Berlin Wolf (20 page)

‘It is you boy! It is you!' Peter's tears cascaded down his cheeks onto his collar.

He could scarcely believe it. His joy turned rapidly to anguish as he felt the sticky liquid on his hands. Blood! The jumper was saturated and Wolfi's breathing was very shallow. He had been badly injured. Owing to the poor light he could not tell how seriously.

‘It's all right, boy. I'm here,' he said, caressing the dog's ears.

Wolfi moved his head as if to sit up. The effort was too much, and his head sank to the ground again.

‘Why did I wait so long? Why?' Peter was furious with himself and now there was little he could do to help. It would be madness to try and move Wolfi in the dark without knowing the extent of his injuries. How he wished he had not gone to Peacock Island! If he had made for shore further up the lake he could have come back much sooner.

Now he faced a much greater dilemma. Wolfi was obviously seriously hurt and had been bleeding for some time. Even without the benefit of light Peter could tell that much. He could remain at his side and comfort him, possibly for his last few hours. Or he could try and save him. The only way of doing that was to seek help. But where and from whom?

After much soul-searching, he decided that he would have to try and fetch help. The only person he could think of was Lotte. She might have access to a car. With fuel being so scarce, her vehicle had become redundant, although with her husband so important in the Party, he still had his official limousine. There was no other way to move Wolfi safely, except by car. Peter hated leaving Wolfi in this state. He had no choice. He stroked the poor dog's ears once more and buried his face into the dog's fur.

‘Don't worry boy. I'll be right back.' Wolfi's only response was to lick Peter's face and then close his eyes. Peter wrapped his jumper around the area of the wound hoping that it would prevent further injury.

In his many previous adventures, there had been times when Peter had to move fast to avoid detection and capture. Most recently it had been running across the railway tracks at Lehrter station with a rucksack on his back. Now, with his dog's life at stake, he ran faster than ever. He cared little for the dangers around. Every second was vital. As he sprinted through the woods away from Wannsee he caught the blue flash of a street car.

Normally both he and Franz avoided public transport. There were too many hazards and too many chances of being stopped and questioned. It was almost ten kilometres back to Lotte's apartment and Peter knew, even at full tilt, it would take too long. For the first time in many months he diverted towards the S-bahn station. Even though this took him south for a little while away from his final destination, ultimately he knew it would still be quicker. He felt the wallet in his trouser pocket. He was so glad he had taken the precaution of always keeping it with him, even when he slept. It contained money and his ID card. Soon he was at the steps into the S-bahn. It was still quite early. Most workers, other than evening and night shifts, had returned home. As such there were very few passengers about.

‘A single to Tiergarten station, please,' Peter said impatiently and out of breath. He barely noticed the strange look the attendant gave him.

Walking towards the platform entrance, Peter spotted the telephone kiosk for the first time.

‘Of course,' he thought, ‘Lotte has a telephone. I could ring her first.' He could have kicked himself for forgetting. He was being very harsh with himself. As Lotte was the only one from their group to own a telephone, its uses were limited. And they could never be certain who was listening in. Both the Gestapo and the euphemistically named ‘Research Bureau' of the Air Ministry routinely tapped or eavesdropped phone calls. They had tried using code on the phone on the rare occasions they called, until in the end their conversations became so nonsensical and confusing it was barely worth the trouble. It was unwise to underestimate the wit of the Gestapo and even an effective code might have been their undoing. As a result all of them had agreed that the telephone would be used only in an emergency.

‘This is an emergency,' Peter told himself.

He walked over to the telephone kiosk and stepped in, closing the door behind him, under the watchful eye of the ticket booth attendant. He took out his wallet and searched for the few pfennig, the copper coins needed to make the call. He inserted the coins slowly and listened as they dropped into the phone. He dialled the operator. A female voice answered.

‘Number please caller.'

‘Berlin Tiergarten telephone number 4884. Quickly please it is urgent.'

After a brief silence a male voice spoke saying, ‘Yes. Who is this please?' It was Lotte's husband. Peter had forgotten he was at home again.

‘Very sorry. I must have the wrong number,' and with that Peter replaced the receiver. He could think of nothing else to say.

‘Damn! Damn!' he said over and over. The phone call was a mistake. Who knew what problems it might cause Lotte. He hurried down the steps to the tunnel leading to the opposite platform. Behind him the telephone in the kiosk was ringing.

