Berlin Wolf (16 page)

It was another pleasant spring day in Berlin and Peter and Franz like many Berliners were enjoying the afternoon sunshine. Wolfi was running around in the gardens of the zoo. This was Wolfi's favourite time. He was with his two closest friends with no other purpose in life than to chase a stick. In spite of all the trials of his time in hiding, Peter had somehow managed to preserve a semblance of a routine for Wolfi. That included his daily walks and playtime. Today, for some reason, Peter was distracted and Wolfi had to keep tapping his foot with his large paw, just to remind him he was there.

Peter was very frustrated. It had been over a week since the rendezvous outside the train station and so far they had not achieved anything. He was aware there must be hundreds, maybe even thousands in desperate need of help. The problem was how to contact them. Most people were rightly wary of anyone who offered assistance.

He had even contemplated returning to the woods to look for fugitives. Often when he had checked his traps he had been certain that someone had got there first. Now that he was a little freer to roam the streets, he had noticed more and more the conspicuous individuals who always tried to avert their eyes and whose shabby condition, even by the standards of wartime shortages, suggested they might be living rough. Mostly though it was the look of panic in their faces that gave their true status away

‘Wolfi. Where's Wolfi?' Peter's deep thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the realisation that his dog was nowhere to be seen.

He scanned the immediate vicinity and then beyond. After some moments his panic eased as his eyes lighted on Wolfi the other side of the park. He was seated in front of a park bench. On the bench a man was sitting who from the distance appeared about sixty years old. He was stroking Wolfi between the ears on the top of his head as the playful dog leaned further into the man's legs.

Peter's initial reaction was one of pride, which soon gave way to concern. Even the simple act of petting a dog could lead one into conversations that might betray too many secrets.

‘Wolfi! Here boy!' Peter said and whistled.

Wolfi ignored him. He whistled again. Still there was no response. This was very unusual behaviour for Wolfi who was normally so obedient. There was nothing else to do so Peter reluctantly walked towards the stranger. As he approached the stranger stood up and began to hurry away in the opposite direction. Wolfi followed him.

Peter could see the man as he leaned towards Wolfi and said something to him. Frustratingly, he could not make out what. With Wolfi moving further away, he ran towards his dog and grabbed him by the collar. As he did so he was able to gain a close view of the stranger. He was wearing a grey wool suit that had clearly seen better days. It was frayed on the cuffs and the trouser ends were ragged and the whole suit looked very much as if it had been slept in many times. The man wore a pale, beige raincoat that was crumpled and dirty and seemed out of place on such a warm, sunny day. On his head he wore a brown Homburg hat, the only part of his appearance that was in any way respectable.

Most striking Peter thought were the soles of the once expensive leather shoes, for they were worn all the way through. Each time the man lifted his foot the holes seemed larger and larger. This was just the sort of person that he had been thinking of. He surely needed help.

‘Please,' Peter said quietly, ‘don't go away.'

The man looked backwards with fear in his eyes, still hurrying away.

‘I must get home to my own menagerie,' the stranger said, and moved even further away.

‘Menagerie! Menagerie!' Peter repeated.

By now he had taken the old man's sleeve in his hand. At close range he could see the stranger's face. The cheeks were thinner and the eyes a little sunken and sad, but he had no doubt as to their owner.

‘Please. Don't be afraid. I can help. Please Professor Blumenthal!' Peter pleaded.

The mention of his name was like a blow from a truncheon to the Professor. He could not hide his surprise. His reaction confirmed to Peter what Wolfi had long since known. This was the same kind old man that Peter had once met virtually every day in the woods around Schlachtensee.

When Peter had struggled at first to train Wolfi, the Professor had helped. He had looked after dogs all his life. It was he that showed Peter how to recall Wolfi, how to get him to sit, to lie down and walk to heel. As a consequence, apart from Peter, there was no-one Wolfi responded to better than the Professor. Each day when they had parted the Professor had left with the words, ‘I must return to my menagerie.'

‘If you want to help, please just let me go,' the Professor replied sadly.

