chased by the soldier and the policeman, Peter was sprinting as fast as he could. He was encouraged by Wolfi at his side, although by now his feet were almost bleeding. In spite of the agonising pain in his feet, fear and youth carried him a long way from his pursuers. He ran for almost twenty minutes. Stopping to catch his breath, he looked around him.

  ‘I hope Franz will be okay,’ he thought. He felt a pang of guilt that he had left Franz behind, even though there was nothing he could do just then. Dejected and with sore feet he decided it was time to return home. Limping badly, he started on the long journey back to Grünewald.

  Meanwhile, Franz had sneaked out through the hole
in the fence and was searching for signs of Peter. Ten minutes later he decided that it was hopeless and began his long hike back to the camp. The journey was agonisingly slow as Franz feared the worst. He knew Peter was suffering with tight boots and both were very hungry. How could he possibly outrun the well-nourished men, especially if they were shooting at him?

  Some hours later Franz was at the entrance to the camp, where he hesitated. He wanted to know if Peter and Wolfi were safe, though he dreaded what he might find.

  Crawling on his hands and knees he approached with heavy heart. Hunger and starvation were dreadful. To be left alone after all this time would be unbearable.

  He was within a few metres of the clearing when suddenly he was knocked onto his front by a weight on his back. All he could feel was Wolfi’s rough tongue licking excitedly at his face as the large dog pinned him to the ground.

  ‘What kept you?’ Peter laughed, his concern still noticeable.

  ‘Peter! Peter!’ Franz replied, overwhelmed by relief.

  When the fuss died down and Wolfi had finally released Franz, each boy apologised repeatedly for abandoning the other. In the end they agreed that neither was to blame, and satisfied, but hungry, they crawled into bed.

  * * *

  When Peter awoke the next morning he was cold and hungry and concerned for the future. His sleep had been broken by the dreams of the past and images of what might become of them. It was just after dawn and Franz was already brewing coffee, fortified with brandy. Peter rubbed his eyes and stared.

  ‘It’s a good fit, isn’t it?’ Franz said. He was in Peter’s old Hitler Youth uniform. It fitted almost perfectly. He passed Peter some coffee and began to outline his plan.

  ‘I don’t know the address of the Weiss family. I have been there when I was much younger. I am sure I could recognise it again.’

  ‘So how will you find out where they live?’ Peter wondered, unconvinced.

  ‘He is an aristocrat of some sort and is listed in some book or other. It lists all the most important men in Germany. In this uniform I can gain access to a library where I can look for the address.’

  Peter leaned back and thought about the idea. The Nazis certainly did not expect fugitives to attend libraries. That part of the plan should be fairly safe. The greater risk was getting to the library.

  ‘Even with the address, why are you so certain that this family will help even if they can?’ Peter’s query was quite reasonable. Franz was confident.

  ‘Herr Weiss was in my father’s regiment in 1914. He was his commanding officer. My father saved his life and was decorated as a result. After the war Herr Weiss supported my father financially to enable his business to get off the ground. When it became very successful, netting him millions, Herr Weiss became a director. The two men were business partners and closer than anyone could have imagined possible. I even called his wife ‘Aunt Berta’. They are good people. They owe a lot to my father. They will help us.’

  ‘They may help you Franz. What about a Jew? And his dog?’

  ‘They will help both of us and Wolfi,’ Franz replied. ‘I promise you.’ Peter hesitatingly agreed. There really was little alternative.

  * * *

  The first stage of the plan went very smoothly. As with Peter, no-one suspected a young member of the Hitler Youth riding a bicycle. His greatest fear was a daytime air raid. The RAF bombed at night time, the American air force during the day. He had no desire to be ushered into a shelter by a warden with the possibility of being trapped there for hours and with Peter fearing the worst.

  Thankfully the skies remained clear and without hitch he arrived at his destination. At the library he had been shown to the reference section and quickly found the address he needed, which he then memorised. It was in the district of Charlottenburg, closer to the city centre and only two districts north of their camp. It was still quite a way on foot, though at least it was not in one of the districts far to the north or east. He had returned as fast as possible stopping only to listen to a public broadcast from loudspeakers on the outside of a row of shops. The broadcast told him nothing new. It repeated the propaganda of how the war would soon be won, how many British and American planes had been shot down. It finished with the rousing message often displayed in placards that ‘no-one shall hunger; no-one shall freeze’.

  ‘If only!’ Franz remarked, more loudly than was wise.

  * * *

  Back at camp Peter and Franz sat down with Wolfi to talk through the next step. Peter was about to start speaking when Franz reached inside the satchel and took out a loaf of rye bread and a small salami.

  ‘But, but how?’ Peter stammered.