The next train was due in two minutes. Peter looked anxiously back up the steps. He sincerely hoped that no-one answered the phone that was still ringing. He resisted the temptation to pace up and down the platform. To distract his thoughts he retrieved an old newspaper from a bin. His concentration was such that he could not even have said what newspaper it was. As he stood pretending to read the paper, he caught his reflection in a pane of glass behind which a timetable was posted. As he looked closer he could see a blood smear on his cheek. He wiped his face as best he could. Traces of the blood remained. To hide his face he pulled the newspaper closer to him. His impatience grew at the sight of Wolfi's blood.

The train arrived and he grabbed at the door and leapt into the carriage. There were only two other passengers, one an elderly lady, the other a man in overalls. Thankfully there were no policemen. Or so he thought. He had not seen the police constable running down the stairs after him, followed by the ticket booth attendant, pointing at him. The train doors closed and pulled away. At the same time the constable had reached the compartment. He was out of breath, hands waving rapidly, trying to signal the driver.

Peter would never know the luck that he was to have that evening. For as the constable and the booth attendant were about to ring ahead to have him arrested, the air raid alarm sounded. Wannsee station was mainly above ground and so the staff and passengers hurried to the nearest shelter, accompanied by the police constable and the ticket booth attendant. Trains and train stations were a prime target for the bombers. They were not going to jeopardise their necks trying to apprehend a boy who most likely had not done anything. He surely had an innocent explanation for the blood on his collar. The constable was due to finish his shift soon. He did not want a lengthy, meaningless chase to eat into his rest time. By this means the two men justified their decision to leave the station and seek refuge.

Whilst they hid in the air raid shelter the train driver continued the journey. From experience he knew that a moving train was just as likely, or perhaps more likely to escape the bombs than one that was stationary. Hopefully the train drivers up ahead would take the same view. This driver hated abandoning his locomotive to the mercies of the Allies. Once more Peter's luck that evening had taken a turn for the better as the Allied planes headed towards the industrialised east of the city and the trains from Wannsee to Friedrichstrasse continued to run.

Oblivious to his narrow escape, Peter felt that the journey into the city would never end. In other circumstances he would have enjoyed his first train ride in many months, but he could only think of Wolfi.

On reaching his destination he walked as calmly as he could from the carriage. He stopped briefly at a public toilet to wash his face. He could do nothing about the blood that was now dried on his collar. There seemed to be so much and it only served to remind him of Wolfi's perilous condition.

From the station he ran the few streets to Lotte's apartment. Outside he was both pleased and a little concerned to see a large black car with the swastika at the front. It must belong to Lotte's husband. Up until now he had not thought through how he would get to see her without her husband knowing.

He walked up the steps and reached towards the bell, reminding himself of the secret ring as he did; two short rings, one longer ring and a further two short rings. It was their code and he hoped that tonight Lotte would appreciate its significance.

Just as he went to press the bell, the door opened. Peter was relieved to see Lotte's face. She had guessed when the caller had abruptly hung up the telephone that someone was in trouble and had been keeping watch as best she could at the door. She was anxious, though pleased to see him. As he stepped towards the light of the hallway she noticed the blood on his collar.

‘What's wrong? You are hurt Peter.' She stepped out of the doorway as she said this, hoping to avoid prying eyes from behind her.

‘It's Wolfi,' Peter said, tearfully, ‘he's badly injured. They cleared the woods with soldiers and dogs. His side was ripped open by another dog as he defended us.'

‘Tell me what you need, quickly,' Lotte replied, ‘my husband is still here. I have persuaded him to take a bath. He is still soaking at the moment, but he will become suspicious if I am not there when he gets out.'

‘I need to borrow the car and my old chauffeur's uniform. Please hurry! Wolfi can't last much longer.' Typically Lotte did not react when he said he needed to borrow her husband's car.

‘I'll be back as soon as I can.' Turning away she closed the door behind her.

Minutes after disappearing Lotte opened the door. She handed him a parcel made up of a woollen blanket containing his old chauffeur's outfit, a set of car keys, a cognac bottle filled with water and a card with an address, inside an envelope. Next to the card lay an earring, pearl and gold.

‘You can change in the car. The address is a vet that I know. Show him that earring and he will know I have sent you. He will look after Wolfi for you. I will try and telephone and warn him, if I can. Hurry! My husband's driver is due to come for the car early tomorrow.'

She kissed Peter and told him not to worry and then disappeared inside. In the cellar flat, Herr Klein, the block warden and caretaker, closed his window and sat back pondering what to do about the scene he had just witnessed.

It was after eleven o'clock and Peter was at the wheel of the powerful Daimler. He was in the chauffeur's uniform that he had last worn to escort Berta to the Swiss border. If stopped his identity card gave his work details as ‘chauffeur'. He just hoped that the car would not be missed until he completed his task. The petrol gauge showed that there was still half a tank of fuel. That should be more than enough to get him to Wannsee and back.

