‘Wolfi!’ Peter screamed.
The third Doberman launched at Wolfi and to Peter’s horror, ripped his sharp teeth into the poor animal’s hindquarters. Peter’s instinct was to defend his dog, but he knew he must not. In spite of the pain, Wolfi swiftly spun around, throwing the Doberman on his side into the path of the other two as they fought to get at him. There was a sickening dull thud as their powerful skulls collided.
Wolfi yelped in agony then struggled to his feet. With a last look at Peter, he ran away into the trees towards the shouts and whistles. He was chased at close quarters by the three vicious Dobermans, their sharp teeth snapping closer and closer as he disappeared into the undergrowth.
Soldiers were combing the woods with dogs and herding any wood dwellers together. Apart from the din of banging drums and whistle blasts the odd pistol shot could be heard. The combination of the cacophony of sound and the dogs was having its desired effect: all who heard it were panic-stricken. All except Peter. He was in turmoil. He wanted to go after his dog, but knew Wolfi was leading their hunters away. Quelling his anguish he signalled for the others to follow him.
‘We’re going to be caught! We’ll all be killed!’ Robin shrieked, again and again. He was hysterical and nothing Peter could say would calm him. Before anyone could stop the distressed man, he had run into the trees, in the same direction as Wolfi.
‘Stop! Stop! You are running towards them!’ Peter shouted.
Robin was so overcome with terror, he was simply running in blind panic, until soon he was out of sight. Moments later a shot rang out in the trees and the anguished cry of its victim was heard. Peter knew it was Robin.
‘At least his torment is over,’ he thought.
‘Come we must hurry!’ Peter urged again. It seemed heartless, but he was determined that Wolfi’s sacrifice would not be in vain.
In his months in the woods Peter had learnt all the escape routes better than anyone. He circled around the back of the soldiers and made his way to the Seawolf by the side of the lake, stopping periodically to check on the others. As they came to the path around the lake Peter could see more soldiers, rifles pointed into the backs of grubby looking men, with straggly beards and filthy clothing. Their hands were held high up in the air. With the sun rising in the sky, the men were in silhouette. They looked like a row of crosses. In all there must have been at least ten of these men. One was just a boy, perhaps no more than thirteen.
It confirmed what he had always suspected. There were others hiding out in the woods. When the soldiers had lined up all their captives and marched to the other end of the lake, Peter crossed the path and scrambled down to the boat, followed by the others.
‘Quick follow me! Don’t stop until you are off the path.’ Peter’s words were unnecessary. The man and his children were too afraid to linger.
With shaking hands Peter managed to unhitch the mooring rope and cast off. He was not concerned for his own safety, he was worried about Wolfi. He grabbed the young girl and boy and placed them in the middle of the boat. The father took his hand as he helped him into the stern. Raising the sail, Peter began to cruise around the edge of the lake. There was some wind, not as much as he would have liked. Gradually the distance between the boat and the land increased and only the noise of the hunt hinted at what was happening in the woods. No-one spoke. Behind him Peter could see patrol boats on the water, no doubt trying to prevent any escapees into the lake. It was quite clear that they had spotted the Seawolf and if they wanted to catch up, the Seawolf could not outrun them. As they gradually increased the distance from both the shore and the patrol boats it was clear, that for now, they were not being chased.
‘They probably don’t believe that anyone in hiding has a boat,’ Peter thought. Nonetheless he did not look back. ‘Move under cover,’ he ordered.
The man and his children obeyed without question. Close up they would easily be seen. From a distance the appearance was that of a young boy enjoying a day’s sailing.
‘Thank you, my son,’ the violinist said, placing his hand on Peter’s shoulder, ‘and I am sorry about your dog.’ He moved to the front of the boat to comfort his children.
Peter could not respond. He felt grief and some shame. Grief for Wolfi who surely could not survive and shame that the grief felt was as real and deep as the day his parents had been captured.
They sailed further into the middle of the lake and turned towards the north. There was still no sign of any patrol boats. Peter could only think of one thing to do. They would make their way to Peacock Island in the middle part of the Havel River that formed the northern end of Lake Wannsee. There was an old chateau on the island which he believed was no longer inhabited. The name of the island promised an abundance of peacocks, although it was better known for its many rabbits. For the time being this would have to serve as their haven.
* * *
As Peter contemplated the loss of his faithful dog, the ‘clearance’ operation in the woods continued. Some of the wood dwellers simply surrendered and were taken captive. Others having survived much less ably than Peter, gave up hope and deliberately ran into a hail of bullets. It was the 20th May 1943, exactly one month since Adolf Hitler’s birthday. Goebbels, always pleased to fulfil his master’s wishes, had promised him a special birthday present. He would make sure that Berlin was finally Jew free. The terror of this day was just the latest fulfillment of that promise.
Peter had often passed Peacock Island on his many sailing trips. He had even contemplated using it as a permanent hideout. The uncertain nature of the sailing winds and the difficulty of escape had persuaded him that the side of the lake was a better choice. Besides, it was one of Berlin’s most popular attractions, nicknamed ‘The Pearl in the Havel Lake’. The chance of coming across day trippers or boaters was quite high. In spite of the drawbacks, they really had no choice.
