The Dog in the Wood

by Monika Schröder

  “You just don’t understand!” Irmi threw the dishtowel over the rack. “They occupy our country. They bring Bolshevism. You are just too young to understand!” She ran into the living room.

  Fritz switched off the kitchen light. If they could not see him from the outside, he might be able to stay longer at his observation post. He would love to go outside, but he knew that Mama would send him to bed immediately.

  The accordion was in full swing, and another man had taken over the singing. His voice was not as deep, and he could carry the melody to very high notes. Fritz saw Mama standing on the side with Lech, listening to something Lech was telling her. Their shoulders touched.

  The instruments played a faster tune, and one soldier stepped forward into the middle of the yard. He had folded his arms in front of his chest and began to jump from one leg to the other. When the beat grew faster, the man lowered his body as if to sit on his haunches. Then he kicked one leg in front of him, keeping his balance by bending his other knee. The others joined in a circle around him and clapped their hands to the rhythm. The dancer lowered his body further until he was squatting close to the ground, balancing himself on one leg while throwing the other leg out in front of him. Fritz wished that the adults would leave a bigger space in their circle so that he could see the lone dancer. The melody picked up speed, and the man was still jumping from leg to leg. The men waved their vodka bottles at the dancer and offered him a swig. When the music finished, the dancer bowed to thank his audience, let himself fall onto a chair, and wiped his forehead before taking a long drink from the bottle.

  Mikhail turned to the accordion player and asked him something. The man nodded and took up his instrument. When the melody began, Mikhail turned to Mama and motioned for her to dance. She put her hand on his left shoulder and his arm circled her waist. They began to move to the music. Fritz never had seen Mama dance. He looked at Lech, who followed Mama’s every move. Sergei had been sitting on the chair smoking and emptying a vodka bottle almost by himself. When he saw the two dancing, he got up and shouted something in Russian. Sergei staggered up the stairs and opened the back door.

  “Irmi!” the drunken Russian shouted. “Dotschka!” Fritz followed him into the hall and saw Irmi just coming out of the living room. Sergei grabbed for her arm, but she pulled away and ran up the stairs. Fritz opened the back door and called for Lech.

  Lech stomped through the hallway with Mikhail hurrying right behind. Fritz heard the heavy attic door open with a screech. Sergei was stumbling up the wooden stairs. Mikhail and Lech followed him.

  “No!” Irmi screamed before she slammed the door shut. Mikhail called “Stoj! Stoj!” and grabbed his colleague’s belt. He pulled Sergei down the stairs, fiercely whispering something in Russian, his eyes dark with anger. Fritz pressed himself against the wall, breathing quickly. Lech opened the front door, and the two Russians stepped outside. Mama had also come inside, calling Irmi’s name. When she reached the top of the stairs, she called, “Irmi! Open the door! It’s all right now. He’s gone!” Fritz heard the door open, followed by Irmi’s cries of relief.

  17

  For the next few days Irmi acted as though she had been wounded in the war. She complained about headaches. During meals she put on a pained expression, and before bedtime she insisted on pushing a chair under her doorknob to secure her bedroom at night.

  “Couldn’t Lech just sleep inside the house with us and make sure nothing happens to you?” Fritz asked when he and Irmi were alone in the stable. “Would you feel better then?”

  “He is going to sleep in the house soon enough,” Irmi said and gave him the older-sister-knows-it-all look. He thought he knew what she meant, but he didn’t ask to confirm it.

  In the garden, it was time to check on the strawberries. Fritz had mulched them with a layer of straw to prevent the plants from losing their moisture, but now, as the June sun had begun their final ripening, he saw that snails had attacked the red fruit. Oma Lou had shown him how to put eggshells around the strawberries to fend off the snails, but this remedy had not worked. The slimy creatures had climbed over the obstacles and attacked the strawberries. As Fritz sat on his haunches, wondering how he could protect his fruit harvest, Mikhail stopped at the garden fence.

  “I’ll show you a trick,” he said. He walked back to the house and returned with a bottle of beer and several small plates. Mikhail placed a plate on each corner of the strawberry patch and poured beer into each one.

