Berlin Wolf (11 page)

For the first time in over a year, Peter and Franz laughed, really laughed. Wolfi stared at them both. He was still waiting for his lunch.

Once they had regained their composure, Franz explained that whilst thin toast was important, champagne was the essential companion to caviar. In honour of his guest, Peter chilled a bottle of champagne and a tin of caviar to sample that evening. When the moment came he watched as Franz closed his eyes and spooned an indecent amount of the fish eggs into his mouth, followed closely by a swig of the champagne. Franz licked his lips in rapture. With this encouragement Peter followed suit. To Wolfi's approval he spat the lot out.

Once more, in the space of one day, both boys laughed and laughed until their sides hurt. Any concerns Peter harboured about this unexpected extra mouth to feed were now long forgotten. Even though he had used almost three days' rations in just one day, he and Wolfi had something much more precious: a new friend.

* * *

That first full day Franz spent with Peter and Wolfi had been occupied with Franz's tale and caviar sampling in the evening. In the hours between, Peter had recounted his own story and his adventures since separation from his mother and father. Not wishing to embarrass himself in front of the younger boy, Peter struggled not to cry. Luckily, each time he felt that he was about to give in and weep, Franz appeared to look away, allowing him to gather his thoughts. Whenever Wolfi's heroic deeds were mentioned, Franz looked in amazement at him and then patted Wolfi approvingly, saying ‘You are not like the dogs in the camp.' When Peter had finished and was silent again, Franz simply put his hand on Peter's, saying nothing.

After this moment of silence, Peter showed Franz the layout of his camp and the supplies that he had gathered. He told him the geography of their location and a few basic rules to ensure their safety. At the end of the friendly lecture, Peter removed his prized uniform from its hiding place. In spite having heard about it when Peter recounted his night time raid to the Hitler Youth centre, Franz was nonetheless stunned when he actually saw it. It was the genuine article and awe inspiring.

On seeing Franz's reaction, Peter gestured to him to follow and taking him to the edge of the lake, he proudly showed him the
Seawolf
. Any doubts that Franz still retained, disappeared in an instant.

‘So it's all true!' Franz said. He was impressed. ‘The night time visits to the bomb site, the spying over the wall at the villa, the aircraft with its sunken treasure. So many adventures Peter!'

Franz had heeded his father's parting words and he would obey them, eventually. For the moment he was not only content, he was positively enthusiastic to stay with Peter and Wolfi.

Within days of their first meeting the two boys had become close friends, united by their past suffering and common struggle. Franz's initial fear of Wolfi had completely vanished. In the short time they had been together, he had become as fond of Wolfi, as Wolfi was of him. Indeed, when Franz thought Peter was not looking, he would often slip a morsel of his own share of food to Wolfi. Peter simply pretended not to notice.

Even though their provisions were now required to feed an extra mouth, neither Peter nor Wolfi bore any resentment. In little time at all, even though the rations were meagre, Franz started to regain some weight, so that his face was less sallow and his eyes less sunken in appearance. The times Peter would see Franz staring into space with a deep sadness in his eyes became thankfully less frequent.

Franz was not as skilled in trapping or cooking as Peter. It turned out he was a talented artist and wood carver. Borrowing Peter's knife one day, he took a section of wood from an empty crate. It was about fifty centimetres long and fifteen centimetres wide. For two hours he hid from Peter's gaze, whittling and carving the wood. By the time he had finished he had carved ‘Seawolf' in perfect Gothic writing. After a further two hours he had cut each of the letters from the original piece of wood, so that they were now individual characters. Charred in the fire, they turned black and would be perfectly visible when affixed to the side of the boat.

On another day, when the weather was too poor to venture out, Franz carved a wooden spoon with a fork and knife to match. This was appreciated by both, as hitherto one had eaten with a spoon and the other a fork. Peter did not assist in any way at Franz's request, he simply marvelled at the skill involved.

Of even greater use was the simple wooden trap that Franz fashioned from a crate, with some guidance from Peter. Peter's own rope or wire snares were quite efficient except often the quarry could struggle free. Either that or they had been taken by someone else, something he had grown more concerned about lately. This latest invention, when properly sprung, would prevent escape. In return, he taught Franz the essential skill of how to start a fire with a lighter flint, dried moss and sedges. Franz was intelligent and a quick learner. His contribution was immense and greatly appreciated.

When Christmas Eve arrived they celebrated as if they had not a care in the world. Jew, gentile and canine shared a sumptuous meal and afterwards, to each other's surprise, they exchanged gifts. Peter's present from Franz was a walking stick carved from a hazel branch. On the top the handle was shaped to resemble a wolf or as Peter soon realised, Wolfi! There was even a leather strap to loop it over his hand. Nor did Franz forget Wolfi. His present was his own wooden bowl to drink from.

