Berlin Wolf (10 page)

Back at his mooring point he forced open the crates, one after the other. The day had not been completely wasted for, apart from the disappointment of two cases containing more cognac and champagne, the remaining two had a mixture of the finest sugar, flour, herbs, spices, condiments and dried pasta. The pasta was particularly welcome as for the last few months they had survived on fish, meat and fruit. The straw from the crates was not wasted as he used it to stuff a pillow for himself and a bed for Wolfi. The wooden crates were used either for storage or fashioned into a small table. Some were broken up for kindling. The string handles he tied together into a small net. The collection of tins he had accumulated were used as additional pots, or tied to a string and stretched across the front of the camp as an intruder alarm.

* * *

As he sat in his hideaway that evening, the moon illuminating the clearing and reflecting in Wolfi's blue-grey eyes, Peter reviewed his current situation. It was the 4
^th
November 1942. That day he had almost drowned. On the other hand his countryside larder was bulging with a variety of delicious foods, both those he had salvaged and those he had foraged. There was enough caviar to feed Wolfi for a month. Their den was warm and dry and well-hidden. They had a boat to sail and fish from and as yet the winter was still fairly mild. With any luck the war would be over in the New Year and he could begin the hunt for his parents and go home.

That night he had eaten his best meal for many weeks. He had allowed himself an extra portion of meat and double the quantity of coffee and chocolates.

‘Happy Birthday to me Wolfi,' he said, raising his cup. As a final celebration of his sixteenth birthday, he popped the cork on a bottle of champagne and drank it straight from the neck of the bottle. It was better than the cognac, but he still preferred coffee.

Having emptied the bottle, he crawled into his bed, his movement a little clumsier and uncertain than normal. He pulled the covers over him. Wolfi lumbered slowly alongside and flopped to the ground in his special place, next to Peter's head. Within minutes both were snoring contentedly

After the initial euphoria of his discovery in the water, and having experienced his first hangover, Peter made two resolutions: he would not drink alcohol and he would ration the supplies. The non-perishable items he stored separately for when the climate worsened. Rather than depend on the meat and fish he had preserved, he went hunting as usual. Only in the event of returning empty handed did he turn to his larder. As the winter deepened, this became a more and more frequent occurrence.

* * *

It was mid-December. Peter and Wolfi had gone foraging as had become their routine. They checked all their snares and traps and then the fishing lines dangling in the water. Often there was ice on the edges of the lake and no matter how much Peter longed to take out his boat, he resisted the temptation. He did not want to attract attention, a situation that was inevitable if he was the only one on the water. To his dismay, as he pulled each of his fishing lines out of the water, it was the same story as had greeted him with the traps. Nothing! At best his larder would last him three months, and then only if he carefully restricted what they ate. He was already worried. In spite of the relative boon in recent weeks, Wolfi looked thinner.

He dropped the last of his fishing lines in the water and trudged back along the bank to the den. Wolfi, sensing his dejection, picked up a stick which he hurled to one side with a swing of his head. Peter took the hint and began a tug of war with his dog.

Still wrestling Wolfi for the stick, he walked to the entrance of the tunnel he had carved in the trees so long ago. Suddenly Wolfi dropped the stick and bounded ahead into the centre of the camp.

‘Wolfi! Wolfi stay!' It was no use. His dog was already out of sight. For once he had ignored Peter's instruction.

Peter crawled along behind as fast as he could. He was still midway along the tunnel when he heard Wolfi's fierce bark followed by a long, low growl. Whatever it was he had no choice but to follow. He could not desert Wolfi. Terrified at what he might find, he rushed from the end of the tunnel to be greeted by the vision of Wolfi crouched in the attack position, intermittently barking and growling.

‘Oh please! Please!' A boy, little more than twelve or thirteen was shuddering with fear and retreating from the angry dog. His hands were raised in front of his face as he repeated the same words again and again.

He seemed to be dressed in striped pyjama bottoms with an overcoat over his top half, many sizes too big. On his head was a thin, round cloth cap, also striped. His feet were wrapped in nothing more than sack cloth. He had not even noticed Peter, he was watching Wolfi so intently. Each time the dog moved or barked, the young boy recoiled in absolute terror.

‘Down Wolfi! Down!' Peter commanded. Wolfi immediately obeyed, sitting back on his hind quarters, never removing his eyes from the boy. Peter walked across to his dog and, as a measure of reassurance for the boy, clipped Wolfi's collar onto the lead.

Any anger Peter initially felt at the intrusion dissolved almost instantly. The boy was still shivering from cold and fear. He looked about twelve, yet he was so incredibly thin with sunken cheeks and the outline of his jaw protruding, it was hard to say. Under the cap Peter could see that his hair was shaved off.