  “Drink, drink,” he said, pointing to a snail. Then he let his head fall to one side and closed his eyes. “Drunk, drunk, sleep, sleep!”

  Fritz laughed.

  “Are you wasting the good beer on the snails?” Lech had come out of the barn and stood now next to Mikhail.

  “I think he said that it will make the snails drunk and then they will leave my strawberries alone,” Fritz said.

  “I could think of a better way to use beer,” Lech said and held his thumb to his mouth, imitating the motion one makes when drinking out of a bottle. Lech had a short exchange in Russian with Mikhail. Both men suddenly looked very serious.

  “The Russians are leaving,” Lech said.

  “The Russians are leaving Germany?” Fritz asked. “When?”

  “No,” Lech said. “Our Russians, Mikhail and Sergei, are leaving.”

  “You’re leaving?” Fritz looked at Mikhail.

  Mikhail answered with a slow nod. “We’re moving into barracks,” he said. Now Fritz saw that Sergei had parked the jeep in front of the back door. He was packing boxes and bags into the back. Mikhail stepped toward Fritz. “Auf Wiedersehen,” he said. Fritz wondered if they would meet again. He shook the Russian’s hand and followed him to the car with Lech. Mama stood on the back stairs. She wiped her hands on her apron before she shook both Russians’ hands. Fritz watched the jeep as it left the yard. He remembered how conflicted he was when he first met the two officers. Now he was disappointed to see them leave.

  When he entered the house, he passed Irmi in the hallway. “Don’t look at me like that,” she said. “It’s not my fault they left.” Fritz only glared.

  18

  Paul flung another nail at the rusty can on the old chair. They had taken refuge from the hot afternoon sun inside the barn. Fritz had finished telling Paul about the sudden departure of the Russians, but he didn’t seem to care much.

  “My dad says that the Communists will organize all farming differently soon,” Paul said.

  “How so?”

  “Everyone will have the same amount of land, and farmers will share everything.”

  “How can everyone have the same amount of land?” Fritz asked.

  “People like your family have to give up most of theirs,” Paul said.

  “What does that mean? People like us?” Fritz asked, feeling the same tightness in his chest he had experienced when he met Paul’s father.

  “Former Nazis, like you.”

  “I’m no Nazi.”

  “But your grandpa was. People like him brought on all the bad things that happened.”

  “My grandpa is dead. Why do you keep bringing him up? You never even said you were sorry when he died.”

  “They put my father in prison.”

  “My grandpa had nothing to do with your dad having to go to prison.” Fritz picked up a nail and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger before he aimed at the can.

  “Your grandpa organized the Volkssturm, and he wore the uniform on holidays,” Paul said, his voice triumphant now.

  “But he didn’t hurt anybody,” Fritz said.

  Just then they heard steps outside the barn.

  A Russian soldier came walking into the barn. He was alone, his green cap cocked to the right side of his shaved head. The man was whistling, and when he came closer, Fritz noticed his swaying gait. A bottle was sticking out of his left pocket.


  “Dosvidanya,” the man roared.

  The soldier looked around the barn, appearing to search for something. He walked slowly toward the old motorcycle that stood in the corner. It had belonged to Fritz’s father, but nobody had used it for years. The soldier wheeled it from the corner and threw his leg over the bike, trying to start the machine. Once he realized that the motorcycle was not starting, he got off and motioned to Fritz and Paul, calling something in Russian. They didn’t understand him, but it was obvious that he wanted them to come closer. The soldier pulled a small revolver out of his pocket and screamed something at them. Paul turned pale. Reluctantly, Fritz moved toward the soldier. His heart raced, and there was a sudden shiver in the pit of his stomach. What did the man want? The soldier kept motioning and called out to Paul. Fritz reached the motorcycle, and the soldier forced his hands on the handlebars.

  “Go, go,” the man screamed in broken German

  “He wants us to push it!” Fritz called out.

