Berlin Wolf

by Mark Florida-James

  Shrugging his shoulders and with a heavy sigh he said, ‘Ah well I shall have to stay here or go back to our den’.

  Franz was pleased when he referred to it as ‘our den’. At about eleven o’clock the two boys said their goodbyes.

  ‘Best if you stay here, for the time being,’ Franz said, with a tinge of envy. He stepped off the verandah and into the woods. As he did so the noise of a twig snapping in the bushes caused him to stop. He stood absolutely still for several minutes. Nothing. Just silence.

  ‘You’re getting paranoid,’ he castigated himself, and continued his journey back to the house.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The following day, whilst Peter and Wolfi shared breakfast, at the house Aunt Berta and Franz were finishing their ersatz coffee. With Franz’s agreement, they had reverted to drinking this artificial sludge as, to use Berta’s words, ‘Why waste it on Kurt? He only disapproves of our luxuries?’ A more important consideration was that Kurt might query where she had obtained such a precious commodity.

  Kurt was not with them. He had left earlier that morning, muttering under his breath about some parade or other. Neither Aunt Berta, nor Franz really cared what he was doing. Franz was free to visit Peter for the second time in two days and Aunt Berta was free from the constant Nazi propaganda. She regretted that she could not accompany Franz. She had become very attached to Peter in their short time together and secretly wished Kurt was more like him. Only one more week and Kurt would be gone. That was the news that had greeted them that morning. He was to go into a specialist training camp for future leaders of the Reich.

  ‘Soon I will be able to do my bit in the East, upholding the honour of the Fatherland,’ he announced, then left.

  Aunt Berta had wanted to argue with him and deny permission to go, but it was futile. He would soon be sixteen and she was unlikely to be able to stop him. And if she was being entirely truthful with herself, he had become so obnoxious she could hardly stand to look at him, let alone listen to the constant nonsense that he spouted.

  Rising from the breakfast table, Aunt Berta went to her writing desk and began to scribble a letter to Peter. In it she wished him well and looked forward to the approaching day when she could entertain him once more. She signed it ‘your loving Aunt Berta’. In a post script she wrote ‘Have patience my darling. Germany will come to its senses and we will rid ourselves of these idiots.’ She handed the letter to Franz.

  ‘Take this to my poor Peter along with a food parcel from the kitchen.’

  As Franz was filling a bag in the kitchen with Albert’s assistance, a loud knock came at the door. It sounded like a boot against timber not a normal rap. Albert had been in service so long now that he instinctively knew the difference between a friendly knock, a curious tap and an aggressive arrogant banging.

  ‘It’s the Gestapo!’ he said under his breath.

  Most people rang the bell, they always banged the door angrily. Sometimes they did not wait for a reply. Albert hurriedly left the kitchen to greet the visitors. As he approached the front door he looked anxiously behind him.

  ‘Hide Franz! Quickly! I don’t like this,’ he whispered.

  From behind the kitchen door Franz could see the hallway. He watched as Albert slowly opened the door. Kurt barged rudely past him followed by two Gestapo men, easily identified by their long black leather overcoats.

  ‘Where is he? Where is that traitor Franz? I know he has been hiding a Jew. He will take me to him.’ Grabbing Albert by his lapels he bawled into his face ‘Where is he? Where is he?’

  One of the Gestapo agents pulled Kurt away from Albert and began searching the house. Fortunately he went straight upstairs.

  ‘I must warn Peter,’ Franz thought and crept out of the kitchen.

  He ran as quietly as he could along the adjoining corridor towards the rear of the house. Through the window he could see more Gestapo men stationed outside.

  ‘Trapped!’ Franz was desperate to leave the house. For the moment his only way out was guarded. He had to hide in the secret compartment between the dining room and the drawing room. Luckily all the Gestapo agents inside the house were already upstairs with Kurt and he was able to slip into the space without fear of being caught. He remained still and waited. His breathing seemed almost as noisy as the footsteps on the stairs.

  ‘Where’s Aunt Berta?’ he wondered.

  As he stood there in the dusty secret compartment, his question was soon answered. In the drawing room he could hear raised voices. He could just discern Aunt Berta’s incensed tone.

