Berlin Wolf (19 page)

‘Then I shall go with you, Peter,' Franz interjected. He was not willing to leave his friend now.

‘No. You are the only one who has the skills to develop photographs and to forge papers,' Peter said, ‘It is imperative that you have the right facilities to do that. You shall stay with the Professor and I will go back to my camp. I have been worried about ‘Robin' as he is taking too many stupid risks. Anyway this is the best time of year. It is almost summer and I can replenish the stocks of meat and fish for the winter ahead. It will only be for a few weeks and then we can look for a new set of premises.'

‘What about Wolfi?' Franz said. Wolfi lifted his head from the carpet when he heard mention of his name.

‘Let's ask him,' Peter suggested. ‘Wolfi do you want to stay with Franz or come with me to the woods?' Wolfi stood up, stretched, walked over to Peter and sat by his feet. No-one was surprised.

* * *

Later that day Peter, Franz, Wolfi and the Professor were walking together along Luisenstrasse towards Unter den Linden, perhaps the most famous avenue in Berlin. Peter had a rucksack on his back and Franz was carrying a large leather suitcase. Peter and Franz were attired in the naval uniforms they had recently acquired. With the expert help of the tailor they had rescued, they fitted them better than the original owners. For the moment they had left their precious bicycle behind as the Professor had agreed he would collect it later.

They had given some thought as to whether the three of them should travel together or separately. Lotte had settled the matter when she pointed out that, with the boys in their uniform and the Professor in his elegant suit, he looked like a grandfather escorting his two grandsons to the station. It was a sadly normal scene.

As the four companions walked along they did not talk about anything important. It was much too dangerous to debate their business on the streets. And so the conversation was generally meaningless. Until Franz halted abruptly.

‘Quick Peter! Hide Wolfi and you as well!' Franz said under his breath. They were opposite some steps to a ground floor apartment and it was the best that Peter could do to disappear out of view. He stood with Wolfi in silence trying to remain hidden.

As he stood there Peter could see the cause of Franz's concern. Kurt! He was approaching on the pavement on the same side of the avenue. He was in his familiar Hitler Youth brown. Much worse he was with an SS officer in the distinctive black uniform, with a pistol holstered on his belt. Franz had positioned himself with his back facing outwards and his front towards the Professor and was apparently engaged in conversation with him. They were blocking the steps down to the apartment and any pedestrians would have to walk behind Franz. By this means they hoped that Kurt would not be able to see Franz's face.

It was a terrible risk. There was nothing else to do. Franz had spent much more time in Kurt's presence and he would surely recognise him if he even glimpsed his face.

‘Quiet boy! Quiet!' Peter urged Wolfi. The last time they had encountered each other Kurt had kicked Wolfi and then tried to have him shot. Wolfi sensed the danger of the moment and remained perfectly still.

The seconds as Kurt passed by each seemed like a minute. Normally he did everything in a hurry. Not today. As they ambled past, the Professor raised his hat politely and the SS officer saluted. Kurt briefly interrupted his flow of conversation to utter a ‘Sieg Heil!' and then continued his sentence.

When they were safely out of sight, Franz gestured to Peter and Wolfi that it was safe to move.

‘That was a bit of luck,' Franz said to everyone's astonishment.

‘What do you mean ‘luck'?' Peter said.

‘We were worried about Kurt's return to Berlin. I overheard him boasting that it is a great honour to serve the Führer and in the SS. And to be allowed to serve at the front at just sixteen. At least now we know that his stay in Berlin is only temporary.'

Peter was not entirely convinced. The weasel might still find time to search for Lotte and thereby track them down. It confirmed one thing that, for the moment, Wolfi was better off with him. Lotte's apartment was just one street away from the dreaded headquarters of the Gestapo. There was more than a chance that they would come across Kurt again. They continued on their journey and thankfully reached the Professor's accommodation without further incident.

Having helped Franz find a suitable hiding place for their equipment, the Professor left them alone and went back to Lotte. He collected the printing paper and rode back, balancing a large suitcase on the basket at the front. It was an odd sight, but luckily no-one challenged him. Safely back at his apartment, the Professor made tea for the three of them. Afterwards Peter left for his hideout in the woods.

