Berlin Wolf (12 page)

‘What shall I do?' he murmured. Frightened and hesitant, Franz watched as the two men frog-marched Peter towards the perimeter fence. Peter was placed against the fence and the two men moved back a distance of twenty paces. The soldier raised his rifle and took aim.

Franz stood up. He was holding Wolfi back by his lead.

‘Boom!'

Just as Franz was about to cry out, a thunderous bang reverberated around the building site, knocking him to the ground. It was not the sound of a gunshot, it was much louder. It was a bomb! In the excitement and noise, none of them had noticed the stray plane overhead jettisoning the last of its deadly cargo. Franz stood up. He could see the policeman and the soldier prostrate on the ground, still moving. Wolfi struggled to free himself from Franz's grip, and having wriggled loose, was sprinting towards the hole in the fence. As he leapt through, Franz could just make out something ahead of Wolfi.

‘It's Peter! He's got away!' It was the back of Peter's head he could see. About thirty seconds later he was being pursued by the two men.

While Franz was watching Peter and Wolfi disappear from view, chased by the soldier and the policeman, Peter was sprinting as fast as he could. He was encouraged by Wolfi at his side, although by now his feet were almost bleeding. In spite of the agonising pain in his feet, fear and youth carried him a long way from his pursuers. He ran for almost twenty minutes. Stopping to catch his breath, he looked around him.

‘I hope Franz will be okay,' he thought. He felt a pang of guilt that he had left Franz behind, even though there was nothing he could do just then. Dejected and with sore feet he decided it was time to return home. Limping badly, he started on the long journey back to Grünewald.

Meanwhile, Franz had sneaked out through the hole in the fence and was searching for signs of Peter. Ten minutes later he decided that it was hopeless and began his long hike back to the camp. The journey was agonisingly slow as Franz feared the worst. He knew Peter was suffering with tight boots and both were very hungry. How could he possibly outrun the well-nourished men, especially if they were shooting at him?

Some hours later Franz was at the entrance to the camp, where he hesitated. He wanted to know if Peter and Wolfi were safe, though he dreaded what he might find.

Crawling on his hands and knees he approached with heavy heart. Hunger and starvation were dreadful. To be left alone after all this time would be unbearable.

He was within a few metres of the clearing when suddenly he was knocked onto his front by a weight on his back. All he could feel was Wolfi's rough tongue licking excitedly at his face as the large dog pinned him to the ground.

‘What kept you?' Peter laughed, his concern still noticeable.

‘Peter! Peter!' Franz replied, overwhelmed by relief.

When the fuss died down and Wolfi had finally released Franz, each boy apologised repeatedly for abandoning the other. In the end they agreed that neither was to blame, and satisfied, but hungry, they crawled into bed.

* * *

When Peter awoke the next morning he was cold and hungry and concerned for the future. His sleep had been broken by the dreams of the past and images of what might become of them. It was just after dawn and Franz was already brewing coffee, fortified with brandy. Peter rubbed his eyes and stared.

‘It's a good fit, isn't it?' Franz said. He was in Peter's old Hitler Youth uniform. It fitted almost perfectly. He passed Peter some coffee and began to outline his plan.

‘I don't know the address of the Weiss family. I have been there when I was much younger. I am sure I could recognise it again.'

‘So how will you find out where they live?' Peter wondered, unconvinced.

‘He is an aristocrat of some sort and is listed in some book or other. It lists all the most important men in Germany. In this uniform I can gain access to a library where I can look for the address.'

Peter leaned back and thought about the idea. The Nazis certainly did not expect fugitives to attend libraries. That part of the plan should be fairly safe. The greater risk was getting to the library.

‘Even with the address, why are you so certain that this family will help even if they can?' Peter's query was quite reasonable. Franz was confident.

‘Herr Weiss was in my father's regiment in 1914. He was his commanding officer. My father saved his life and was decorated as a result. After the war Herr Weiss supported my father financially to enable his business to get off the ground. When it became very successful, netting him millions, Herr Weiss became a director. The two men were business partners and closer than anyone could have imagined possible. I even called his wife ‘Aunt Berta'. They are good people. They owe a lot to my father. They will help us.'

