The Dog in the Wood

by Monika Schröder

  “I do have an uncle in Silesia,” Mama said. “But it wouldn’t be a good idea to go east. He has probably lost his home as well. We don’t have a choice. We need a place to stay. We can’t be choosy now, Fritz.”

  “I’ll get the horse cart ready. We can take only what Carino can pull,” Lech said.

  “Take only what you need,” Mama said to Fritz and Irmi.

  Irmi hurried to the bedroom, but Fritz was glued to the chair watching the hand on the kitchen clock move. He wished he could slow down time by walking toward the bedroom in small steps. “Take only what you need!” Mama had said.

  In the bedroom Irmi was folding her underwear into the old suitcase she had pulled from the top of the closet. Fritz sat down on his bed. The frame gave off the noisy squeak that sometimes woke him up at night. After today he would not hear that squeak again.

  20

  The hardest part was to say good-bye to the house he had lived in with Oma Lou. Leaving Oma’s home was like abandoning her for good. After he had filled his crate, Fritz entered Oma Lou’s old bedroom and opened the door to her closet. Empty. None of Oma Lou’s clothes were left. Mama had altered some of them for herself and had traded others with neighbors for things she needed. But there still was the faint smell of Oma Lou’s soap. He inhaled and held his breath, hoping that somehow he could seal the memory of her smell inside.

  “Fritz!” Mama called from the kitchen. But Fritz could not yet leave the room. He pulled out the drawer of the nightstand and reached in the back. Oma Lou had once shown him the small album of pressed flowers she had collected when she was a young girl. It was still there. She had told Fritz that the flowers reminded her of the village near the sea where she had grown up. Fritz opened the slim album to a page with a flat round flower on a long thin stem. In her pointy handwriting the plant was labeled “Buttercup.”

  “Friiitz!” Mama called again. He stuck the small book into his pocket and left.

  Fritz walked outside, keeping one hand inside his trouser pocket, patting the flower album. He joined Lech and Irmi, who were waiting at the cart. He looked over to the garden. More cucumbers had ripened and hung from the trellis. Other people would now harvest the rest of the vegetables. He had packed the tomato seeds. Maybe there would be a garden at Oma Clara’s.

  When Mama closed the door, she let out a single deep sigh. She looked awful. There were lines of strain around her mouth and shadows under her eyes. Fritz wanted to run to give her a hug, but he didn’t move for fear he would break out in tears.

  Once everyone was seated on the cart, Lech passed Fritz the horse’s reins. As Fritz stirred the horse out of the yard onto the village road, he thought of the refugee treks he and Paul had watched. Now he was also a refugee, his home not taken by an enemy force but by his own neighbors.

  “We didn’t say good-bye to Oma Louise and Grandpa Karl,” Fritz burst out as they passed the cemetery. He turned around to look at Mama.

  “I know,” she said, calmly. “We don’t have time. But we’ll keep them in our thoughts always.”

  21

  The closer they came to Oma Clara’s house the tighter the knot grew in Fritz’s stomach. The main road separated two parallel rows of flat, plain houses with high-tiled roofs above low ceilings. In front of Oma Clara’s entrance grew a well-tended rosebush, its dark green leaves shining in the last rays of afternoon light. Lech opened the gate, and the horse pulled the cart into the courtyard. Fritz looked for Oma Clara’s geese to come hissing toward the fence. One had bitten him once. But the pen was empty. The Russians must have taken the geese.

  “Hello!” Oma Clara stepped out of the back door. She was a compact woman, her cheeks ruddy from lots of work outdoors. Irmi jumped off the cart and fell into Oma Clara’s arms. “Welcome, girl!” Oma Clara held Irmi tight. Fritz stayed on the other side of the cart, avoiding the inevitable hug as long as possible.

  “They took the farm,” Mama said, and Oma Clara just nodded as if she had expected that to happen. Then the two of them embraced. Mama introduced Lech. He took off his cap and shook Oma Clara’s hand. Fritz was watching her closely. It was important that she welcome Lech. Oma Clara smiled at Lech. Then Mama motioned Fritz closer, and he found himself pressed against Oma Clara’s housedress.