‘But Professor it's me Peter Stern and this is Wolfi.' Peter spoke quietly, though firmly.

‘We don't know who are friends and who are enemies these days,' the Professor lamented. ‘And you should be careful where you give your name.' The Professor's caution was not unexpected, nor unusual.

‘Professor we cannot trust everyone. We must trust someone. If we trust no-one then we have lost everything. We are no longer human,' Peter argued.

The Professor was impressed by Peter's sincerity. He had always had a soft spot for Peter, almost regarding him as an intellectual equal, even at the age of ten.

Peter continued to try and persuade his friend. ‘I understand your caution, Professor. Please meet me at three this afternoon at the junction of Luisenstrasse and Invalidenstrasse. I have the means to get you off the streets. Please come, but be careful.'

The Professor did not respond. Something in his face said that he would be there. Peter walked back to Franz who was watching, extremely curiously. It seemed to Franz that he had a certain swagger in his gait and was happier than he had been for some time.

Franz was pacing up and down Lotte's appartment. At first he had been furious when Peter told him what had occurred. It was perhaps their first ever real disagreement. Once he realised the depth of Peter's feelings on the subject he gave in. Peter assured him the Professor was trustworthy, especially as he was a dog lover. Franz and Lotte were not so certain that a person's trustworthiness could be gauged by a love of dogs. After all Hitler loved dogs. Peter's final argument had been irrefutable.

‘I trusted your judgment about Aunt Berta. You have to trust my judgment about the Professor,' he had said. ‘I'll take Wolfi with me. He will know if there is any danger.'

So where were Peter and Wolfi? Why had they been gone so long? The truth was that they had not been gone for very long, Franz's anxiety making each minute drag on and on. At least the prying caretaker Herr Klein was out for the day.

At long last and to his relief, the doorbell rang. It was the agreed code, two short rings, one elongated, followed by a further two short rings.

Lotte raced to the bell and pushed the button that opened the door. Within seconds the door to the apartment opened and Wolfi, followed by Peter and a small, elderly man walked into the sitting room. The man stepped back when he spotted Franz and Lotte.

Peter feared he was about to run away and so moving nearer to his friends said, 'Don't worry Professor. These are my closest friends. They have both saved my life more than once.'

Lotte and Franz blushed simultaneously. The Professor appeared reassured by this bold statement and shuffled further into the room. With his shoes in such a state he found it difficult to walk any other way.

Lotte by now was right in front of him as he stood with his hat in his hand. The other hand he offered to Lotte to shake in greeting. She had already placed both arms around his shoulder and kissed him on the cheek. For this frail man the gesture was overwhelming and his eyes watered.

As always, Lotte knew exactly what to say: ‘Where are my manners? You must be starving. Please, please take a seat.'

The Professor was hesitant, admiring the beauty of the sofas and how clean they were. Sensing his concern, Lotte put him at his ease.

‘Don't worry about the furniture. The sofas are due to be cleaned soon.'

His concerns allayed, the Professor sat down, sinking into the luxurious leather so that his bottom and legs were almost completely enveloped.

Lotte disappeared into the kitchen only to reappear some few minutes later bearing a wooden board. On the board were some cheeses and smoked meats with a chunk of bread. In her other hand she carried a wine glass with a ruby red liquid inside. She placed everything carefully in front of the Professor.

‘Please this is a feast. Will you not join me? I do not like to eat alone,' the Professor asked.

‘No thank you Professor. That's just a snack. We shall all eat together later.' As Lotte said these words, Peter and Franz looked at each other. Their agreement was that any doubts and they would feed the Professor then send him away. Her reference to ‘dinner' meant he had been accepted.

In spite of his recent deprivations, old habits died harder with the Professor than many others. Rather than simply attack the plate of food, he swirled the wine in the glass, took a long draw of its odour and took a sip. The wonderful liquid flirted with his taste buds as he swished it about his mouth, over his tongue and finally swallowed it. His eyes rolled with delight as he announced the verdict: ‘1910 Chateau Neuf du Pape! Excellent!'

