Berlin Wolf (2 page)

Once a vague fear, Isaac knew now for certain that he would lose his son if they did not take Wolfi. Isaac took hold of the Captain's arm and led him to the back of the boat. Soon the men were deep in a hushed conversation. The only word Peter could make out was ‘money'. Eventually, after further negotiation and several thousand more Reich marks, the Captain agreed to take Wolfi.

‘You keep him quiet, boy,' the Captain said sternly.

‘Yes sir,' Peter replied, relieved, ‘and thank you.' His thanks were directed at the Captain though clearly intended for his father.

‘All right. We have wasted enough time. All on board,' the Captain ordered, eyeing the cause of the delay malevolently. At the rear of the boat Peter held the lead in one hand and pushed his face into the thick fur on the back of Wolfi's neck. Wolfi leaned against his young master's leg, just happy to be with him. Sara turned her face out of the wind and wondered what they might have done with those extra marks.

* * *

For the first half an hour they made good progress. They could not travel too fast to keep engine noise to a minimum. On the other hand they needed to push ahead quickly enough to break through the swell generated by the stiffening breeze. As the engine droned quietly, Peter held Wolfi tightly to him. He hardly noticed the scenery passing slowly by, as he wondered where they would end up.

* * *

Isaac was deep in thought and full of regrets. Try as he might, he could not help replay in his mind the series of events that had led them to this desperate situation. He, like so many others, had ignored the warnings when Hitler had first come to power in 1933. As Jews were forced out of official positions and banned from numerous professions; as their businesses were ‘confiscated' and savings seized; as ever more restrictions were placed upon their daily lives, including where they could sit or bathe or go to school, he like most Jews had told himself that things would get better. They were German and he, Isaac, was the holder of the Iron Cross, a decorated war hero. He had even ignored the stark warning of ‘Kristallnacht', ‘The Night of Broken Glass'. The night of the 9
^th
November 1938 when hundreds of synagogues were smashed and burned, Jewish businesses looted and destroyed and ninety-one Jews killed.

Even the advent of war had not stopped the persecution. Most of all Isaac blamed himself that they had not left Germany when they had the chance. They had relatives in America who had begged them to leave. And then it was too late. As the neighbours disappeared from around them, finally their turn to be transported had come. Thank heavens they had been warned by Herr Grüber, a colleague at the bank, that their names were on a list. That was just days ago and now they were escaping their homeland at night and in secret.

‘Grrrrrr! Grrrrrr!' Wolfi's jowls were pulled back, baring his enormous fangs. He was straining forcefully on his lead, pulling in a way Peter had never seen. They were approaching the Spandauersee Bridge. Wolfi‘s vicious growl was directed at the Captain. It was a low, guttural growl that Peter knew would usually precede a blood-chilling bark.

‘Keep quiet or I'll shut you up,' the Captain threatened, raising his hand to strike.

‘No! Leave him!' Peter cried and instinctively jumped in front of the downward blow that was now aimed towards Wolfi's skull. The Captain's fist caught him on the side of his jaw with a sickening thud.

‘Ow!' Peter's painful scream echoed under the bridge. Wolfi lunged at the Captain, snarling ferociously and pulling Peter with him.

No-one reacted more quickly than the Captain. He was old yet very agile. He jumped to one side and in one sweeping movement caught Wolfi by the scruff of the neck, heaved his torso and hind quarters over the side of the boat and dropped him into the water.

‘Wolfi! Wolfi!' Peter cried. He was still clutching the loop on the end of the lead, half over the side of the boat and half in the boat. He was desperately trying to pull Wolfi towards him. The boat was too fast and Wolfi too heavy. Try as he might, he watched as if in slow motion, as the lead slid down his wrist and over his hand and Wolfi's black head slipped under the surface of the water. Seconds later the loop of the lead disappeared, still attached to the unfortunate animal.

‘No Peter! No!' Peter could just hear his mother's anguished words as he hit the water. He had jumped in without any hesitation.

The icy cold water took his breath away. His chest tightened and he could taste the polluted water. Despite being a very good swimmer, he was struggling to keep his head above water. The heavy overcoat he was wearing and the extra layers of clothing were rapidly absorbing the freezing water, as was the school satchel with its strap looped over his shoulder. He felt his boots fill up and both they and his sodden socks were now acting like heavy diver's weights, dragging him down. The intense cold made breathing almost impossible.

