Berlin Wolf (17 page)

As usual Lotte made a joke of the matter. ‘Don't worry Professor. We can go on a dinner date another time.'

‘That's a promise,' the Professor responded. ‘At the Hotel Adlon, when this damned war is over. And please call me Ernst.'

‘No, Professor, I will not. I have been thinking about it. The Nazis took away your status when they forced you out of your job. I will not do the same. But you can be ‘my' Professor.' The Professor's face reddened.

As they finished their coffee, first Peter then Franz told the Professor their own stories. He listened intently and was amazed at the resilience that each boy had shown. In his time surviving on the streets he had come across a few other ‘u-boats' or ‘submarines'. Naturally they were wary of who they trusted. None, as far as the Professor knew, had managed to survive undetected for any length of time without the assistance of friends or relatives, who could offer them temporary shelter and food. Peter's existence alone for so many months was quite remarkable. The fact that Franz had entered the lion's den, the Gestapo headquarters in Prinz Albrecht Strasse, he could hardly believe. As the successful outcome of each adventure was related, the Professor's resolve and determination increased.

When Lotte had finished telling the tale of their trip to the Swiss border, the Professor sat back on the sofa and let out a slow whistle. ‘Unbelievable! Simply unbelievable!' he said. ‘So what happens next?'

Lotte stood up and walked over to the Professor. ‘Come with me Professor.' She took his hand and led him into her bedroom.

After an hour the two emerged. Not even the Professor's wife would have known him. More importantly none of his many former students would either. His wispy grey hair was much thicker and a subtle ginger colour, with patches of grey still on view. His unkempt beard was gone and he sported a handlebar moustache, also with a tinge of ginger, accompanied by impressive, neatly trimmed side-burns. Perched on his nose were round, gold-rimmed spectacles held in place with a lanyard. His teeth gleamed a healthy bright white and his cheeks were ruddy and somehow fuller in appearance. His dirty fingernails had been carefully manicured. He was resplendent in a green, tweed, three piece suit. He looked every bit the country gent. All that was missing was the pocket watch on a chain.

Peter and Franz were amazed at the quality and fit of the suit. The Professor was a small man, smaller than either of them and nothing that fitted Lotte's husband could possibly fit him. Lotte could read their thoughts and simply dismissed their enquiry with a ‘best not to know expression'.

‘Very impressive Lotte! What about the shoes?' Peter pointed to the soles of the brogues that had hardly any leather left. ‘It is always the shoes that give people away.'

‘I'll have them resoled along with a pair of my husband's. The cobbler will not care,' Lotte replied. It was a generous offer as leather was in demand and costly.

The final act in the Professor's remarkable rehabilitation was to photograph him and forge his papers. This would take some time and so whilst this was finalised and his shoes repaired, he spent several happy days with his new-found friends. He could not leave the apartment for fear he might be spotted by the caretaker. After months living outdoors that was not a hardship as he engrossed himself in different books and took advantage of his warm surroundings.

Peter looked around his old camp. He was planning a reconstruction. The low branches of a tree rustled and Franz's head appeared in the clearing. Wolfi ran to greet him as usual, tail wagging energetically. Franz was struggling to carry the old Coventry bicycle from the summer house by the lake. In their haste to leave, Kurt and his Gestapo friends had left this valuable item behind when they had arrested Peter. It had lain out of view for all this time.

‘Great you found it,' Peter greeted his friend. ‘At least now we can save money on fares.'

He did not need to add that they would also be safer. True the two boys had their identity papers, yet they were always wary on public transport. As the war stumbled on there were fewer and fewer fit and healthy young men of their age still in the capital. Those that were to be seen were almost always in uniform as the age of conscripts was continually lowered. The chances of being challenged grew each day.

It was several weeks since the Professor had undergone his transformation. He was living in a small apartment about half an hour away by tram from Luisenstrasse. He was registered with the authorities in his new name and had received his own genuine ration cards. It transpired the owner of the original identity card had been recorded as dead and therefore when the Professor turned up to apply for new documents and accommodation, no-one queried his story that he had been pulled from the rubble of a building destroyed by Allied bombs. He had been concussed for some time, but was now much better, he had claimed. They even renewed his Party membership card. In view of his age and Party membership he was given priority status in the search for lodgings.

The two boys set to work transforming their old den. Five hours later, and after much hard work, they stood back to admire the results of their labour. It was greatly improved with a larger underground shelter, an expanded larder and a new stove lined with bricks as well as a proper funnel for a chimney. Wolfi gave his seal of approval as he lay down inside the new shelter.

‘No boy. It's not for us. Not this time,' Peter said. Wolfi tilted his head to one side, curious to know who was to use the shelter.

‘I have one more thing to do,' Peter said and walked off, Wolfi by his side as always.