Peter took a swig of coffee from his tin mug. It was only substitute. Still not a bad way to start the day. At Lotte's he had learnt to improve the taste with a dash of cognac or rum or whatever else was available. At that moment in time the best he could do was to sweeten it with a tiny spoonful of sugar.

It was now six days since he had left Luisenstrasse and returned to his old hideaway. He had looked forward to the outdoor existence, especially at this time of the year. April had given way to May and the milder summer was just around the corner. Unlike his previous stay in the camp, he now had a few books to occupy him and the prospect of visits from Franz and the Professor.

Even Lotte had managed to come and see him on one occasion. She was used to luxury and seemed awkward crouching on the dirty ground in her fine clothes or drinking from tin mugs. At Peter's request she had agreed that next time they would meet up somewhere half way between the two venues.

Franz managed to visit every second day. The work he had to undertake was so important Peter insisted that he devote most of his time to that. Still the day that Peter and Franz spent improving the facilities of the camp was very pleasant. Almost like the old days, except for ‘Robin'. Peter could understand the man's discomfort and the odd complaint. He was unlike anyone else they had ever tried to rescue. He really did not suit life in the woods. They needed to think of somewhere else to hide him.

As always Peter was determined to make the most of his few weeks back in camp. He decided to treat it as a holiday. Wolfi missed the company of Lotte, Franz and the Professor, and on the other hand loved the freedom of the woods. When he and Peter went fishing on the lake Wolfi could not have been happier. In the first few days Peter had already caught large numbers of water fowl, woodpigeons, rabbits and fish and the cupboard was almost bursting. With some valuable herbs and spices brought to him by Lotte, he was able to conjure up fabulous stews, appreciated by everyone.

A source of tension between Peter and Robin was the arrival of three more residents. There was a father with his son and daughter, one eleven, the other ten. They were very grateful for refuge. The father had declined the offer of new identity cards. He had been a concert violinist before the war and was concerned that he was too well-known to adopt a false identity. Recently they had been sheltered by friends. This happy situation ended upon the return of the eldest son from the war. Though badly wounded, he had lost none of his fanaticism for the Nazi cause. Until other arrangements could be made, the new arrivals were content to accept the offer of shelter in the woods. The son and daughter even seemed to enjoy the lifestyle, seeing it as something of an adventure. Both children were immediately befriended by Wolfi.

Peter drank the last few dregs of coffee and began to rinse out his cup. It was just after dawn. Once back in the woodland environment he had quickly adapted to the old routine of rising very early. The family of three were fast asleep and huddled together in the covered pit. Robin was asleep under a tarpaulin. As Peter dried out the tin mug Wolfi began to growl.

‘What is it boy? What's up?' Wolfi growled again, only louder.

Peter knew not to ignore Wolfi in this mood. It was a warning. The growl grew in intensity and without waiting Peter shook the visitors.

‘Wake up! Please wake up.' First the family and then Robin came to.

Peter's stomach knotted. A growing din was approaching and fast. The impression was of a large group of people, shouting, blowing whistles and beating drums, as if at a demonstration.

Wolfi had run to the entrance to the tunnel of branches that led into the clearing. His snarl was fierce and very menacing.

‘We must leave and quickly,' Peter urged the visitors. The increasing wave of sound and Wolfi's demeanour terrified him. He did not know what was coming, he did know it was not good and they must not hang around. Robin grumbled something under his breath.

‘No! No!' Peter screamed, as an enormous dog's head emerged from the tunnel.

It was a Doberman in full flight. Its head seemed so large because in fact there were two dogs together, with a third close behind. Their fangs were bared and their mouths drooling. It was a terrifying vision, made worse by the feverish shouting, somewhere just behind.

Only Wolfi reacted to the appearance of the slavering dogs. He bravely sprang into the air, fixing his teeth on the neck of the nearest Doberman, bringing it to the ground. The dog behind jumped on Wolfi as he defended his friends. Wolfi rolled swiftly on his flank, tossing his head from side to side. The thick fur on Wolfi's neck prevented the two Dobermans from getting a proper hold.