Peter was a little embarrassed when he handed over his Christmas offering. It was a tin of the caviar and a bottle of champagne. Franz was delighted. Just a few months ago he could not have imagined dining so well and with such excellent company. He only wished his parents could have shared the evening with him. Thanking Peter and Wolfi profusely, for in reality the sacrifice was Wolfi's, he went to bed that evening happier than he had felt in a long while.

* * *

As the days became weeks, the nights became shorter and colder. Their success rate in hunting and fishing had dropped completely. Apart from a decent supply of coffee beans, champagne and cognac, there was little to eat. Peter had insisted on only turning to their larder when the hunt had been unsuccessful. This strategy had stretched their stocks for much longer than he ever thought possible, but now things had reached rock bottom. It was six weeks since Franz had first arrived in the Wolf's Lair.

In that time Peter had not ventured into the city to scavenge bomb sites. It had not really been necessary. One of the attractions had been the chance to mingle with others, not necessarily speaking to anyone, enjoying the knowledge that he and Wolfi were not alone. Franz had satisfied this craving for human companionship. The knowledge of how Franz and his family had been treated, even as non-Jews, brought home the fear that he had previously managed to suppress.

Reluctantly and with some foreboding, Peter began to don his uniform. He struggled to button the shirt and the shorts were even worse. In spite of his sparse diet he had grown from a boy into a young man and the clothes no longer fitted. He had been aware of this problem more and more in recent weeks, as the boots he wore were much too tight and walking was becoming increasingly painful. He must find new boots soon. But how could he acquire them without the disguise?

Franz had watched as Peter had tried each piece of clothing and quickly guessed the truth. ‘I can look for food. Let me wear it,' he begged.

‘No,' came the single word answer, more harshly than intended. Peter would not enter into further discussion. It was not that he lacked faith in Franz, he simply could not bear the idea that anything should happen to him.

Instead they checked the traps once more and hauled out the fishing lines from the icy water. Nothing. That evening Peter made a thin soup of water and some of the sedges he hoped were edible, along with the few dried fungi that were in the larder. The resulting mixture was barely drinkable, though neither wished to show the other their disappointment. Wolfi was scarcely any more fortunate, only having a half-gnawed bone to chew on.

* * *

The next day Peter decided that regardless of the hazards, they would have to launch the boat. At least it would distract them from their hunger. There was a slight breeze, just about enough to sail. Franz was visibly excited at the prospect of their first excursion, hardly listening to Peter's safety advice. With Franz in the only life jacket and Wolfi between them, they cast off.

It was a pleasant enough trip. As expected at this time of year and in this bitter weather there was no-one else on their part of the lake. Trailing a line of hooks with feathers knotted together as bait, they sailed the lake for almost an hour. By now they were both turning blue with cold. They had caught nothing. At least it had been a break from the camp.

Back in their den, the two boys sat pensively. To keep the cold at bay they had opened a bottle of cognac. At first the smell and taste were off-putting, although the warming sensation in their throats and chest made the effort worthwhile. After a long period of silence Franz said: ‘It is because of me that you two are starving. It is time for me to go.'

‘I will not allow that,' Peter said.

‘I must obey what my father said,' Franz replied firmly.

‘You don't even know where they live, this Weiss family.' Peter was adamant.

‘Then let me go into the city to scavenge. I can wear the uniform,' Franz begged once more. The dialogue between the two boys went back and forward in this manner, until Peter gave in and agreed that Franz should go into the city.

‘Only if I go with you,' Peter said. Franz knew from his tone that any further debate was useless.

And so that night the two boys, accompanied by Wolfi, crossed the woods and entered the blacked out city. They could have left Wolfi behind. Their attachment to him and his attachment to them was so strong, that neither wished to contemplate it. For two hours they nervously moved in convoy around the city, looking for suitable targets. As usual the threat of collision with others was always present. They found a row of bombed out houses with the stark warning sign ‘
looters will be shot
'. They spent an hour looking through the rubble with no success. It had already been picked over many times. Two other sites produced similar results. One yielded a tablecloth, but nothing to eat.

‘At least we can dine in style,' Peter joked, trying to hide his increasing concern. It was now the middle of the night and the three were tired and hungry, and a little discouraged. ‘It's no use. Let's go home,' Peter said.

They had been looking for almost three hours. Since the first RAF ‘terror' attacks in the early part of the war, Berlin in 1942 had been largely ignored and as a result there were fewer bomb sites. The Allies had been concentrating on the Battle of the Atlantic. In recent months enemy planes were more likely to drop propaganda leaflets than explosives.

‘Just one more site, then we can go home,' Franz replied.

They were desperate. They walked along the darkened streets, one behind the other, and as far away from the pavement edge as possible. From previous experience, Peter had discovered that this was the best means to avoid accidents or unwanted lights being shone in their faces.