In the distance he could just hear his father remonstrating with the Captain as the boat got further and further away and his mother's sobs carried through the air. While frenetically trying to kick his legs to keep above water, he was still looking in desperation for his dog. Wolfi was nowhere to be seen. With one hand he was trying to pull the strap of the satchel over his head, which only seemed to force him further towards the bottom as his hand became trapped, as if in a tourniquet.

He swallowed some of the foul tasting river as he disappeared beneath the surface for the third time and his nostrils sucked in even more of the freezing water. His eyes began to close and he sank deeper. The boat was out of sight.

‘Uhh!' Peter groaned. He was still dropping to the bottom of the river when he felt the hard shove from behind, catapulting him momentarily above the water. Then he saw the leather woven loop of Wolfi's lead passing right in front of him. Just in time his free hand managed to stretch out and grab it. He felt a jolt as the lead became taut.

‘He's alive! Wolfi's alive!' Wolfi's distinctive head was bobbing from side to side as the dog towed him towards the shore.

‘Keep going boy. Keep going!' he encouraged. With all the strength left in his tired body Wolfi dragged Peter closer to safety.

After several minutes the exhausted dog and his owner were lying next to each other on the concrete foot of one of the massive bridge supports. Peter shuddered violently with the cold, aware of nothing else except the heavy panting of his canine companion.

‘You saved me Wolfi. You saved me,' was all that he could manage to say.

With the last ounce of his energy, Wolfi stood up and flopped onto Peter. Lying across the boy's chest, with his face nuzzling his friend's, Wolfi licked Peter's face with his rough tongue, until boy and dog fell asleep.

Peter did not sleep for more than a few minutes as cold constantly reminded him of their plight. Wolfi was the only source of warmth he had.

‘We must catch up with the boat,' he urged himself. As hard as he tried, he was too weak to raise his body from the ground. He cried as he thought of his parents, the salty tears warming his face.

* * *

After a while he heard a noise that he could not quite place. It gradually grew louder and closer. Then it became terrifyingly clear.

‘Soldiers!'

It was the sound of jackboots on cobbles as soldiers jumped from the back of trucks. They were running just above them shouting to each other and shining torches into every nook and cranny. Bayonets were prodded into crevices and cracks as a shrill voice shouted,

‘Look for the boy!'

Peter did not have to tell Wolfi to stay still. Neither had the energy to move. Even if they had been spotted they could not have fled. Fortunately they had landed on a pier supporting one of the longer bridges in Berlin and they were several metres out from the riverbank. He knew they would probably have to re-enter the icy cold water eventually. For the moment where they lay was in darkness and only visible from a particular part of the river. Any search boat would have to choose to come under the arch above them to have any chance of seeing them.

As boy and dog lay there, providing comfort and warmth to each other, Peter became aware of a conversation above them. He could clearly make out the shrill voice he had heard earlier. The sound seemed to be amplified by the structure of the bridge. It was clear that shrill voice was in charge.

‘I delivered you two Jews didn't I?' a second voice was saying, ‘You still owe me for them.'

‘No! Please no!' Peter groaned. He was horrified. There was no doubt. The second voice was the Captain's.

‘It is your duty to hand over
these
people, whether we pay you or not. And one of the parasites has escaped thanks to you.' Shrill voice was clearly agitated.

‘That wasn't my fault. It was the damned dog. He must have sensed something was up and went for me. Anyway what does it matter, the boy and his dog have drowned. I saw them go under.'

‘No! It's not true! It can't be true!' a female voice sobbed. It was Peter's mother.

‘Oh Mama!' Peter cried, too quietly to be heard. An angry voice began shouting.

‘Traitor! Traitor! I am a German war hero, holder of the Iron Cross, First Class and you have murdered my son.' The voice was unmistakable.

‘It's Papa!' Peter moaned.

‘Don't worry about that,' shrill voice retorted. ‘Your war record will be given its proper recognition where you are going.'

On hearing his parents' voices, Peter longed to cry out. ‘I'm not dead! I'm not dead!' He knew he could not make a sound.