Peter had no idea how long they sailed until they reached their destination. His mind was still on Wolfi. The man and his children respected his grief. When the island came into view, they circumnavigated the whole piece of land, checking for signs of human life. There were none. Choosing an appropriate landing point, they tied up the boat and went ashore.
After a brief look around, Peter identified a suitable spot in some trees where they could make a temporary camp. It was not perfect but would do for the moment. Though he desperately wanted to leave the others on the island and go in search of Wolfi, he knew he must wait for darkness. They had been lucky to reach the island unobserved. He could not jeopardise everyone’s safety, not when the patrols were still around. The remainder of the day Peter filled his time with practical tasks. He still had his pocket knife which he used to cut branches to create shelter. He had fishing lines on the boat which he used to catch lunch and dinner, all of which was grilled over a fire in a pit of earth. As he performed each little chore, he would recall how Wolfi used to observe him and sometimes help. The memories simply fuelled his growing impatience. All the while he worried about other visitors to the island.
* * *
Finally darkness arrived and Peter set off on his boat. His aim was threefold. He had to alert Franz and the others not to turn up at the camp. He needed to restock and look for alternative sites. Most urgently, he wanted to look for signs of Wolfi. He had to know whether his best friend was still alive.
Fortunately, his greatest fear had not been fulfilled. There was still enough breeze to sail back to the shore. It was difficult in the darkness and without lights, though his innate sense of direction served him well. After an agonising two hours, he was able to discern the shoreline closest to his old camp. He was still some distance from his secret mooring point, but mercifully he could tell where he was.
A quarter of an hour later and he had managed to find the exact spot where they had earlier left the side of the lake. He knew it was important to retrace his steps as Wolfi, if able to, would follow his scent as far as the bank where they had entered the water. Once he had ti
ed up the boat, he jumped onto dry land.
‘Wolfi!’ he whispered. No response. He whistled quietly. No response. It was too much to hope that he would still be alive. He whistled again, loudly this time. Still no response.
From the bank of the lake, he made his way through the trees, following the route of their escape as carefully as possible. It was not easy, as tree branches caught him in the face and tree roots tripped him up.
A painful twenty five minutes later he was back at the camp. The soldiers had destroyed as much as possible. They had not discovered the underground larder and that brought some small comfort, but still no sign of Wolfi.
‘Wolfi!’ he called out, and whistled louder than was wise. He did not care.
‘Wolfi!’ he repeated and whistled once more. Nothing. He tried in vain for a third time.
‘Wolfi? Is that you boy? Where are you?’
On the third time of whistling he thought he could hear a slight, almost undetectable movement. He whistled again and listened carefully. A few metres away he could just discern a large black mound. Peter fell onto his knees and crawled towards it. He stretched out his hand and felt the familiar touch of his old jumper. Lying curled on the jumper was a fur bundle.
‘It is you boy! It is you!’ Peter’s tears cascaded down his cheeks onto his collar.
He could scarcely believe it. His joy turned rapidly to anguish as he felt the sticky liquid on his hands. Blood! The jumper was saturated and Wolfi’s breathing was very shallow. He had been badly injured. Owing to the poor light he could not tell how seriously.
‘It’s all right, boy. I’m here,’ he said, caressing the dog’s ears.
Wolfi moved his head as if to sit up. The effort was too much, and his head sank to the ground again.
‘Why did I wait so long? Why?’ Peter was furious with himself and now there was little he could do to help. It would be madness to try and move Wolfi in the dark without knowing the extent of his injuries. How he wished he had not gone to Peacock Island! If he had made for shore further up the lake he could have come back much sooner.
Now he faced a much greater dilemma. Wolfi was obviously seriously hurt and had been bleeding for some time. Even without the benefit of light Peter could tell that much. He could remain at his side and comfort him, possibly for his last few hours. Or he could try and save him. The only way of doing that was to seek help. But where and from whom?
After much soul-searching, he decided that he would have to try and fetch help. The only person he could think of was Lotte. She might have access to a car. With fuel being so scarce, her vehicle had become redundant, although with her husband so important in the Party, he still had his official limousine. There was no other way to move Wolfi safely, except by car. Peter hated leaving Wolfi in this state. He had no choice. He stroked the poor dog’s ears once more and buried his face into the dog’s fur.
‘Don’t worry boy. I’ll be right back.’ Wolfi’s only response was to lick Peter’s face and then close his eyes. Peter wrapped his jumper around the area of the wound hoping that it would prevent further injury.
In his many previous adventures, there had been times when Peter had to move fast to avoid detection and capture. Most recently it had been running across the railway tracks at Lehrter station with a rucksack on his back. Now, with his dog’s life at stake, he ran faster than ever. He cared little for the dangers around. Every second was vital. As he sprinted through the woods away from Wannsee he caught the blue flash of a street car.