‘Very impressive, Professor. Enjoy your meal then you can go to bed for a while,' Lotte responded.

‘Please call me Ernst. And sleep can wait,' the Professor said, as he sliced the first piece of cheese.

Having consumed the meal at a slow and deliberate pace, he wiped his lips with a white cotton napkin and began to speak. His voice was wavering, but firm, and everyone could see that he struggled to control his emotions.

‘I was a Professor of Modern Languages at the Friederich Wilhelms University here in Berlin. In 1933 when the Nazis came to power I was forced to resign my post. Like many of my former colleagues we stayed in Germany, that is my wife and I. We foolishly believed that the situation could not get any worse. We are Germans and this is our country. For the first few years we managed to live off our savings until these were all spent. Then we were very lucky and we were sent parcels from friends abroad. They were difficult times, but at least Hilda and I were together. At the outbreak of war I was conscripted to work in an armaments factory, polishing shells. The work was dull and arduous. I was relatively happy as I had a purpose and was safe and we were still together. Then one day we received notification to attend the Lewetzovstrasse synagogue for ‘resettlement'. A neighbour, back from the fighting on leave, warned us not to go. ‘Whatever you do, do not get on the train,' he begged us. The same kind neighbour arranged a hiding place for us where we hid out in an attic for several months.

‘It was early one morning not long after dawn when they came. Some in uniforms with machine guns. Some in their leather coats and hats, with shiny pistols and smirking faces. They brought vicious dogs with them to help in the hunt. At the front was a female, a Jewess I knew as the wife of a friend from the synagogue. Her name was Stella and she had become a Jew catcher. In return for her own freedom and that of her family she was hunting Jews. She is supposed to have caught fifty-three in one weekend.

‘We were not the only Jews concealed in the house. They had almost reached the attic when we managed to squeeze through a skylight and escape over the rooftops. We had only the clothes we were wearing. For the last four months I have been living on the streets, scavenging for food where I can, sleeping rough at night or wherever I can find refuge with old friends. Sometimes even sleeping on the pavements. Normally I walk around trying to look busy.

‘When Peter and Wolfi saw me, I had broken my golden rule and sat down for a while. It was so sunny and such a lovely day I simply forgot my troubles. When Wolfi came to me I thought I had been caught. Little did I know that Wolfi might be my salvation.'

The room was silent. The painful change from ‘we' to ‘I' stood out. Finally Lotte broached the question they had all wondered about. ‘My dear Professor, what happened to your wife? What happened to Hilda?'

‘She was too frail to live on the streets. She died in my arms of pneumonia and I couldn't even bury her!' The Professor's gaze fell to the floor. As he looked up, Lotte was once more in front of him. Her hands were on his shoulders and she leaned over and kissed him on the forehead.

For the second time in only a few hours he had experienced more affection than in the previous four months. Emotion overcame him and he began to weep, sobbing gently.

Lotte waited a while and then passing a handkerchief to the Professor, said, ‘Now Professor, no arguments, you need some sleep.' With that she ushered him off to bed.

The following morning the group of friends assembled in the sitting room once more. Lotte looked stunning in a blue summer dress made of cotton and her long blonde hair tied up with a blue silk scarf. Her appearance could not fail to make a mark upon any man, as indeed it had with the little Professor.

The Professor was sitting on the largest of the two sofas draining the remains of his coffee from a fine bone china cup. He was wearing a white bath robe that was much too large for him. Some of the colour had returned to his cheeks and his eyes shone with a little more enthusiasm for life. He was warm and had savoured a hearty breakfast of powdered eggs with real meat and fresh bread. The coffee was substitute, but it was the first in a long while and he had eaten more food than he had seen in the previous week. Better even than the food and coffee was the hot bath he had just enjoyed. Nothing served to degrade a man more quickly than the inability to wash.

‘Please forgive my rudeness, kind friends,' the Professor said, for the third or fourth time. For most of the morning the Professor had been apologising that he had been so rude as to sleep through dinner. The poor man had been so exhausted he had slept solidly for sixteen hours. No-one had the heart to wake him, still he was apologetic.