As footsteps echoed in the distance and he knew his parents had gone, the boy's crying turned into violent sobs. Wolfi's ears pricked up. The dog angled his head to one side, lay back down on top of Peter, comforting him again. For the second time that day Wolfi had saved Peter's life.

Peter drifted in and out of consciousness, barely aware of the warm body beside him. The temptation simply to lie there and fall into a deeper sleep was almost overwhelming. He scarcely had the energy to grieve, let alone contemplate survival. His rest was disturbed by images of his mother and father back in their house, listening to the gramophone whilst he played with Wolfi, or on holiday in the mountains with Papa in his Lederhosen, the leather shorts favoured by the Bavarians. In all these pictures flashing through his mind they were always smiling, always there to comfort him. Papa and Wolfi snoring together in the armchair, Mama trying to persuade him away from the door of the oven where Wolfi would so often like to sleep. Mama pretending to be angry with both of them though still smiling.

As this last image drifted from his mind, Peter became aware of a pressure on his back, nudging him. He wearily lifted his head. In his dazed state he could see the reassuring outline of Wolfi's head. He was prodding him from behind, forcing him back to consciousness. Peter's hand reached out and gently tickled the dog's favourite spot on his head, right between his ears.

‘I know boy. I know. We have to go. In a minute.' With that he placed his head once more on the cold ground. Seconds later he felt another shove, much harder this time.

‘Soon Wolfi, soon.' Peter fell asleep once more.

Moments later he felt a new pressure underneath his head as the faithful dog attempted to raise his master from the ground. Using all the strength he could muster, Peter propped himself on one elbow and then onto his knee and finally he stood up. From his saturated satchel he took out a piece of cheese wrapped in cloth. He broke it in two, gave one half to Wolfi and the other he devoured. It was wet, yet comforting nonetheless.

‘Papa would be annoyed if he saw me giving you titbits,' he thought.

Though a tiny ration, the effect of the cheese was almost instantaneous, giving a feeling of warmth and some optimism. Following the cheese with a few wet crackers, Peter felt his strength renewing. He looked all around them and weighed up the options.

‘We can't stay here for long Wolfi,' he said. He knew that in a few hours the waterway would be teeming with river traffic. They would not avoid detection for long. There was also the unwelcome possibility of an overnight canal boat heading towards the busy ports with essential cargo for the war effort.

It had now been some time since they had last heard any sign of movement above. Peter felt as sure as he could that they were no longer being hunted.

‘Looks like we'll have to swim back to the bank.' He shivered as he resigned himself to the unpleasant prospect.

The thought of re-entering the icy water was daunting. There was no other option. This time however he would ensure that his clothing would not drag him under. He stripped to his underwear, rolled his clothing in a tight bundle and with one sleeve tied the makeshift knapsack to his satchel.

‘Sit Wolfi!' Peter ordered. His voice tremored with cold and anticipation.

The dog sat obediently whilst Peter removed Wolfi's homemade coat. Being waterproof it had absorbed little water. The only additional weight was from the jewels sewn into the lining. He tied the coat to the sizeable bundle and began swinging his arm behind him.

‘Here goes,' Peter said, mostly in hope, and with a mighty throw, launched it towards the far bank. His heart in his mouth, he watched it land just centimetres from the water's edge, though stay where it was.

‘Good. Now our turn,' he said and taking Wolfi's lead in his hand, for the second time that evening, he jumped into the river. Wolfi did not hesitate and followed his young master into the water.

‘Ahhh! It's freezing!' Peter cried out, instantly regretting his carelessness.

To his relief he discovered at this point closer to the bank the river was not so deep, nor so fast flowing. It was still limb-numbingly cold. He soon appreciated the decision to remove his clothing, as in spite of the cold and the current, he was able to make good progress through the water. Soon they were safely on the riverbank. This time they did not dawdle. Peter put on his clothes. The wet layers clung stubbornly to his skin. He was not helped by his natural reluctance to don the sodden clothing. He dressed Wolfi in his coat hoping it would provide some protection from the chill. Wolfi's fur was so thick Peter doubted he would feel the cold.

From their position on the riverbank he surveyed the area. Rusted iron rungs formed a ladder up onto the bridge.