‘Who are you? What do you want?' Peter asked.

He instantly regretted adding the second part of the question. It was obvious what he wanted and what he needed. He was starving and very cold. Without waiting for a reply, Peter lifted the cover to his underground hideaway and taking his only spare coat, gave it to the boy. The boy hesitated, still staring at Wolfi, rather than Peter.

‘Don't be scared,' Peter said. ‘He won't bite, honestly. He is a friendly dog. He was only protecting our home.' Slowly the boy reached out and took the coat from Peter and, slipping his arms into the sleeves, placed it over the clothes he was wearing.

‘You must be hungry,' Peter said by means of encouragement. At the word ‘hungry' the boy's eyes left Wolfi for the first time. Peter went to his larder in the ground and removed a piece of dried meat. With his pocket knife he cut off a thin slice and handed it to the boy. The boy snatched at it greedily and within seconds it had gone. Peter cut another slice, thicker this time. This was dispatched with the same speed. He handed the remainder of the meat to the boy.

‘Thank you,' the boy said and this time ate the meat more slowly.

‘So you speak German,' Peter said, ‘but are you German?' Since the outbreak of war there were thousands of foreigners in forced labour in Berlin.

‘Yes,' came the reply, ‘I am German. I come from Berlin.'

‘Are you a Jew?' Peter asked, wondering at how such a question would have been irrelevant before the war.

‘No,' the boy replied. ‘I am an enemy of the state.'

Peter almost laughed. The look on the young boy's face told him he was serious. With some encouragement the boy sat in Peter's hideaway, even allowing Wolfi to sit next to him. Peter would normally avoid lighting fires in the middle of the day. On this occasion he knew that he had to feed his visitor with something warm. With a mixture of some of his smoked rabbit and apples in brandy he prepared a stew. He even added an extra cupful of cognac. As each ingredient was added, the boy gave an approving look.

They ate in silence, the boy so rapidly, he hardly seemed to breathe between mouthfuls. In spite of giving him the largest portion of the stew, it was clear that the boy was still hungry. Peter took out the last box of chocolates and offered them to the boy. The look of delight on his face softened any doubts that Peter had. He removed one and popped it in his mouth motioning to the boy to do the same. Once the chocolate had dissolved on his tongue, Peter offered him another. He took it once more saying ‘thank you' as he did.

‘It looks like you'll have to stay here for a while,' Peter was saying, as he placed the box of chocolates back in its hiding place. ‘What did you say your name was?'

He turned to face both Wolfi and the boy. The boy was lying on his back, asleep. Peter lifted the blanket to cover him. Taking his arm and slipping it under the blanket, he noticed a red cloth triangle sewn onto his jacket and on the other side a six digit serial number.

‘I wonder what that is?' Peter thought. He pulled his coat tighter around the neck and lay down next to the boy, with Wolfi squashed between them.

* * *

The next morning Peter was awakened by the break of dawn. Next to him Wolfi was asleep. The boy was not there.

‘He's gone!' Peter said to himself. Hurriedly he checked his provisions. Everything was as he had left it. He felt a moment's shame for his unfounded suspicions. He walked from under the tree branches into the small clearing, where the boy stood looking at the sun.

‘The sun never seemed to shine in the camp,' the boy said.

‘What camp? You mean a camp like this?'

‘No,' the boy said sadly.

Peter said no more and proceeded to make breakfast, feeding the young guest more than he would ordinarily consume in a day. After they had eaten and were enjoying a cup of coffee, he tried to encourage him to tell his story.

At first the boy was reluctant. Peter tried to wean information from him, bit by bit. Noticing that the boy still followed Wolfi's every move, Peter asked ‘Why are you so afraid of Wolfi? Have you been bitten in the past?' The boy simply shook his head. After a pause he said, ‘They use dogs like him in the camp. They make them attack people for fun or when they do not work hard enough.'

On hearing this Peter persuaded the boy to stroke Wolfi's ears.

Next he made his dog sit and then roll over dead as he had been taught. For his encore he rolled onto his back waiting for his tummy to be tickled. Clearly reassured, the boy began to tell his story.

Peter listened intently, scarcely believing what he was hearing. As each new horror was revealed, he fought back the tears, wondering if this was what Mama and Papa were suffering.

‘My name is Franz. I am fifteen years old. My father was an industrialist and a politician. He was very wealthy. When the Nazis seized power in 1933 he opposed them. He refused to allow his factory to be used for their ‘evil' purposes as he described it. For years he fought with the authorities, always managing to politely yet firmly decline their demands. One evening the police came and arrested him for ‘undermining the resistance of the people'. He was taken to Prinz Albrecht Strasse, the Gestapo headquarters and kept in ‘protective custody'. My mother went to the station every day for a month, with an expensive lawyer. Each time they were told only that they were continuing their enquiries.