‘They may help you Franz. What about a Jew? And his dog?'

‘They will help both of us and Wolfi,' Franz replied. ‘I promise you.' Peter hesitatingly agreed. There really was little alternative.

* * *

The first stage of the plan went very smoothly. As with Peter, no-one suspected a young member of the Hitler Youth riding a bicycle. His greatest fear was a daytime air raid. The RAF bombed at night time, the American air force during the day. He had no desire to be ushered into a shelter by a warden with the possibility of being trapped there for hours and with Peter fearing the worst.

Thankfully the skies remained clear and without hitch he arrived at his destination. At the library he had been shown to the reference section and quickly found the address he needed, which he then memorised. It was in the district of Charlottenburg, closer to the city centre and only two districts north of their camp. It was still quite a way on foot, though at least it was not in one of the districts far to the north or east. He had returned as fast as possible stopping only to listen to a public broadcast from loudspeakers on the outside of a row of shops. The broadcast told him nothing new. It repeated the propaganda of how the war would soon be won, how many British and American planes had been shot down. It finished with the rousing message often displayed in placards that ‘no-one shall hunger; no-one shall freeze'.

‘If only!' Franz remarked, more loudly than was wise.

* * *

Back at camp Peter and Franz sat down with Wolfi to talk through the next step. Peter was about to start speaking when Franz reached inside the satchel and took out a loaf of rye bread and a small salami.

‘But, but how?' Peter stammered.

‘I bartered a bottle of cognac on the black market,' Franz said with a grin.

Peter's initial anger subsided as he savoured the meat and bread. The black market was highly illegal and carried severe penalties for those who were caught.

‘I told the man who gave me this that my father was an alcoholic and my mother had sent me out to sell his last bottle of cognac,' Franz explained proudly.

‘Thank you. Never again Franz. It is too dangerous.'

As he said this, as earnestly as he could, a cheeky grin appeared on Franz's face. ‘So I better take these back!' Franz pulled a pair of black lace up boots from the satchel, like a conjuror pulling a rabbit from a hat.

‘How on earth?'

‘Best not to know,' Franz said, tapping his nose conspiratorially as he spoke.

For Peter the new boots were more welcome than the bread and meat. His feet had become so cramped that he could barely walk without stooping or limping. As the aim of his disguise was to avoid attention, that could prove fatal. They were a little too big, which was heavenly compared to his old pair, and he had not yet stopped growing.

They made the bread and meat last for another day until once more they faced the age-old dilemma. So far Franz's plan had worked. Peter still retained his nagging doubts.

‘You go alone Franz,' Peter suggested. ‘If everything works out you can come and get me.'

‘I am not going to leave you on your own,' Franz replied. ‘It will work out, I am sure of it.'

Eventually Franz's warm and enthused description of Aunt Berta and Uncle Willy persuaded Peter that they would help them both. It was time to leave their camp. They had no choice.

The next day Peter secured the
Seawolf
, hiding it in the usual spot with extra foliage to cover it. As he touched the boat with his hand he recalled the many happy trips it had afforded him. He sincerely hoped he would be able to make use of it again.

Back at their camp, the two boys set to work hiding any signs of its existence. The old crates were stowed in the underground larder, along with the empty tins and bottles. Remnants of the many fires were carefully buried under pine needles and earth. Peter packed a few of his homemade snares and fishing lines, just in case. He left behind the fishing rod, carefully secreted. Anyone who happened across the clearing now would have little idea that it had once been a home.

With his new boots, the journey was much more comfortable than either of them had expected. Peter rode the bicycle to take the pressure off his feet. Franz walked alongside, holding Wolfi's lead in one hand and Peter's hand-carved walking stick in the other. Wolfi cantered happily next to them.

They had left at night as they were carrying as much of their reserves as possible. In all this was eight bottles of champagne, six bottles of cognac and the last precious sack of coffee beans. They had wrapped each bottle separately in clothing to stop the clink of bottles, a happy sound that most Berliners had not heard for some time. As their luggage was quite substantial they had decided to travel under cover of darkness. In daytime someone was bound to wonder what was in their backpacks.