  ‘This is an outrage! Do you know who my husband is? You will pay for this.’

  Placing his eye to a tiny hole in the oak panels, Franz was just able to see into the room. He touched the letter in his pocket. It was gone!

  ‘I have dropped it,’ he thought anxiously. ‘If they find it Aunt Berta will be arrested!’

  The thought of this kindly lady in the custody of these thugs was too much for him to bear. After what seemed an eternity he heard another voice well known to him. It was Kurt.

  ‘I know you have a summer house and there is a Jew hiding there with his filthy Jewish dog. You have betrayed your country and your people. When we find him, and we will, he will tell us everything you have done.’

  ‘Kurt, my little Kurt, I am your mother why do you speak to me like this?’ Aunt Berta pleaded more softly.

  ‘My mother is dead. I have no mother and no father. The Party and my country are the only family I have.’

  With this parting remark, Kurt stormed out of the room followed by the two agents. The front door slammed violently. Franz left the secret compartment and rushed to Aunt Berta. They hugged each other briefly.

  ‘I’m all right. I’m all right,’ she reassured him. ‘Go quickly! You must warn Peter and Wolfi! If you cut through the woods you might get there first.’

  ‘What about the letter? I have lost it and they may come back,’ Franz replied, unsure what to do.

  ‘You mean the letter I have been standing on for the last ten minutes?’ Albert smiled. ‘One of those thugs kicked it by accident and didn’t notice. I couldn’t pick it up in full view.’

  ‘Well done Albert,’ Franz said, relieved and rushed from the house.

  He ran as fast as he could, taking parallel streets rather than the most direct route to avoid being caught, but he was on foot and they were in a staff car. He knew he could never possibly get there first.

  ‘If I can at least get close enough to shout a warning,’ he thought.

  Out of breath and chest pounding, Franz ran and ran and in half the usual time, emerged from the woods into the garden of the summer house. He vaulted the fence and sprinted across the rear lawn. He was about to shout to Peter when he halted on the spot.

  ‘No. No! I was too slow!’

  From his position he could see Peter held on either side by the Gestapo agents, with Kurt grinning behind. To the side of the house was an army lorry with a canvas back. There were at least five or six soldiers by the front of the house. They had grabbed Peter even as Kurt had been in the house.

  One of the soldiers was struggling to hold back Wolfi who was fighting to get to Peter. He was muzzled and clearly distressed. Kurt walked over to Wolfi and kicked him viciously in the side. Wolfi yelped in pain, causing Peter to turn round.

  ‘I will teach you to be a proper German dog, not a Jew lover!’ Kurt screamed.

  ‘Leave him alone!’ Peter shouted and tried to wrestle free.

  Peter’s anger only served to encourage Kurt even more. He swung his foot to kick Wolfi once more. Wolfi reared up on his hind legs, pulled over the soldier who let go of the lead, then ran towards Peter.

  ‘Run away boy! Run!’ Peter shouted.

  Wolfi understood this command. It was against his natural instinct, but he had practised it with Peter and Franz. He turned reluctantly away from Peter and ran towards the fence.

  ‘Shoot it! Shoot it!’ Kurt’s voice was high p
itched and screaming. The soldier took aim with his rifle.

  ‘No!’ Peter called out, echoed less loudly by Franz, some distance away.

  The soldier fired into the air just above Wolfi’s head. Wolfi raced at the fence, springing high above, cleared it easily and disappeared into the trees, his lead dangling behind him. Peter mouthed the words ‘thank you’ to the soldier who, embarrassed, turned away.

  The last thing Franz saw was Peter being loaded into the back of the open lorry, surrounded by soldiers. His head was bowed and he appeared to be smiling.

  ‘He is pleased that Wolfi got away,’ Franz said out loud.

  Franz sat for a few minutes. He was wracked with guilt. He was now certain that the previous night he had led Kurt to Peter. There was no time for recriminations. He had to think quickly. He must formulate a plan. He walked back to Aunt Berta’s house as briskly as possible. Some distance from the house he checked for signs of any more unwelcome visitors. The coast was clear. As he walked towards the front door a low whining noise came from the hedge at one side. A black furry head and two ears came into view.