‘On one particular day my mother attended as usual and was told he was no longer there. They would not tell her where he was. After bribing one of the policeman the equivalent of three months wages, she found out that he had been taken to a camp in Oranienburg, north of Berlin, called ‘Sachsenhausen'. Nothing that the police did dissuaded my mother from seeking his release and undeterred she had gone to Sachsenhausen. She took me with her.

‘Yet again it was the same story. At the gates of the camp we were politely refused entry. The guards told us they would find out what they could. ‘Come back tomorrow,' they said. The next day we arrived at the front gates and were met with the same response. Each day for several weeks we went to the front gates and each time we were sent away with no news. The guards became increasingly hostile in their attitude, demanding bribes in return for information. Determined to see my father, she just ignored their insults and paid the bribes.

‘After about three weeks of the same wearying routine, we finally met with a different response. A senior SS officer came to the front gates and looked us up and down. He asked my father's name. Mother repeated it again. She could not hide the irritation in her voice. He asked her if we really wanted to come in and see him. She replied, ‘Of course, why did he think we were there?' The guards on the gate smiled. They opened the gates and let us inside.

It was horrible. The people were like skeletons, men, women and children. We were taken to a wooden barrack where we were introduced to a jaundiced looking man in what we thought were pyjamas. His head was shaved. It was my father we had failed to recognise. In the few months of his incarceration he had already lost a lot of weight.'

At this point in his tale Franz had tears welling in his eyes, but stubbornly refused to cry. He continued his narration. Peter blocked as many of the details from his mind as thoughts that he simply could not bear.

‘We were allowed just fifteen minutes together, until he was taken away. When we got up to leave the SS officer stood in our way, asking where we were going. We had wanted to come inside, now we had to stay, he said. My mother was taken away shouting her protests all the time. I never saw her again. I was deloused and forced to wear this striped outfit, the one I am still wearing. At least I got to share a hut with my father.'

Franz went on to tell of the hard labour he endured, the cruelty of the guards and the starvation rations, mainly consisting of turnip soup and mouldy potatoes. If they were too slow in their work they were whipped or beaten with rifles. Sometimes an inmate was shot ‘as an example'.

‘On one work detail outside the camp,' he continued, ‘two of the guards had gone off into the woods, leaving just one guard behind. Whilst they were gone my father whispered to me to sneak away and escape. I did not want to. I did not want to leave my father. I knew that the whole work party would be punished. But as a dutiful son I could not ignore the pleading in my father's eyes and reluctantly I obeyed. The last words I heard father speak were to tell me that I should go to the Weiss family, to Uncle Willy and Aunt Berta. They would look after me.'

Franz paused. He stared at the ground for several minutes then continued. ‘I have been on the run for days, scavenging whatever food I can find. I hid on a freight train and arrived in the outskirts of Berlin. I was making my way to the Weiss family, though I do not know exactly where they live. Yesterday I ducked into the bushes to avoid some pedestrians and I found this camp.'

That was his story. There were some details missing, such as the significance of the red triangle and serial number on his jacket. Franz would tell him when he was ready. He put his arm around his guest and neither moved for a number of minutes.

‘We can look after each other and Wolfi can look after both of us,' Peter said.

‘I would like that,' Franz said smiling. Reaching out his hand he stroked Wolfi's ears. Wolfi barked his agreement.

Franz's story had taken several hours to tell and by now all three were hungry again. Normally Peter and Wolfi would have little for lunch, usually surviving on breakfast and a larger dinner. Franz's tale of deprivation and hardship was still very much in his mind and Peter determined that here, at least for the next few weeks, he would not go hungry. Fifteen years old, Franz's size and weight suggested he was much younger. Peter prepared a luxurious feast of meat and preserves followed by hot coffee for Franz and himself. Wolfi was to enjoy his now regular treat of caviar, supplemented with preserved offal. As Peter began opening the tin, Franz's eyes bulged in wonderment.

‘You know caviar?' Peter asked.

‘Of course, of course,' Franz confirmed enthusiastically. ‘My father served it to important guests at many banquets.'

‘And you actually like it?' Peter said, questioning the sanity of his visitor.

‘Oh yes. I love it. But it is so expensive I was seldom allowed any. Only on special occasions.'

Until this moment Peter had simply regarded these fishy eggs as a bizarre foreign food that came in impractically small tins. How expensive could it be? Franz, guessing what was in Peter's thoughts, leaned over and whispered in his ear.

‘How much?' Peter shrieked. ‘Wolfi is the most valuable dog in all Germany!'