  “How are you?” she greeted him. “Did you see the empty pen? The Russians took my geese. I thought you’d be sad to hear that.” The women went inside. Fritz wanted to inspect Oma Clara’s farm. It was so much smaller than the farm they had left in Schwartz. Her barn could use a fresh coat of paint. Fritz counted one cow and two pigs. A rooster strutted around the manure heap. There was no garden.

  Lech had begun to unpack the cart. They carried blankets and clothes to his new quarters, a small room adjacent to the stable.

  “This is better than Schwartz,” said Lech. “There’s a little stove, so I can make a fire in the winter, and I’ll have electric light.” Lech pointed to the light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Fritz nodded, trying to put together a list of good things about Sempow. Lech squatted in front of him and grabbed Fritz’s sleeve.

  “Listen,” Lech said, focusing his light blue eyes on Fritz. “We will make this work. Here we don’t have to live with Russians. We won’t be evicted.”

  “She has no garden.”

  “There is a lot of work waiting for us here. I’ll need your help, young man,” Lech said.

  Fritz looked down. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I just miss Oma Lou.”

  “I know,” Lech pulled him closer. “But your Oma Clara isn’t such a bad woman. You know what they say: ‘soft nut in a hard shell’?”

  “I’m not sure that’s the way the saying goes.” Fritz looked up.

  “Yeah, yeah, excuse my German.” Lech laughed. “But you know what I mean.”

  When Fritz entered the kitchen, Oma Clara thrust a handful of silverware at him. “Here, Fritz, make yourself useful and set the table.”

  She asked him to put a small rectangular wooden board for everyone on the table and then stacked several slices of rye bread in a pile in the middle of the table. Oma Clara unpacked a dried-out block of cheese and a small earthen pot that contained a white shiny substance. Goose lard—Fritz shuddered at the thought of his least favorite bread spread. “You don’t like this, do you?” Oma Clara handed him the lard. “In times of famine the devil eats flies.” She laughed.

  “I had some refugees from the East staying with me just until last weekend. The Sielmanns wanted to go to the American zone,” Oma Clara said while they were eating dinner. “They came from Königsberg with an accent so thick you could cut a knife through it.”

  “Where did they go?” Mama asked.

  “Once they learned that the Americans kept Western Germany, they moved on. I’m not sure that it’s possible to cross over into the American zone, but I wish them luck. They were so fed up with the Russians that they didn’t want to stay. I guess in Königsberg they had seen a lot of grief.”

  “Are there any Russians in Sempow?” Fritz asked.

  “Oh yes. They’re everywhere,” Oma Clara answered. “They’re taking the railroad tracks apart behind the eastern forest to transport them to Russia. Sometimes they enter houses and help themselves to food and water. I heard from Beth Littman that they were drinking out of her toilet.” Oma Clara laughed. “Erna Schmittke told us that they fried potatoes in her bedpan! They are like children!”

  “Children with weapons and vodka,” Mama said, giving Oma Clara a look that made it clear she wished to end this conversation.

  But Oma Clara continued, “Their headquarters are now in Nirow. Johann Müller is their man here in Sempow. He is now the leader of the local Communists. Remember him, Gertrude?” Mama nodded.

  “He went to grade school with me,” Oma Clara continued. “His family used to own the mill, but he got all political and moved to Berlin. After 1933 he relocated to
Russia. He is a true believer in the new system, speaks Russian and all.” Oma Clara shook her head.

  “I will have to talk to him tomorrow,” Mama said. “We need to register and apply for land. I hope they will give it to people like us.”

  Mama’s last words hurt Fritz. What kind of people were they? Refugees? People whose farm had been taken away by their neighbors?

  “You know my opinion.” Oma Clara smeared another slice of the bread with the goose lard. “But you are so hardheaded that you had to stay with your husband’s parents. If you had moved in with me after your husband’s death, you could have spared yourself and your kids a lot of grief.”

  Mama’s eyes begged Oma Clara to stop talking about this. Fritz wanted Mama to defend herself. He looked at Irmi, who focused on her bread.