‘Wolfi!' Peter screamed.

The third Doberman launched at Wolfi and to Peter's horror, ripped his sharp teeth into the poor animal's hindquarters. Peter's instinct was to defend his dog, but he knew he must not. In spite of the pain, Wolfi swiftly spun around, throwing the Doberman on his side into the path of the other two as they fought to get at him. There was a sickening dull thud as their powerful skulls collided.

Wolfi yelped in agony then struggled to his feet. With a last look at Peter, he ran away into the trees towards the shouts and whistles. He was chased at close quarters by the three vicious Dobermans, their sharp teeth snapping closer and closer as he disappeared into the undergrowth.

Soldiers were combing the woods with dogs and herding any wood dwellers together. Apart from the din of banging drums and whistle blasts the odd pistol shot could be heard. The combination of the cacophony of sound and the dogs was having its desired effect: all who heard it were panic-stricken. All except Peter. He was in turmoil. He wanted to go after his dog, but knew Wolfi was leading their hunters away. Quelling his anguish he signalled for the others to follow him.

‘We're going to be caught! We'll all be killed!' Robin shrieked, again and again. He was hysterical and nothing Peter could say would calm him. Before anyone could stop the distressed man, he had run into the trees, in the same direction as Wolfi.

‘Stop! Stop! You are running towards them!' Peter shouted.

Robin was so overcome with terror, he was simply running in blind panic, until soon he was out of sight. Moments later a shot rang out in the trees and the anguished cry of its victim was heard. Peter knew it was Robin.

‘At least his torment is over,' he thought.

‘Come we must hurry!' Peter urged again. It seemed heartless, but he was determined that Wolfi's sacrifice would not be in vain.

In his months in the woods Peter had learnt all the escape routes better than anyone. He circled around the back of the soldiers and made his way to the
Seawolf
by the side of the lake, stopping periodically to check on the others. As they came to the path around the lake Peter could see more soldiers, rifles pointed into the backs of grubby looking men, with straggly beards and filthy clothing. Their hands were held high up in the air. With the sun rising in the sky, the men were in silhouette. They looked like a row of crosses. In all there must have been at least ten of these men. One was just a boy, perhaps no more than thirteen.

It confirmed what he had always suspected. There were others hiding out in the woods. When the soldiers had lined up all their captives and marched to the other end of the lake, Peter crossed the path and scrambled down to the boat, followed by the others.

‘Quick follow me! Don't stop until you are off the path.' Peter's words were unnecessary. The man and his children were too afraid to linger.

With shaking hands Peter managed to unhitch the mooring rope and cast off. He was not concerned for his own safety, he was worried about Wolfi. He grabbed the young girl and boy and placed them in the middle of the boat. The father took his hand as he helped him into the stern. Raising the sail, Peter began to cruise around the edge of the lake. There was some wind, not as much as he would have liked. Gradually the distance between the boat and the land increased and only the noise of the hunt hinted at what was happening in the woods. No-one spoke. Behind him Peter could see patrol boats on the water, no doubt trying to prevent any escapees into the lake. It was quite clear that they had spotted the
Seawolf
and if they wanted to catch up, the
Seawolf
could not outrun them. As they gradually increased the distance from both the shore and the patrol boats it was clear, that for now, they were not being chased.

‘They probably don't believe that anyone in hiding has a boat,' Peter thought. Nonetheless he did not look back. ‘Move under cover,' he ordered.

The man and his children obeyed without question. Close up they would easily be seen. From a distance the appearance was that of a young boy enjoying a day's sailing.

‘Thank you, my son,' the violinist said, placing his hand on Peter's shoulder, ‘and I am sorry about your dog.' He moved to the front of the boat to comfort his children.

Peter could not respond. He felt grief and some shame. Grief for Wolfi who surely could not survive and shame that the grief felt was as real and deep as the day his parents had been captured.