And so it was that the three friends trekked from their forest hideaway to the suburbs of Charlottenburg.

After journeying for two hours, hiding in the shadows when anyone approached, the three travellers arrived at their destination. Charlottenburger Chausee was a wide, tree-lined avenue with carriageways on two sides of the street. It was similar in appearance to Schillerstrasse only much more grand. Peter's neighbours had been the wealthy middle classes of Berlin, the bureaucrats, the civil servants, the doctors and lawyers. This street consisted of large town houses or mansions each surrounded by its own substantial garden and driveway. These were the homes of the idle rich, the aristocracy or the business tycoons and industrialists. Or they had been the homes of such people. Many of the original occupants remained, yet Peter suspected that some of the homes had been confiscated by party officials. Probably the homes of the Jewish industrialists or newspaper owners. The prospect of bumping into a member of Hitler's war cabinet chilled Peter to the bone.

None of these concerns appeared to trouble Franz, who it was quite clear, felt entirely at ease in these surroundings. Whereas Peter had grown up with the services of a part-time cook and housekeeper, Franz was accustomed to the fawning attention of a myriad of household staff: butlers, chauffeurs, maids and nannies.

‘Houses like these will still have servants,' Peter worried. He had been quite prepared to trust in the loyalty of close family friends. It was an entirely different matter to trust in the loyalty of their servants. Germany had seen many changes. The Nazi State thrived on betrayal and denunciation.

‘This is a bad idea,' Peter murmured, but Franz was already half way through the imposing gates of the Weiss family mansion. Peter held back behind a tree with Wolfi sitting by his side.

The ‘plan' as they had laughingly called it, seemed quite brazen now. Franz was to knock at the door wearing his uniform. He would ask to see Herr Weiss, saying that he bore a message from a friend, his ‘nephew' Franz. If he was denied access they would call an end to their plan. It was that simple.

Peter watched nervously as Franz crunched along the gravel drive to the large front door. On reaching it he put his hand on a metal ring and pulled it towards him. A bell rang inside. Peter shrank back out of view. It was almost dawn and one way or another he would have to hide from prying eyes.

There was no response, so after a delay of some thirty seconds, Franz pulled the bell cord once more. This time the door swung open and an elderly man in evening dress appeared in the doorway. He appeared to grimace at seeing Franz's uniform.

‘May I help you?'

Peter could hear very little of Franz's response and the ensuing conversation. The butler, for that was what he assumed he was, disappeared, closing the door behind him. Franz waited patiently outside. A minute or so later the door opened in a fast, sweeping motion, almost hitting Franz. A large lady in her late fifties or early sixties in a silk dressing gown and fur slippers had pulled Franz to her chest and was almost hugging him to death.

‘My little Franz! Oh my poor boy!' she said over and over. She looked carefully around before they went inside, closing the door behind.

Peter remained stationary for a few minutes. He was on the verge of leaving when Franz rushed out of the door saying, ‘Peter! Wolfi! Come! It's safe.'

Peter held back. Wolfi did not and dragged him towards the open door. Eventually Peter's fear of what might meet him inside was overcome by his desire not to separate from his friends.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, they were sitting at a large, mahogany table eating powdered eggs with slices of meat and bread and ersatz coffee. Wolfi was chewing happily on a mutton bone with scraps of meat attached.

The house was enormous inside. Despite its size, it appeared that there was only the one servant, Albert the butler and more recently, cook. Aunt Berta had welcomed Peter as if he were her own child. An animal lover to the core, she had happily allowed Wolfi into her fine dining room.

Once they had eaten Franz recounted how he had met Peter and the sad events relating to his father and mother. Aunt Berta wiped away a tear and taking both boys to her chest, hugged them until they could barely breathe.

‘These are the terrible times we live in,' she said. ‘Even my boy Kurt has been taken from me.'

Franz was curious at this remark as he had not remembered any children. Seeing his puzzled look, Aunt Berta enlightened them.

‘Kurt is the son of an old servant. Sadly he was orphaned before the war so we adopted him. Presently he is at a KLV camp in Elgersburg, Thuringia.'