  Fritz pushed the motorcycle out of the barn. The Russian pressed his revolver into Fritz’s back. Paul pushed against the back fender. Outside, sunshine painted the yard golden. The farmhouse threw a long, sharp shadow, and the sky was dark blue in a late afternoon glow.

  They pushed the motorcycle out through the main gate and turned right. No one was on the street. The three of them moved slowly, the soldier taking an occasional swig from his bottle. When they reached the edge of the village, the soldier motioned toward the hill on the south side of the cemetery. They crossed the cemetery, and Fritz thought, If he shoots us now, we’re right here.

  Streams of sweat dripped down from Fritz’s forehead. His eyes stung, and he tried to wipe his face but couldn’t reach it without letting go of the handlebars. Finally, they arrived at the bottom of Lord’s Hill, as it was known to the villagers.

  “Up, up,” the Russian yelled.

  They pushed the motorcycle up the hill, the Russian stumbling behind them. When they reached the top, he shoved Fritz aside and swung onto the seat. With a scream of joy he let himself roll downhill. The Russian bumped up and down, stretching out his legs on both sides of the motorcycle, like a boisterous child. Once the machine had rolled out onto the grassy flat, he turned around and waved his revolver in their direction.

  “He wants us to come down,” Fritz said.

  “I know. He’s crazy.”

  “Come, come!” they heard the drunken soldier scream, and a shot from his revolver split the air.

  “Let’s go!” Fritz called to Paul, and they ran downhill.

  Fritz picked up the motorcycle and began to push it uphill again. Paul again helped from the back. The Russian walked beside them, waving his revolver. Once up on top, the Russian again let himself roll down, screaming and laughing. This time Paul ran down the hill while the motorcycle was still rolling. Fritz followed. How much longer would they have to do this? He was thirsty now.

  The Russian soldier took a swig from his bottle. As he motioned the boys to push the motorcycle back up, he stumbled. The revolver dropped into the grass. Paul threw the motorcycle into the grass and tried to run away. But the Russian reached for his weapon and pointed it directly at Paul. The man let out a deep growl, like a large animal. Fritz couldn’t move, his eyes glued on the Russian, who kept the revolver directed at Paul. Suddenly, Fritz felt a jerk at his sleeve as Paul pulled Fritz between himself and the revolver. He felt Paul’s fingers holding onto his arms from behind. Fritz stared at the Russian, who frowned, his eyebrows crawling toward each other like two black hairy caterpillars. They were standing like this for what seemed a long time. He couldn’t feel his legs. Then the man bent his head backward and laughed. He lowered the revolver and stepped back. With his left hand he motioned toward the road. “Dawai! Dawai!” he called. Fritz felt his legs filling with life again, and he tried a step forward. The Russian stumbled away. Fritz turned around. Tears glistened on Paul’s cheeks. “I’m s-sorry!” he stuttered.

  Fritz just stared at him.

  “I know I shouldn’t have done that. I was just …,” Paul pleaded.

  “You don’t really care about me. You’re not my friend,” Fritz said. “Leave me alone!” Fritz picked up the motorcycle and pushed it back toward the road.

  Paul had not shrunk. There was no bang. But it was like a balloon had burst and nothing was left but air. The horizon quivered in the glistening sun. The cobblestones lost their contour to the heat. The road lay empty. Fritz put the motorcycle back into the barn and walked down to the pond. Better not to see anyone right now. He passed the garden and his ripe tomatoes. Later, he would harvest them. They would not disappoint him. He took off his shirt, pants, and shoes and stepped into the water. It grew colder the farther he moved from the shore. He walked out until he lost the muddy ground under his feet and sank down, holding his breath. When it hurt, he exploded to the surface and let himself float on his back. The emptiness stretched out inside of him, helping him to stay afloat.

  19

  Summer was a good time to be lonely. July had turned into August, and the harvest had begun. Fritz helped making hay. He ran between the fields and the house, transporting water and food. Most days they all stayed out until dark and went to bed exhausted. Fritz volunteered for any chores they would let him do. He even asked if he could help with the laundry on Fridays, a chore Irmi happily passed on to Fritz.