Normally both he and Franz avoided public transport. There were too many hazards and too many chances of being stopped and questioned. It was almost ten kilometres back to Lotte’s apartment and Peter knew, even at full tilt, it would take too long. For the first time in many months he diverted towards the S-bahn station. Even though this took him south for a little while away from his final destination, ultimately he knew it would still be quicker. He felt the wallet in his trouser pocket. He was so glad he had taken the precaution of always keeping it with him, even when he slept. It contained money and his ID card. Soon he was at the steps into the S-bahn. It was still quite early. Most workers, other than evening and night shifts, had returned home. As such there were very few passengers about.
‘A single to Tiergarten station, please,’ Peter said impatiently and out of breath. He barely noticed the strange look the attendant gave him.
Walking towards the platform entrance, Peter spotted the telephone kiosk for the first time.
‘Of course,’ he thought, ‘Lotte has a telephone. I could ring her first.’ He could have kicked himself for forgetting. He was being very harsh with himself. As Lotte was the only one from their group to own a telephone, its uses were limited. And they could never be certain who was listening in. Both the Gestapo and the euphemistically named ‘Research Bureau’ of the Air Ministry routinely tapped or eavesdropped phone calls. They had tried using code on the phone on the rare occasions they called, until in the end their conversations became so nonsensical and confusing it was barely worth the trouble. It was unwise to underestimate the wit of the Gestapo and even an effective code might have been their undoing. As a result all of them had agreed that the telephone would be used only in an emergency.
‘This is an emergency,’ Peter told himself.
He walked over to the telephone kiosk and stepped in, closing the door behind him, under the watchful eye of the ticket booth attendant. He took out his wallet and searched for the few pfennig, the copper coins needed to make the call. He inserted the coins slowly and listened as they dropped into the phone. He dialled the operator. A female voice answered.
‘Number please caller.’
‘Berlin Tiergarten telephone number 4884. Quickly please it is urgent.’
After a brief silence a male voice spoke saying, ‘Yes. Who is this please?’ It was Lotte’s husband. Peter had forgotten he was at home again.
‘Very sorry. I must have the wrong number,’ and with that Peter replaced the receiver. He could think of nothing else to say.
‘Damn! Damn!’ he said over and over. The phone call was a mistake. Who knew what problems it might cause Lotte. He hurried down the steps to the tunnel leading to the opposite platform. Behind him the telephone in the kiosk was ringing.
The next train was due in two minutes. Peter looked anxiously back up the steps. He sincerely hoped that no-one answered the phone that was still ringing. He resisted the temptation to pace up and down the platform. To distract his thoughts he retrieved an old newspaper from a bin. His concentration was such that he could not even have said what newspaper it was. As he stood pretending to read the paper, he caught his reflection in a pane of glass behind which a timetable was posted. As he looked closer he could see a blood smear on his cheek. He wiped his face as best he could. Traces of the blood remained. To hide his face he pulled the newspaper closer to him. His impatience grew at the sight of Wolfi’s blood.
The train arrived and he grabbed at the door and leapt into the carriage. There were only two other passengers, one an elderly lady, the other a man in overalls. Thankfully there were no policemen. Or so he thought. He had not seen the police constable running down the stairs after him, followed by the ticket booth attendant, pointing at him. The train doors closed and pulled away. At the same time the constable had reached the compartment. He was out of breath, hands waving rapidly, trying to signal the driver.
Peter would never know the luck that he was to have that evening. For as the constable and the booth attendant were about to ring ahead to have him arrested, the air raid alarm sounded. Wannsee station was mainly above ground and so the staff and passengers hurried to the nearest shelter, accompanied by the police constable and the ticket booth attendant. Trains and train stations were a prime target for the bombers. They were not going to jeopardise their necks trying to apprehend a boy who most likely had not done anything. He surely had an innocent explanation for the blood on his collar. The constable was due to finish his shift
soon. He did not want a lengthy, meaningless chase to eat into his rest time. By this means the two men justified their decision to leave the station and seek refuge.
Whilst they hid in the air raid shelter the train driver continued the journey. From experience he knew that a moving train was just as likely, or perhaps more likely to escape the bombs than one that was stationary. Hopefully the train drivers up ahead would take the same view. This driver hated abandoning his locomotive to the mercies of the Allies. Once more Peter’s luck that evening had taken a turn for the better as the Allied planes headed towards the industrialised east of the city and the trains from Wannsee to Friedrichstrasse continued to run.
Oblivious to his narrow escape, Peter felt that the journey into the city would never end. In other circumstances he would have enjoyed his first train ride in many months, but he could only think of Wolfi.
On reaching his destination he walked as calmly as he could from the carriage. He stopped briefly at a public toilet to wash his face. He could do nothing about the blood that was now dried on his collar. There seemed to be so much and it only served to remind him of Wolfi’s perilous condition.
From the station he ran the few streets to Lotte’s apartment. Outside he was both pleased and a little concerned to see a large black car with the swastika at the front. It must belong to Lotte’s husband. Up until now he had not thought through how he would get to see her without her husband knowing.
He walked up the steps and reached towards the bell, reminding himself of the secret ring as he did; two short rings, one longer ring and a further two short rings. It was their code and he hoped that tonight Lotte would appreciate its significance.
Berlin Wolf Page 19