Seeing Franz's consternation she quickly added, ‘It's not that sort of camp. Lots of children under the age of fourteen have been evacuated to the countryside to avoid the bombings. Officially of course the phrase ‘evacuation' is forbidden. The KLV camps are staffed by teachers and senior members of the Hitler Youth who educate the boys in all things necessary for the ‘future well-being of the Reich'. This includes sports, war games and many other types of physical education. I did not want him to go, but unfortunately we had little choice.'

Aunt Berta did not sound very convinced by the official propaganda that she had heard so often. It clearly saddened her to think about it.

The phrase for the ‘future well-being of the Reich' unsettled the boys when they heard it. It seemed somehow completely meaningless in their current environment.

‘As for Albert the butler,' Aunt Berta whispered, ‘don't worry about him. He is a Jew.'

Peter marvelled at this news. Here right next door to some of the top brass of the Nazi party, a Jew was hiding under their very noses.

‘Better than that, he has even served drinks to some of them,' she giggled.

That first night in Aunt Berta's house was idyllic. Her enormous wealth enabled her to buy many of the everyday essentials such as potatoes, powdered milk, bread, eggs and butter that few other Germans could afford or even find, as they were so severely rationed. As well as the staples of everyday life she could purchase some luxuries, but even the wealthy Aunt Berta struggled to find real coffee. On hearing this, Peter took great delight in producing the last sack of the beans that he had rescued from the water. Her face was a picture of shock and delight. Her face lit up even more when between them they unloaded their haul of champagne and cognac. She kissed both of them repeatedly on their cheeks, saying ‘You are my angels, my darlings.'

After dinner they sat in front of a real fire, with real coal, sipping coffee and cognac. Normally such pleasures were denied the young generation in Aunt Berta's household, until at least eighteen. After all the trials and tribulations that these two had gone through she did not have the heart to scold them. At Peter's request Albert joined them, and for three hours or so, the war seemed just a dream.

When they retired to bed each had their own room with an adjoining door between them. Without hesitation or inquiry, Aunt Berta said that of course, Wolfi must sleep on Peter's bed. In the event he slept on the floor by the door of the bedrooms, keeping a watchful eye on both boys.

Peter and Franz slept like never before. The sheets were crisp white cotton and lemon-scented. The pillows and mattresses were stuffed with goose feathers and were so soft the boys sank into them as if in the lake. For the first time in many months, neither boy suffered from the recurring dreams that had so often haunted them. Both slept soundly with full stomachs and a goodnight kiss from Aunt Berta.

In the morning Peter soaked in a hot bath. He could scarcely believe it. Hot water and soap! The bath was so large that Peter, Wolfi and Franz could have bathed at the same time, without ever bumping into each other. As he relaxed in the soapy water, Wolfi lay next to the tub, only looking up when some of the contents splashed onto him.

* * *

For the next few days life continued in the same wonderful vein. By the standards of the war, there was plenty to eat and drink, only the coffee being rationed to after dinner. There was always coal for the fire and, so it seemed to Peter, always hot water. The boys were kitted out in new clothing, some left behind by their servants. Peter even got a second new pair of boots. They had been bought for Kurt, a detail Aunt Berta withheld when she presented them to him.

‘You are very kind Frau Weiss,' Peter said. ‘And very brave, harbouring three ‘enemies' of the Reich.'

‘Nonsense. This is my house I will have whomever I like to stay. And please call me Aunt Berta,' she replied.

He was pleased to call her ‘Aunt'. In spite of her defiance, Peter knew the penalty for a woman of her age would be fatal. Such was Aunt Berta's nature that she did not allow any discussion about such matters.

‘Don't worry about me,' she said, ‘let me show you something.' Aunt Berta stood up and they followed her into the dining room.

‘By the time any unwanted visitors get from the front door to the drawing room, you will be hidden in here.' She pressed an oak panel which opened to reveal a secret cupboard.

* * *

The greatest pleasure for all concerned was to sit after dinner, listening to the radio. In defiance of the regulations, and in common with most of Berlin, they would listen to BBC news bulletins.

‘It will all be over soon, my darlings,' Aunt Berta would announce optimistically as each British success was reported.