`I could never haul you up there, Wolfi,' he said.

In any event it might attract some attention if anyone did happen to pass by. Where they stood was in effect a concrete tow path used in days gone by. The path widened under the bridge. Now it was an ideal walkway on which to travel further along the canal and for much of it out of sight.

‘Mama and Papa must be long gone by now Wolfi. And who knows where? If they ever get away I am sure they will return home to look for me.'

And so, with the certain knowledge that his parents had been captured, Peter made the agonising decision that it was foolish and dangerous to try and find them.

The word ‘home' was one Wolfi had heard many times. His body and tail shook with excitement at the mention of it. Peter knew that he had to fend for himself and Wolfi. That would be so much easier in a location familiar to him, somewhere they had spent many happy hours exploring.

Reluctantly he turned around. With his back to the north and the last sighting of his parents, he began the long walk back to Schlachtensee.

* * *

As Peter started his arduous trudge homewards, in a dark and airless cattle truck, Isaac and Sara were crammed with so many other desolate souls, too many to count. There was so little space that they were compelled to stand with bodies pressing against them in a forced degree of intimacy. Sara was crying as she had done constantly from the time of their arrest and the pronouncement that Peter was drowned. Isaac lovingly held her hand, wracked with guilt that his inaction had brought them to this.

‘Why did I ignore the warnings? Why did I wait so long? Why did I trust that scoundrel of a captain?' he said over and over.

Most of all he felt guilty about Sara. For whilst his wife grieved for the loss of their son, he had knowledge that would have relieved her suffering. Knowledge he had kept to himself: ‘Peter is alive'. He repeated the words in his head.

Seconds after he had argued with the Captain on the boat and bright searchlights ahead had almost dazzled him, he had turned away to shield his eyes, just in time to see the familiar bobbing head of Wolfi. Not only Wolfi, but the shape of a young boy behind being towed to shore. He had almost shouted for joy and demanded the Captain turn the boat around, when the orders ‘this is the Gestapo. You are under arrest. Bring the boat to shore' reached his ears.

The shocking realisation of the impending events and their certain capture, was softened only by the knowledge that his son had escaped, for now. He could not give the game away. Peter needed every chance. Wolfi had twice done his bit to save Peter today, now he must do his. Much though he ached to, he could not tell Sara as they were roughly pulled from the boat. Nor could he break his silence as they were searched.

All the time the soldiers, assisted by the Gestapo, searched the riverbank for Peter, he dared not tell Sara that he knew their son was alive. Even in the agonising moment when the Captain had vouched that he had seen him drown, he could not relieve her pain. As they prodded bayonets into crevices he could say nothing.

Now, some hours later in the stinking dusty cattle wagon on a train siding at Anhalter Bahnhof he could at last break his silence. Certain that the enemy was not around, he leaned forward the few centimetres to his wife's ear and whispered, ‘Sara my darling, our boy is alive. I saw the dog tow him from the water.' She did not react. He repeated it a little louder this time.

‘Our boy is alive. I saw Wolfi tow him from the water. Our boy has survived.'

Finally the news registered. Sara's body shook as her sobs worsened. Tears of mingled grief and gratitude snaked down her face.

‘He will be all right Sara. Wolfi will look after him and he will look after Wolfi. Together they
will
survive.' He emphasised ‘will' more in prayer than firm belief.

* * *

As soon as he could Peter left the concrete path running alongside the river. He had found it difficult to prevent the sound of his footsteps echoing and the surface was hard on Wolfi's paws.

‘Only ten kilometres to home, Wolfi, so a nice long walk for both of us,' he said.

Where possible it was better for both to walk on soft ground. They were less likely to come across any other pedestrians if they avoided the paths. The combination of the blackout and the blackness of the night allowed them to cover ground rapidly. Whereas a man might struggle across rough terrain in the darkness, Wolfi's instincts enabled him to lead Peter around the various bushes and shrubbery that might otherwise have been an obstacle.

Peter's navigation technique was quite simple: he would retrace their route and stay as far as possible next to the river. This admirable approach was successful to a point; however he knew that in parts the river opened into lakes and tributaries making for tiring detours. In normal circumstances he would have relished a long walk with Wolfi. He was exhausted from the two recent duckings, he was cold and still very wet and most of all, apart from Wolfi, he was alone and scared.