They had decided that they would not travel beyond Schöneberg, a small district directly adjoining Tiergarten, the area near the centre of the city, with Berlin Zoo at its heart. They had reached the point at which they had previously agreed to turn back when Wolfi stopped in his tracks and began to nudge Peter's side. The dog was trembling.

‘What is it, boy? What is wrong?' he asked, stroking Wolfi's ears.

The wailing of the air raid siren disturbed Wolfi even more. It was a noise that had not been heard for many months. Within minutes the low rumble of the bombers could be heard. And then the dreadful whining as their payloads descended to earth, preceded by parachute flares to light the way, followed by the awful explosions. Tracer fire from the anti-aircraft battery lit up the sky closely pursued by the rat-a-tat-tat as real bullets sought their aerial targets and sixteen pound shells were thrust into the heavens. Soon the large metal shards of flak would fall back to earth, posing as much danger as the bombs themselves.

‘We have got to find cover,' Peter shouted to Franz.

They were in an exposed area of the city with few residential buildings. Peter was in a quandary. They could not hang around as the danger from the bombs and flak was too great. They dare not risk using a public shelter as neither of them had identification and Peter was by now almost crippled in the boots that had seemed to shrink around his toes. His overall appearance might raise a few eyebrows. Above all, with shelters being so crowded already, it was uncertain whether Wolfi would be allowed in. Neither Peter nor Franz would leave him outside. Wolfi had grown more used to the terror of the air raids, but even in the security of their den, he was always unsettled. They could not stay where they were.

In the panic of the moment any caution was put to one side. It was the middle of the night and it was unlikely that many people would be out and about, however that could soon change as public shelters filled. The illuminated sky provided some light by which they could navigate.

‘Over there!' Peter shouted, struggling to be heard above the noise of the air raid. He was pointing at a half-demolished building surrounded by a high wooden fence. A poster pasted on the outside indicated that this was not the work of the RAF, rather it was another of Hitler's grand designs for the capital of the Reich. Inspired by Hitler's favourite architect, Albert Speer, many buildings were being laid low to make way for huge boulevards and new public buildings on a scale never seen. It was Hitler's vision of ‘Germania', a city that would outshine Paris or Rome. Before taking flight with his parents, Peter had admired the ambition in the plan. With Berlin crumbling under Allied bombardments, further demolition seemed a little crazy.

Peter grabbed the top of a fence plank and pulled as hard as he could. It did not budge. Taking the other side of the plank, Franz wrestled to free the nails and gradually, first the top half and then the bottom of the plank came away. They repeated this with two further planks until there was a space large enough for all three to squeeze through.

Franz had not stopped to question Peter as to why they were entering a building site. Soon it became clear. This building, like virtually all in Berlin, had a cellar. As this was a building demolished by man rather than by a bomb, the cellar was still intact.

‘From the air the bomber pilots will assume it has already been hit and ignore it as a target,' Peter explained.

* * *

A short while later, Peter, Franz and Wolfi were squashed together in the basement. With each explosion, Wolfi crept closer to Peter. After an hour the noise grew more distant. The all clear had not been sounded. They could not wait any longer. It was close to dawn and the site would soon be busy with construction workers.

‘We'll have to go if we want to get back to the camp in darkness,' said Peter. He led the way out of the basement and back towards the fence. Wolfi was a little way behind with Franz, both struggling over rough bricks and debris. As Peter approached the gap in the fence he heard a clicking noise.

‘Halt! You are under arrest!' Behind him and to one side, was standing a policeman and a soldier. Not a Gestapo officer, a regular policeman from the ‘Kripo', or Criminal Police. The soldier was pointing his rifle at him. The noise Peter had heard was a rifle bolt being pulled back. He was so hungry and tired he had failed to connect the sound with any danger.

‘Down Wolfi! Down!' Franz spoke under his breath, ducking and pulling Wolfi to the ground at the same time. In the darkness the men had failed to see Franz and Wolfi in the background. Fortunately Franz had recognised the sound.

‘You are under arrest on suspicion of looting. Hand over your bag! At once!' the policeman ordered. Peter passed the loop of the satchel strap over his head and handed the satchel to the policeman. Opening the buckle, the policeman searched inside and with a satisfied grin and a dramatic flourish, held a tablecloth aloft. Peter had forgotten about it. Franz groaned. Useful as it might be, it was not worth being shot for.

‘You know the penalty for looting. Dr. Freisler and his colleagues at the People's Court have given us authority to carry out that penalty. You will now be shot.'

Franz was torn. He could try and overwhelm them, but with what? He could bluff it out claiming Peter was his prisoner, although why should they believe that? He had no weapon and Peter was obviously stronger than him.