After these bulletins, Albert would turn the dial to a music channel, where symphonies and concertos were the order of the day. On hearing one particular piece of music, Aunt Berta sprang from her chair. ‘Dance with me,' she implored and danced a waltz with each in turn. Even Wolfi joined in.

* * *

The joy of life at Aunt Berta's continued for almost two weeks, following the same routine. One morning, after breakfast, Aunt Berta became unusually serious.

‘My husband has been away on business for some time. He has visited Kurt at the KLV camp and he is bringing him home for a visit. I am sure you will all become good friends. Until I can be certain of Kurt's reaction, it is best that Peter and Wolfi hide somewhere else.'

The news was an unwelcome shock. They knew that their stay could not last forever, but the idea that they might separate was completely unexpected.

‘We shall stay together, the three of us,' Franz declared angrily.

‘No, no, you misunderstand, my darlings. No-one will have to go away. Peter and Wolfi will stay in a summer house next to the lake until we are sure it is safe. There is a heater in there and he will have plenty to eat.' Franz was still indignant. Aunt Berta managed to calm him.

‘Kurt was a sweet, harmless boy when he left. He has changed. He seems hardened in his attitudes by all the indoctrination and full of hate. He did not even want to come home for Christmas or New Year. That was why we have decided to ‘bring' him back for a while. To recover the old Kurt, if it is not too late. As yet he does not know anything about the two of you or even Albert.'

‘Then I cannot remain here either,' Franz replied to Berta's explanation.

‘You will stay as my nephew. I know you are an enemy of the state, but with the war and Hitler's obsession with the Jews, no-one is likely to devote much time looking for you, my darling.'

As she made this observation she took a card from her silk purse and handed it to Franz. Franz gazed at it in disbelief, for on the front was his photograph. An old picture, yet unmistakeably a picture of him.

‘It's an identity card. It describes you as my nephew,' Berta explained. ‘It took me some time to get it. It was all done through a church. The congregation is opposed to the Nazis. It is quite clever. One of them leaves their genuine identity card in a basket outside the church. Someone, known only as ‘the forger', takes the genuine card and returns it altered with a new photograph. Luckily I had an old photo of Franz which he used.'

Aunt Berta stopped whilst Franz absorbed the news. The significance of the moment was not lost on Peter or Franz. Franz had been ‘legalised' by forgery and could come out of hiding.

‘Kurt will not suspect anything,' she said. ‘Prior to his adoption I often spoke of my wonderful nephew Franz.' Franz blushed.

‘I had intended obtaining papers for Peter as well. Understandably the church members are nervous as so many have reported lost papers. I will find another way,' she said apologetically, ‘although it will have to wait for now.'

Peter rose from the table and kissed Aunt Berta tenderly on the cheek. She placed her hand on his and held it there for a few minutes.

* * *

And so Peter and Wolfi moved into the summer house by the lake, forty minutes away from the house that had become so comfortable to them, awaiting the arrival of the adopted son. The summer house was less luxurious than the main house, and still, a great deal more comfortable than Peter's previous hideouts. To describe it simply as a ‘summer house' did not do it justice. It was more spacious and well-equipped than the dwellings occupied by most Berliners, and was very secluded, set within its own grounds of several acres, with a huge lawn fronting directly onto the water. It even had an old Blaupunkt valve radio. It was a small miracle that the property had not been requisitioned or confiscated by some Nazi official or other, especially as the Weiss family had not used it for years. It was to them just another of their many houses.

‘Aunt Berta must have really powerful friends,' he thought.

Once again Peter was living with Wolfi by the side of a great lake, this time the Havelsee, and on his own, fending for himself. In the few weeks in the Weiss mansion he had grown fond of the conversation and shared moments of laughter. Hopefully it would only be for a short while until they could be sure of Kurt's attitude. At least each day he would be visited by Franz and Aunt Berta when she could manage it, he comforted himself. And he was well-fed.

So Peter remained in the summer house taking advantage of its many books. He had forgotten how much he had missed simple pleasures such as reading. For some reason he had found himself drawn to
Robinson Crusoe
, a book he had once rejected as too childish. With reading, listening to the radio and exercising Wolfi, the hours and days passed quite quickly.