  ‘I bartered a bottle of cognac on the black market,’ Franz said with a grin.

  Peter’s initial anger subsided as he savoured the meat and bread. The black market was highly illegal and carried severe penalties for those who were caught.

  ‘I told the man who gave me this that my father was an alcoholic and my mother had sent me out to sell his last bottle of cognac,’ Franz explained proudly.

  ‘Thank you. Never again Franz. It is too dangerous.’

  As he said this, as earnestly as he could, a cheeky grin appeared on Franz’s face. ‘So I better take these back!’ Franz pulled a pair of black lace up boots from the satchel, like a conjuror pulling a rabbit from a hat.

  ‘How on earth?’

  ‘Best not to know,’ Franz said, tapping his nose conspiratorially as he spoke.

  For Peter the new boots were more welcome than the bread and meat. His feet had become so cramped that he could barely walk without stooping or limping. As the aim of his disguise was to avoid attention, that could prove fatal. They were a little too big, which was heavenly compared to his old pair, and he had not yet stopped growing.

  They made the bread and meat last for another day until once more they faced the age-old dilemma. So far Franz’s plan had worked. Peter still retained his nagging doubts.

  ‘You go alone Franz,’ Peter suggested. ‘If everything works out you can come and get me.’

  ‘I am not going to leave you on your own,’ Franz replied. ‘It will work out, I am sure of it.’

  Eventually Franz’s warm and enthused description of Aunt Berta and Uncle Willy persuaded Peter that they would help them both. It was time to leave their camp. They had no choice.

  The next day Peter secured the Seawolf, hiding it in the usual spot with extra foliage to cover it. As he touched the boat with his hand he recalled the many happy trips it had afforded him. He sincerely hoped he would be able to make use of it again.

  Back at their camp, the two boys set to work hiding any signs of its existence. The old crates were stowed in the underground larder, along with the empty tins and bottles. Remnants of the many fires were carefully buried under pine needles and earth. Peter packed a few of his homemade snares and fishing lines, just in case. He left behind the fishing rod, carefully secreted. Anyone who happened across the clearing now would have little idea that it had once been a home.

  With his new boots, the journey was much more comfortable than either of them had expected. Peter rode the bicycle to take the pressure off his feet. Franz walked alongside, holding Wolfi’s lead in one hand and Peter’s hand-carved walking stick in the other. Wolfi cantered happily next to them.

  They had left at night as they were carrying as much of their reserves as possible. In all this was eight bottles of champagne, six bottles of cognac and the last precious sack of coffee beans. They had wrapped each bottle separately in clothing to stop the clink of bottles, a happy sound that most Berliners had not heard for some time. As their luggage was quite substantial they had decided to travel under cover of darkness. In daytime someone was bound to wonder what was in their backpacks.

  And so it was that the three friends trekked from their forest hideaway to the suburbs of Charlottenburg.

  CHAPTER TEN

  After journeying for two hours, hiding in the shadows when an
yone approached, the three travellers arrived at their destination. Charlottenburger Chausee was a wide, tree-lined avenue with carriageways on two sides of the street. It was similar in appearance to Schillerstrasse only much more grand. Peter’s neighbours had been the wealthy middle classes of Berlin, the bureaucrats, the civil servants, the doctors and lawyers. This street consisted of large town houses or mansions each surrounded by its own substantial garden and driveway. These were the homes of the idle rich, the aristocracy or the business tycoons and industrialists. Or they had been the homes of such people. Many of the original occupants remained, yet Peter suspected that some of the homes had been confiscated by party officials. Probably the homes of the Jewish industrialists or newspaper owners. The prospect of bumping into a member of Hitler’s war cabinet chilled Peter to the bone.

  None of these concerns appeared to trouble Franz, who it was quite clear, felt entirely at ease in these surroundings. Whereas Peter had grown up with the services of a part-time cook and housekeeper, Franz was accustomed to the fawning attention of a myriad of household staff: butlers, chauffeurs, maids and nannies.

  ‘Houses like these will still have servants,’ Peter worried. He had been quite prepared to trust in the loyalty of close family friends. It was an entirely different matter to trust in the loyalty of their servants. Germany had seen many changes. The Nazi State thrived on betrayal and denunciation.

  ‘This is a bad idea,’ Peter murmured, but Franz was already half way through the imposing gates of the Weiss family mansion. Peter held back behind a tree with Wolfi sitting by his side.

  The ‘plan’ as they had laughingly called it, seemed quite brazen now. Franz was to knock at the door wearing his uniform. He would ask to see Herr Weiss, saying that he bore a message from a friend, his ‘nephew’ Franz. If he was denied access they would call an end to their plan. It was that simple.