  It was early September now, but the days were still warm. Mama made a fire in the low stove under a big aluminum pot in a small room adjacent to the pigsty, called the pig kitchen. The pig kitchen had a low ceiling, and the walls exuded the smell of washing detergent and boiled potato skins, an aroma that Fritz liked and inhaled with a deep breath. He took turns with Mama, first stirring the laundry in the hot water before pulling it out. When they twisted the wet sheets around the handle of their long spoons, milky water ran toward the drain in small rivulets. Their faces grew hot, and sweat dripped down their necks. Just as the last piece was fished out of the pot, they heard steps on the gravel outside. A man’s voice called, “Frau Friedrich?”

  “I’m in the stall kitchen,” Mama answered through the open door.

  When the three men came closer to the door, the bright parallelogram the sun threw on the floor filled with their shadows.

  “Could we talk to you for a minute?” the oldest of the three asked. Fritz recognized only one of the men. It was Paul’s father.

  Mama stepped toward the door, wiping strands of hair from her forehead. “Fritz, go down to the lawn and hang up the laundry,” she said. The three men followed her up the stairs into the house. Fritz turned toward the laundry basket and bent down to pick it up, but when he heard the back door close behind the visitors, he stood up again, leaving the basket untouched. The smaller of the two kitchen windows was open, and he could hear the scratching of chairs on the linoleum floor. He walked to the window, staying close to the wall, bending over a little bit to make sure Mama would not see him.

  “We’re here as members of the land reform commission,” one voice said. “We want to inform you that the commission has decided on the basis of the new government’s land reform decree to divide your property. Your land holdings exceed a hundred hectares. The commission has decided to allocate small pieces of land to new farmers and refugees.”

  “So you’re taking away my farm?” he heard Mama ask. Her leaden voice broke Fritz’s heart. He swallowed. They were taking the farm.

  “We also order you to leave the district and to move at least thirty kilometers away from Schwartz. You may take personal belongings and a horse cart but no livestock,” the man continued. “This decision takes effect immediately.”

  Fritz let his body slump against the wall. He heard Mama’s pleading tone, but he couldn’t hear her words. His blood seemed to have flooded his ears. Fritz imagined the three of them with a horse cart, pulling their possessions toward the west like the people in
the treks. Who could they stay with? He rushed toward the stall kitchen, picked up the basket, and made his way to the clothesline behind the barn.

  The sun was already very high, and a dark blue sky met the outline of the pond at the horizon. To reach the clothesline, he had to step on a wooden block he had rolled out from the barn. Mechanically, he took a large sheet out of the basket, threw it over the line, and then fastened each end with a wooden clothespin. What was Mama doing right now? Had the men left? He couldn’t go to her before the chore was completed. Fritz bent over to lift another sheet, but what if she was sitting all by herself in the kitchen crying? Fritz sped up his movements, but the basket didn’t seem to empty. What if Mama was so desperate that she … ? He dropped the laundry and ran back to the house, raced up the stairs, opened the back door, and rushed into the kitchen. His mother was with Lech, who was holding her with both arms. She was crying. Lech whispered soothing words into her ear. Fritz stopped at the door. Watching them embrace felt uncomfortable, but hadn’t he waited for this? He tried to detect the feeling more precisely, but Mama turned around, her face swollen and wet from tears. There was a dark spot on Lech’s shirt where her face had rested against his shoulder.

  “What’s going on?” Irmi asked as she came into the kitchen.

  “The land reform commission was here,” Mama explained in a hollow voice, wiping her tears away with the tip of her apron. “We have to leave.”

  Fritz expected Irmi to cry and become hysterical. Instead she remained quiet. In a sober voice she asked, “Where will we go?”

  After a short pause, Mama said, “We’ll go to Oma Clara’s and see if we can stay in Sempow until we have a better plan.”

  “Can’t we go somewhere else?” Fritz burst out.

  “Do you have any suggestions?” Irmi asked impatiently. “We don’t have other relatives.”