  Fritz was trying to compose a sentence to support Mama when Oma Clara said, “But like I said before: You can stay here as long as you want. We’ll make do!” Fritz wondered if she really she meant it.

  22

  Fritz didn’t want to spend time alone with Oma Clara. But in the morning of the next day she asked him to help her while Lech worked in the potato fields. They led the horse the short distance down to the creek where a neighbor had left fence posts for Oma Clara’s new fence. Fritz didn’t like the horse. For a draft horse he was too nervous. Every time the singletree bar jumped over a stone the horse’s ears twitched with fear. He chewed his bit nervously, white foam frothed from his mouth, and sweat glistened on both his flanks.

  “I got him new just last week,” Oma Clara said. “The Communists gave him to me, probably took him away from some rich estate. He needs to get used to his new home, just like you.” They reached the creek, and Fritz fastened the reins around a tree trunk. “Don’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth, you know,” Oma Clara said as she expertly fastened the ropes around the posts and tied them to the singletree. “You’re a real chatterbox this morning,” Oma Clara said, looking up. “What’s the matter, silent one?”

  Fritz shrugged. “Nothing,” he mumbled, hoping she wouldn’t try to prod a conversation out of him.

  “I think the logs are tightly tied now,” Oma Clara said. “All righty, let him haul.” Fritz took the reins and led the horse forward. With his pull, the lines between the harness and the posts tightened. The horse threw his head back and took one step forward.

  “That’s it,” Oma Clara called. “Make him go on.”

  Fritz grabbed the reins tighter and pulled, walking slowly forward. But the horse didn’t move. “We should calm him down first and then show him how to pull. I think he doesn’t know what we want him to do,” Fritz said.

  But Oma Clara was in a hurry. “The only thing we need to show him is who is in charge. He’s a draft horse.” The horse’s ears twitched nervously. Oma Clara stepped forward and snapped a switch over the horse’s rear. With a quick movement the horse stepped sideways, and several of the posts slid out from the looped rope.

  “I need your help with these loose posts. Just tie the reins around that tree trunk and come back here,” Oma Clara called. Fritz could see the white of the horse’s eye as it tried to follow his movements. “Here, hold this end,” Oma Clara commanded, pointing to a post that had rolled aside. But just as Fritz bent down, he felt the strong kick on his backside, and he flew forward, landing on his face in the mud near the creek. For a moment he didn’t know what had happened. When he lifted his head, his left buttock burned with pain.

  Oma Clara came running. “Are you all right?” She bent over him.

  “I think so,” he said and sat up. But he couldn’t put much weight on his left side. The pain stabbed through him as he stood up.

  “My boy,” Oma Clara said, “he gave you a real kickin’.”

  Tears stung in Fritz’s eyes from the pain. But he would not cry.

  “Can you walk?” she asked. He nodded. “Then you can work.” Fritz walked back to take the reins. The horse pulled calmly now.

  “I guess he just had to get it out of his system,” Oma Clara said.

  In the evening Mama came with a jar of cream as Fritz was going to bed. “That will be a big bruise,” she said. “Does it hurt?” Mama sat down on the bed and applied cream to his bottom.

  “Not anymore,” Fritz said.

  “That’s a mean horse,” Mama said, closing the jar. He was still lying on his chest.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “I don’t like it here. I want to go back home,” Fritz said, his voice quivering into the pillow.

  “This is our home now. I miss the farm in Schwartz, too, but we all have to make an effort to get along,” Mama said.

  “Is Oma Clara making an effort?”

  “She has taken us all in,” Mama said.

  “But I don’t want to live here.” Fritz turned to face her. “I don’t …” He wanted to tell her how much he missed Oma Lou and the garden. How he wanted to be happy. How he wanted to not feel hurt all the time. But the pained look on Mama’s face again made him stop.

  “You’ll have to get to know Oma Clara,” Mama said.

  “When is it going to get better?” Fritz asked.

  “The bruise will take a little while,” Mama said.