* * *

After half an hour travelling in silence they came to a part of the woods neither had visited for some time. They left the path and walked a little way into the trees until they came upon a large oak tree. At the base was carved the word ‘Prokofiev'. It was the hollow where Peter had hidden on his very first night in the woods. Beneath the word Prokofiev was carved a long number:

3 9 14 35 7 24 18 21 26 11 20 8 1 24 13 11 24 24 1

Taking out his pocket knife Peter carved another number below the old one.

7 18 1 15 25 11 20 22 24 1 11

When he had finished he stood back. Franz scratched his head, looking bemused. ‘I know it's some sort of code,' Franz ventured, ‘but what it means and who it is for, I can't work out.'

‘It's quite simple,' Peter replied. ‘I left a message under a flower pot at my house. When my parents return they hopefully will find it. It says ‘summer 1932'. My father and I camped at this spot in summer 1932. When they get here he will see the word ‘Prokofiev'. That will tell him that I have been here.'

‘Of course ‘Peter and the Wolf', Prokofiev's famous composition,' Franz interrupted.

‘Yes, Wolfi is named after it,' Peter said, pleased that Franz understood the meaning.

‘The word has another purpose too. It is a key to the code. It was a game we played, inventing codes and leaving messages for each other. Each letter of the alphabet is assigned a number from one to twenty-six, starting with ‘A' at one. The first letter of the key word, ‘P', is the sixteenth letter of the alphabet. The last letter ‘V' is the twenty-second letter of the alphabet. The secret with this code is that the first letter of the key word is moved to the position of the last letter. So if we place ‘P' where ‘V' is and then number all the letters thereafter, we find that ‘P' is twenty-two, ‘Q' is twenty-three etc. and ‘A' becomes the number seven, and so forth.'

With this knowledge Franz began to crack the code, each time stumbling over certain letters. ‘I know it is an address, except some of the numbers are wrong,' he complained.

Peter laughed. ‘I should have told you another feature is that the very first number is random and is nonsense. It also tells you the position of another random, nonsense number that you should ignore. In the first line of numbers it is the three and the thiry-five.'

Franz punched Peter playfully on the arm. ‘Now you tell me!' he joked. With this new information he was able to work out that the two messages read ‘Charlottenburger Rue' and ‘Luisen Rue'.

‘You can't spell,' Franz chastised his friend.

‘That was deliberate, it makes the code harder to break,' Peter retorted, ‘and I have used the French for street for the same reason.'

Satisfied with the explanation, Franz turned to leave and as he did so said to his good friend, ‘I hope your parents see it one day, I really do.'

Before finally returning to the apartment the three friends went to the lakeside to check on the
Seawolf
, Peter's beloved boat. They were overjoyed when it was still there and they promised each other that they would come back to use it soon. Pleased with the accomplishments of the day, the two boys and Wolfi made their way back to Luisenstrasse.

The following day the first occupant of the newly constructed camp was in residence. They nicknamed him ‘Robin'. For security they had decided, where possible, not to use real names. The man was in his forties and very nervous. So nervous about his ‘Jewish appearance' he had spent the last year concealed in a wardrobe, and looked after by friends. They had since been bombed out and he had been homeless again. Identity papers were no use to him as he was betrayed instantly by his constant nerves that made him shake uncontrollably.

* * *

Lotte read the letter to herself again. She had no need to do so. Its contents were firmly fixed in her mind and she was racking her brains as to what to do. At first she had been delighted on seeing the Swiss postmark and knew at once it could only be from Berta.

Berta had learnt her lesson about being too explicit in her writing. As a result the contents were of the seemingly dull, everyday type. It was not all dull however.

‘So Kurt is returning to Berlin,' Lotte said out loud. Only Wolfi was with her. ‘And he is to be given the great honour of attending a Napola School in recognition of his achievements in furthering the National Socialist ideals,' she read from the letter.

The Napola schools were for the most elite of Nazi children, the leaders of the future where the indoctrination exceeded anything ever imposed in the Hitler Youth. It appeared that the disclosure to Kurt of his Jewish origins had not harmed his prospects in any way, nor had it dampened his enthusiasm for the Nazi cause. From the elite school he would quickly enter the military to serve the Fatherland.

Lotte had witnessed Kurt's outright hatred towards Peter and Franz and his determination to catch them. His contempt for Berta had been all too evident. Berta who had done so much for him. It was little consolation to Lotte that Kurt did not know her name.

Placing the letter to one side, she resolved that by the end of the week she would have come up with a plan of action. The doorbell interrupted her thoughts. It was the coded ring and so she knew it must be the Professor. He had proved a real asset. In spite of being at risk himself he happily acted as courier. In his new disguise he attracted a lot less attention than Peter or Franz.