As he walked he still wondered about the wisdom of returning home. He knew, in spite of Papa keeping it from him, that they were on a list to be deported. He had heard Papa telling Mama the night before their flight. Perhaps the Nazis would be waiting for him?

‘Where else can we go?' he thought. With no obvious alternative, they continued their journey, only stopping to try and regain their bearings.

After some time he noted that they were approaching the more densely built-up part of the river. He knew at some point he would have to brave the streets.

He tried to guess the time, estimating that it was somewhere between eleven and midnight. At some stage he hoped to hear the chime of one of the many clocks on public buildings or even to see the face of a clock. At least when he got home he could retrieve his wristwatch. He had cursed himself when he had earlier realised he had left it behind. Why hadn't he listened to Papa? All the times he had chastised him for arriving home late for the evening meal when Peter's excuse was always the same – he had forgotten to wear his watch. He could easily spend hours with Wolfi in Grünewald and on Schlachtensee shutting out the outside world, losing all track of time. Often it was the realisation that he was hungry that made him return.

Now he was free of any restraints as to where he went, what he did and when he returned, Peter yearned to be chastised by Papa once more.

‘Ah well, let's just get home first,' Peter sighed.

His thoughts abruptly returned to their current predicament. A distant rumble like approaching thunder was getting closer and closer. Then the air raid siren started wailing and the bombs began to fall. The explosions were still some way from them. Wolfi cowered with fear nonetheless.

‘If only you were a gun dog,' Peter said, only half in joke.

Wolfi, fearless in nearly all situations had, like many civilians, not overcome his terror of the air raids. Peter knelt down and began scratching Wolfi's ears. Usually both dog and boy would hide under the oak table in the drawing room. Papa had often found them there, comforting each other. Here they were in the open air some distance from home with only a few sparse bushes for shelter.

Peter knew that, frightening though it may be, this was their best opportunity to cover a large distance quickly. The only persons on the streets would be the anti-aircraft battalions, the air raid wardens and fire-fighters trying to limit the damage. None of them would have the time or the desire to concern themselves with a boy and a dog.

‘I'm sorry boy, we must go,' he whispered in Wolfi's ear. Peter got up and began walking briskly.Wolfi did not move. He was still trembling. Tugging the lead harder, Peter moved off. Wolfi took a few hesitant steps. He was shaking uncontrollably.

‘We have to go boy,' Peter urged.

He knew the air raid shelter was not safe for them. He bent down and stroked Wolfi's large fluffy ears whilst whispering words of comfort at the same time.

‘There boy, it will be all right. Those bombs will save us one day.'

Little comforted, Wolfi licked Peter's face and began to walk. Within an hour they had travelled a distance of almost six kilometres. For the most part they were able to take the most direct route, always keeping the river in view. Everywhere there was the chaotic noise of sirens and the sound of bombs falling. Usually these raids were over quite quickly. This one seemed more prolonged. For once Peter welcomed the raid, even though it terrified Wolfi. By now they had reached the suburbs of Wilmersdorf. It was an area Peter knew well. He had once gone to school there. They could take a more direct route, temporarily leaving the river behind. Soon they rounded the corner into Kleiststrasse, in the borough of Zehlendorf and Peter's pace quickened.

‘Almost home,' he thought. At the speed they were travelling they might make it within the next hour.

* * *

It was the sound of buildings on fire and collapsing timbers that Peter noticed at first. Then the calls of rescue workers digging amongst rubble adjacent to the same building, as volunteer fire-fighters sought to put out the flames. A soldier in the grey uniform of the Wehrmacht was barking orders. Turning to retrace their steps, Peter heard a shout from behind.

‘You boy, over here! We need as much help as we can get.' Peter ignored the shout.

‘You, with the dog, come here now!'

Peter looked back, then reluctantly he and Wolfi walked towards the soldier. As they approached he could see that he was an officer, a major he guessed from his insignia. Whilst Peter deliberated whether to salute, the Major reached out his hand to stroke Wolfi who obligingly turned his head to accommodate him. Wolfi clearly had no fear of the Major.