  “No, I mean everything,” Fritz said. “You said that things would get better after the war is over. But everything is just getting worse.” He was fighting a salty taste in the back of his throat.

  “Oh, Fritz!” Mama squeezed his arm. “The worst is over. From now on it will get better. We will make it work. Just give it a little time.” Her eyes were teary now. She had told him that the worst was over after Oma Lou and Grandpa Karl had killed themselves. Now she promised again that everything would get better. He wanted to believe her.

  “Don’t you want to go out and find other kids? You should find a friend,” Mama said.

  “Not yet,” Fritz replied, and turned toward the wall.

  23

  Maybe Mama had talked to Oma Clara because she didn’t ask Fritz to work with her. The following weekend Oma Clara sent Lech and Fritz to get firewood. On Saturday, Fritz was up early and looking forward to spending the day working with Lech. A night rain had glossed the cobblestones a glistening gray. The horse was pulling their cart calmly and stepped carefully on the slippery surface. They followed the main road to the village’s outer edge, and from there they went along the country road that connected Sempow to the city of Nirow. The road was lined with pollarded willow trees that seemed to reflect the somber mood of the dreary fall morning.

  When they reached the outskirts of the woods, Lech turned to the left and directed the horse onto a sandy path. After another turn they continued on a narrow trail into the denser parts of the forest. Finally, Lech stopped the pony, tied the reins to a tree, and pulled the tool sack out of the cart. “Here, take this,” he said, and passed Fritz the bundle.

  With a two-man saw they began to cut through the trunk of a pine tree. Fritz wanted to do well and focused all his strength into the back-and-forth movement of the saw. After the pine fell with a loud crack, the hard labor began. First they cut and broke off the upper branches. Then they stood on either side of the trunk and sawed the trunk into stove-length pieces for firewood. His upper arms quivered from the strain on his muscles, but Fritz did not want to show any weakness. The work made Fritz sweat, and he took off his cardigan. The sun was up now but couldn’t burn its way through the thick cloud cover, even though the fog trapped in the trees’ crowns had begun to thin out. The two finally finished sawing and began loading the logs into the cart when suddenly they both heard the sharp sound of metal ringing against metal.

  “What was that?” Fritz asked.

  “I don’t know,” Lech replied, letting his eyes gaze around the woods. They walked toward the source of the sound, which was now repeating rhythmically. The forest thinned out soon, and through the br
ush they could see men in uniforms directing a group of civilians who were loading what looked like long heavy rods onto a truck.

  “What are they doing?” Fritz asked.

  Lech put his finger onto his lips and held Fritz back. He nudged him behind a tree. “We should be careful. Looks like Russians.”

  Through the branches Fritz could see that people were trying to lift something from the ground.

  “They’re taking apart the railroad tracks,” Lech whispered.

  Now Fritz could also identify the work the men and women were doing. They lifted the tracks from the wooden ties and labored to place them onto a large truck.

  “Who is doing the work?” Fritz asked.

  “I think these are people from the village,” Lech explained. “But we should not be here. It is better they don’t see us.”

  Lech pulled Fritz by the sleeve, and the two of them headed back to their cart, but as soon as they had turned their backs, they heard a sharp voice: “Hands up!” Fritz froze in his steps, then slowly moved his arms up in the air. “Turn around!” the voice ordered. When Fritz turned around, he saw a Russian soldier holding his rifle in their direction. “You come!” He pointed at Lech. “Help with railroad.”

  “No!” Fritz screamed.

  “Don’t worry! He just wants me to help with the work,” Lech said calmly. “You go home. Lead the horse carefully.” He turned to the Russian and said something in his language. The man lowered his rifle and motioned Lech to come with him.

  “I’ll be back later,” Lech called and walked toward the railroad tracks with the soldier.

  24

  “They just took him away, threatening him at gunpoint?” Mama was livid when she heard Fritz’s account. “I am going to complain to Müller.”

  “Be careful, Gertrude,” Oma Clara cautioned, but Mama had already taken her jacket off the hook. “They have been taking people from the fields, and some of them didn’t come back. Be very careful!”