Soon the little Professor was inside the apartment. On the sofa sat a family of three: father, mother and twelve-year-old daughter. This was a problem as the remaining identity cards were for adult males only. Altering the sex as well as date of birth and names was too dangerous. Only the father could be given a new identity card. At least with new ration cards and money, he had some hope of feeding his family. In return the father, a skilled tailor would help with clothing repairs. So many of those in need had only the clothes they wore.

* * *

Whilst Lotte looked after the most recent guests, Peter and Franz were looking at the bathing beach at Lake Wannsee. Peter was holding the handlebars of his bicycle. They were close to the spot where he had hidden in the copse of trees with his mother and father and Wolfi, waiting for the arrival of the tugboat captain. Little had they known then that he was to betray them. The memory was painful and Peter tried hard to concentrate on the task at hand.

‘Look Franz,' he said, pointing towards the bathing beach.

Franz had already noted what he was pointing at. It was a mild day in late April, yet colder than previous days. In spite of this the hardier residents of Berlin were bathing in the lake. For some this was their only real means of washing. What had attracted the boys' attention was the group of four sailors larking around at the edge of the water. None could have been much older than Peter or Franz.

They were in bathing costumes and their uniforms were neatly folded at the edge of the water. They had not paid the admission to the official bathing area and as such their clothing was unguarded. Neither Franz nor Peter relished the idea of stealing their clothes. The uniforms would be invaluable and they could see no other option. They waited patiently until the four young men were further out into the depths of the lake, one swimming ahead of the other three.

‘Give me 200 marks,' Peter said.

Franz looked around him and took out a money belt hidden under his shirt, unfastened it and handed over the notes. He looked on as Peter reached down and picked up two stones. Each stone he wrapped in a 100 mark note.

‘I'll see you at the other side of the lake, at our usual meeting point,' Peter said, mounting the bicycle. He rode to the edge of the lake.

Franz watched as he swooped down and gathered up one bundle and then a second bundle of clothing and dropped them into the basket on the front. He rode off as fast as he was able. Where each bundle had lain Peter deposited the banknotes, weighted with a stone in the middle.

Just as Peter gathered up the second bundle one of the young sailors turned to face the shore and spotting the theft shouted, ‘Stop! Thief! He has stolen my uniform.'

The crowd of about twenty people on the bathing beach turned to see the cause of the commotion. Luckily for Peter he was already cycling furiously and was out of range of even the fastest pursuer. Franz walked in the opposite direction to Peter's flight.

About fifteen minutes later Franz met up with his friend, well out of view of the bathers. Peter was holding two identity cards in his hand and some small change. In the other hand he had a black leather wallet. ‘We have to return these some how,' Peter said, not even taking time to greet Franz.

‘Of course,' Franz agreed.

Both knew the sailors faced a severe penalty for losing their identity cards. They would be punished for the theft of their uniforms, yet the boys earnestly hoped it would not be so severe in light of the way it had happened.

Franz walked back towards the bathing beach. The young sailors were talking to a policeman. Two of the sailors were in bathing trunks, their arms flapping in the air. Clearly it was their uniforms that Peter had taken.

Franz approached the group surrounding the policeman. Not many months ago he would have been terrified, but after his success at the Gestapo headquarters his confidence had grown immensely.

‘Excuse me officer. I found these by the side of the path just round the corner. Someone must have dropped them.' He held out the wallet and ID cards to the policeman.

The policeman was about to examine them, when one of the sailors snatched the wallet and opened it. His face gave away the immense relief that he felt.

Quickly the young sailors verified that the property was theirs. To avoid questions, Franz had turned and was about to go when a voice shouted: ‘He was with the boy on the bike, the thief. I saw them talking to each other.'

The voice belonged to one of the other bathers, a middle-aged woman.

‘Is that true?‘ the policeman said.

‘Yes, but I was not with him. He stopped and asked me something about bathing in the lake. I did not really pay him any attention,' Franz replied.

The middle-aged bather was about to speak again. The policeman was mulling over Franz's answer. Franz acted quickly to back up his story.

‘Look if I am with the thief, why would I bring back these items? Even the ID cards are valuable, let alone the money in the wallet. I would have to be a very stupid and an unusual thief to do that!' he said indignantly.

The policeman, the sailors and most of the other bathers nodded in agreement.

‘Now please may I go? I have important factory work to go to.' Franz's indignation had by now increased.

‘All right, you can go, just give me your name,' the policeman said, the matter settled in his mind.

Without waiting for the customary identity check, Franz had begun walking away and simply shouted back, ‘Franz, Franz Becker. Thank you constable.'

The policeman scratched his head as he wondered whether he should follow him and insist on seeing his identity card, but by now the two sailors were demanding he find them some clothes.

* * *

Half an hour later Peter and Franz were at the den in the woods handing over supplies to ‘Robin', at that time still the only inhabitant. Having demonstrated how to use the traps and a few other basic tasks, Peter and Franz travelled back to Luisenstrasse. They chose a longer route than usual, one that kept them a safe distance from the bathing beach.