  ‘Wolfi! Wolfi!’ Franz shouted and ran towards him.

  He undid the buckle on the leather muzzle and leaned over to comfort the dog. Wolfi licked his face all over with his rough tongue. ‘Don’t worry boy. We’ll get Peter back. I promise.’ As Franz said Peter’s name, Wolfi stopped licking, looked at Franz and whined.

  Inside the house Aunt Berta was distraught. Her influence and wealth were such that without firm evidence, even the lawless Gestapo would not arrest her, much to Kurt’s annoyance. She was deeply shocked, not just by Kurt’s attitude, so much as the fact that a fifteen–year-old boy had been given so much credence and authority by grown men. It was just a matter of time before they came back to look for Franz.

  While Aunt Berta was grieving at Peter’s capture, Franz had gone upstairs to his bedroom. He took out the Hitler Youth uniform and quickly put it on, expressing his gratitude that they had kept it ‘just in case’. In Kurt’s room he searched the bedside cabinet and in the wardrobe. At last he found the pistol brandished at him so often by Kurt. He placed the Luger in its leather pouch and attached it to his belt. He brushed his hair, cleaned his face and checked his appearance in the mirror. He made one final detour into Peter’s old bedroom and removed an object wrapped in a cloth from within a bedside cabinet.

  Downstairs in the kitchen he polished his boots and the Nazi badges on his shirt. With some wax, he cleaned the two leather belts he wore, one diagonally across his chest. By the time he had finished he looked like the perfect model Nazi. When Aunt Berta saw Franz she was horrified.

  ‘What are you going to do? You will be taken again. You must flee,’ she begged.

  Franz touched her arm gently and in a soft voice said: ‘Dear Aunt Berta. Peter saved me, now I must try and save him. If not I must join him. I cannot desert him.’

  ‘B-b,…but what can you do?’ she pleaded.

  ‘I can try,’ he said, ‘I must try.’

  ‘Then wait here just a few minutes longer, I want to help too,’ and wiping her tears dry, she left the room.

  Franz shifted impatiently from one foot to another. Aunt Berta had been gone for almost twenty minutes and every second was vital. When she reappeared she was clutching a velvet bag. It was stuffed with banknotes, more than Franz had ever seen. In a separate bag inside were four or five white diamonds.

  ‘Take these,’ she said. ‘You may need to bribe a few people. There is a car waiting outside.’

  ‘A car?’ Even resourceful Franz had not expected this.

  ‘Yes. Take Albert as your driver,’ Aunt Berta replied.

  She so wanted to travel with him. She knew she could not. She was too well known and the authorities must be aware of the earlier visit to her house. There was also the problem of Kurt. He could return at any moment.

  Franz was concentrating so much on his immediate plan that he did not question where Aunt Berta had found a car, and not just any car. Outside a large silver limousine was waiting. Inside sat a fur-clad lady, in her thirties with ruby red lipstick. She was at the wheel.

  ‘Aunt Berta told me you need a favour,’ she said nonchalantly. ‘Take my car. There is enough petrol for about three or four hours driving. I would quite like the car back, if you can.’ With that she got out of the driver’s seat. ‘Oh and it might be an idea to put this on the front.’

  She handed Albert a small red and black swastika flag. Adjusting Franz’s knotted cravat, she bent over and kissed him on the lips, swivelled elegantly and walked towards the house. As she sashayed in her ankle length dress, high heels and fur coat across the lawn, the door opened and Wolfi ran towards Franz.

  ‘Not this time Wolfi,’ Franz said. ‘You’ll have to stay here.’

  Wolfi would have none of it and seconds later he was sat upright on the back seat looking out the window, his claws digging into the expensive green leather.

  In the back of the limousine, Franz could not quite believe what was happening. Just a few weeks ago he was living wild off game and fish and now he was being chauffeured in luxury. If his mission had not been so serious he might have enjoyed himself.

  The swastika-bedecked limousine with Albert the chauffeur, resplendent in morning suit, proved invaluable. Very few outside the ruling elite were able to travel in this style and the message sent was that this was someone very wealthy, or very powerful indeed. The young boy in uniform must be the son of someone special. As a consequence they were not stopped at any checkpoints, until they arrived at Prince Albrecht Strasse. This was the infamous headquarters of the Gestapo where many detainees simply vanished.