They sailed further into the middle of the lake and turned towards the north. There was still no sign of any patrol boats. Peter could only think of one thing to do. They would make their way to Peacock Island in the middle part of the Havel River that formed the northern end of Lake Wannsee. There was an old chateau on the island which he believed was no longer inhabited. The name of the island promised an abundance of peacocks, although it was better known for its many rabbits. For the time being this would have to serve as their haven.

* * *

As Peter contemplated the loss of his faithful dog, the ‘clearance' operation in the woods continued. Some of the wood dwellers simply surrendered and were taken captive. Others having survived much less ably than Peter, gave up hope and deliberately ran into a hail of bullets. It was the 20
^th
May 1943, exactly one month since Adolf Hitler's birthday. Goebbels, always pleased to fulfil his master's wishes, had promised him a special birthday present. He would make sure that Berlin was finally Jew free. The terror of this day was just the latest fulfillment of that promise.

Peter had often passed Peacock Island on his many sailing trips. He had even contemplated using it as a permanent hideout. The uncertain nature of the sailing winds and the difficulty of escape had persuaded him that the side of the lake was a better choice. Besides, it was one of Berlin's most popular attractions, nicknamed ‘The Pearl in the Havel Lake'. The chance of coming across day trippers or boaters was quite high. In spite of the drawbacks, they really had no choice.

Peter had no idea how long they sailed until they reached their destination. His mind was still on Wolfi. The man and his children respected his grief. When the island came into view, they circumnavigated the whole piece of land, checking for signs of human life. There were none. Choosing an appropriate landing point, they tied up the boat and went ashore.

After a brief look around, Peter identified a suitable spot in some trees where they could make a temporary camp. It was not perfect but would do for the moment. Though he desperately wanted to leave the others on the island and go in search of Wolfi, he knew he must wait for darkness. They had been lucky to reach the island unobserved. He could not jeopardise everyone's safety, not when the patrols were still around. The remainder of the day Peter filled his time with practical tasks. He still had his pocket knife which he used to cut branches to create shelter. He had fishing lines on the boat which he used to catch lunch and dinner, all of which was grilled over a fire in a pit of earth. As he performed each little chore, he would recall how Wolfi used to observe him and sometimes help. The memories simply fuelled his growing impatience. All the while he worried about other visitors to the island.

* * *

Finally darkness arrived and Peter set off on his boat. His aim was threefold. He had to alert Franz and the others not to turn up at the camp. He needed to restock and look for alternative sites. Most urgently, he wanted to look for signs of Wolfi. He had to know whether his best friend was still alive.

Fortunately, his greatest fear had not been fulfilled. There was still enough breeze to sail back to the shore. It was difficult in the darkness and without lights, though his innate sense of direction served him well. After an agonising two hours, he was able to discern the shoreline closest to his old camp. He was still some distance from his secret mooring point, but mercifully he could tell where he was.

A quarter of an hour later and he had managed to find the exact spot where they had earlier left the side of the lake. He knew it was important to retrace his steps as Wolfi, if able to, would follow his scent as far as the bank where they had entered the water. Once he had tied up the boat, he jumped onto dry land.

‘Wolfi!' he whispered. No response. He whistled quietly. No response. It was too much to hope that he would still be alive. He whistled again, loudly this time. Still no response.

From the bank of the lake, he made his way through the trees, following the route of their escape as carefully as possible. It was not easy, as tree branches caught him in the face and tree roots tripped him up.

A painful twenty five minutes later he was back at the camp. The soldiers had destroyed as much as possible. They had not discovered the underground larder and that brought some small comfort, but still no sign of Wolfi.

‘Wolfi!' he called out, and whistled louder than was wise. He did not care.

‘Wolfi!' he repeated and whistled once more. Nothing. He tried in vain for a third time.

‘Wolfi? Is that you boy? Where are you?'

On the third time of whistling he thought he could hear a slight, almost undetectable movement. He whistled again and listened carefully. A few metres away he could just discern a large black mound. Peter fell onto his knees and crawled towards it. He stretched out his hand and felt the familiar touch of his old jumper. Lying curled on the jumper was a fur bundle.