  As they pulled up to the barrier, a sentry leaned forward to speak through the open driver’s window.

  ‘Papers!’ he demanded.

  ‘Papers always papers. What an outrage! If my father were here you would be sent to the Russian front,’ Franz sneered, waving his new identity card about. His privileged upbringing had given him many examples of the rudeness of the aristocracy. ‘Your father? Who, who is your father?’ the soldier stammered.

  Franz was about to reply, when Albert leaned over and said calmly, ‘Put it this way if anything happens to the Führer, he will be the new Führer.’

  The sentry went white and ordered the gate to be opened, saluting at the same time. Albert drove under the raised barrier, outwardly a model of composure. Inside, however, he and Franz were now extremely nervous. They had to hope that they would not be challenged, also that they did not encounter Kurt. For the moment they had decided that Wolfi was safer in the car.

  Once inside, Franz strode towards a reception desk manned by a single official. Albert was a few paces behind as befitted the dutiful servant. As the official glanced ever so briefly towards him, Franz stopped.

  ‘He knows me. He has seen me before,’ he thought.

  Franz was certain the clerk would recognise him. He knew this face well from the many times he had accompanied his mother on her daily visits, as she desperately sought information about his father. He need not have worried. Then he was just the insignificant son of a nuisance woman who just would not go away. Now he was a boy in uniform with a servant. And as with so many in Nazi Germany, the official saw the uniform, not the person wearing it.

  ‘Heil Hitler!’ Franz saluted and clicked his heels ostentatiously. The official responded less enthusiastically. He continued to read the document on his desk.

  ‘I presume it is all right to leave my limousine parked at the front door?’ Franz said, emphasising the word limousine.

  The official looked up. He was surprised at the confidence of a boy so young.

  ‘Of course. You are…?’

  Franz cut him short. He wanted to control the conversation.

  ‘Back to the car and wait for me,’ he dismissively waved Albert out the door. The official was impressed, more so when Albert bowed and left without delay.

  ‘Earlier today you arrested
a Jew boy at a summer house on Havelsee. This Jew stole a precious item from my father’s house. My father has personally instructed me to retrieve that item and deal with the thief. Where is the boy now?’ Franz’s tone was aloof and arrogant.

  ‘We deal with so many Jews here. And anyway who is your father?’ the official retorted.

  ‘I believe the thief is called Peter, Peter Stern. He is about sixteen. My father is irrelevant. This is my task and I promised my father and Uncle Heini that I would succeed without relying on their help,’ Franz stated confidently.

  As he spoke the name ‘Uncle Heini’, Franz feigned an adoring look at the autographed and framed picture of Himmler on the wall behind. ‘I hope he doesn’t know him personally,’ he prayed.

  ‘Uncle Heini? You don’t mean…’ The official was now stuttering badly as he eyed up this young boy.

  ‘The same. Now where is the boy? Uncle Heini is waiting for me.’ Franz stood back as he said this and looked at his bare wrist, one hand covering it so that the absence of a wristwatch would not be noticed.

  ‘I will find out straight away,’ the official replied and scurried off down the corridor, leaving a single secretary behind the desk.

  The time passed agonisingly slowly as Franz waited. The hands of the clock on the wall appeared stubbornly still. Dreadful thoughts raced around his head.

  ‘Maybe I have been discovered? Maybe he’s trying to ring ‘Uncle Heini’?’

  He rocked from one foot to the other nervously. Suddenly he stopped, and was absolutely motionless. He had spotted something, or rather someone.

  ‘Kurt!’ He was at the far end of a corridor coming towards him. Franz turned his back.

  He noticed the reception desk was now empty. The secretary had gone. On her desk was a telephone. He leaned over, picked up the receiver and looked over his shoulder. Kurt was climbing the stairs behind him. He was with one of the Gestapo officers.

  ‘Please don’t let him enquire about Peter. Not now,’ Franz muttered under his breath. Thankfully Kurt disappeared out of view. At the same moment the official came through a door and was walking towards Franz. With the receiver to his ear Franz began a very loud conversation with his ‘Uncle Heini’.