The temptation to race through the streets was almost overwhelming. He resisted, knowing that car accidents in the blackout were much more common. Travelling at a steady forty kilometres an hour he soon left the central precincts of Berlin and was now motoring at greater speed along the Spanische Allee towards Wannsee. His journey was uninterrupted and he arrived at the closest point to his camp, still on the road. He pulled the Daimler into a lay-by and leapt out, blanket and cognac bottle in hand. In his haste he almost forgot to switch off the lights, such was his anxiety to see Wolfi again.

It was almost fifteen minutes walk to the camp. He covered it in less than ten. He crawled through the tunnel of branches and ran to Wolfi's side.

‘It's all right Wolfi. I won't leave you now.'

Wolfi was not moving. Frantic, Peter placed his ear towards his mouth. His breathing was very faint and just audible. He was still alive! He took the cognac bottle and poured a little water into Wolfi's mouth. The weakened animal drank a small amount and slowly licked his lips. He poured some more water into the dog's mouth.

‘It's all right boy. It's all right,' he said, soothing his dog. Slowly he slipped the edges of the blanket under Wolfi, who moaned as it touched his hind quarters.

‘Sorry boy,' he said. ‘I'm going to have to lift you.' He wrapped the blanket completely around the injured animal, knotted the ends together and lifted the whole lot with the greatest care. Wolfi groaned at first then went silent. The distressed groans were upsetting, yet Peter preferred that to silence. Any noise or movement by Wolfi meant he was still alive.

Wolfi was a big dog, though in his time in the wild he had lost all excess fat. In the same time Peter had grown to be a strong, athletic adolescent. It was hard work nevertheless, as he carefully carried his dog in the blanket back to the car. All the time he spoke words of comfort. He opened the rear door and laid him gently on the more spacious back seat.

Peter drove away as smoothly as possible, aware that a rough journey might cause further injury. Carefully he navigated the many potholes avoiding any sudden jolts. He had a vague idea where the vet lived and as he neared his destination he had to slow down to read the street signs.

‘It's so damn dark,' Peter complained, as he struggled to see ahead and read the directions Lotte had given him. At last forty-five minutes after lifting Wolfi in the blanket he was in the right street, just off Barbarossa Square, near Nollendorf Square.

Nollendorf was familiar to Peter as he had once had piano lessons in a small apartment in one of the side streets. That had stopped shortly after Kristall Nacht when his Jewish tutor had been forced out of the area.

The premises were easy to identify. It was a flat above a glass-fronted window with the inscription ‘Dr. Gerhard Messner, Verterinary Surgeon'. Beneath this was engraved a list of qualifications and opening hours. The premises looked a little shabby, a poor shadow of their previous splendour. In wartime there was less call upon the services of a vet, as pets were often a luxury many civilians dispensed with first. Peter was pleased that the doctor lived above the shop. Had he been resident in an apartment block his visit would have been difficult to conceal. Next to the vet's premises were a number of businesses, each seemingly with accommodation above.

Peter parked adjacent to the kerb. There were few other vehicles around and so plenty of space outside the vet's surgery. He decided to leave Wolfi in the car for the moment. If the vet was unwilling to see him, there was little point increasing the poor animal's distress. He climbed out of the driver's seat and leaned into the back.

‘Don't worry Wolfi. I'll be back soon.' Wolfi did not stir.

He closed the door softly. With mounting trepidation he approached the door of the surgery and pressed the buzzer marked ‘Dr. Messner. Emergencies only'.

‘I hope he's in,' Peter said, ‘And I hope he agrees to treat Wolfi.' A full minute passed.

‘Come on! Come on! Please be in.' Peter had no idea what to do should the vet be away. Wolfi could not survive much longer.

There was no sign of life. He pressed the buzzer again this time for longer and more impatiently. A light went on upstairs and he heard the sound of footsteps approaching the front door. The door opened a fraction and a handsome face looked back at him.

‘What do you want? It's late. I don't know you do I?' the face enquired. The tone was hostile and unfriendly, as was common in wartime Berlin. Lotte had not been able to telephone him.

Peter had little time to waste. He held up the earring and said simply, ‘Lotte.' The effect of the name was remarkable.

‘Come in come in, don't just stand there,' the vet said, beckoning him inside.

‘My dog is badly injured. Lotte, my friend, said that you would treat him,' Peter replied, knowing that every moment was precious. He emphasised Lotte's name and did not move.

The vet's face filled with disappointment as he realised his professional services were required. His passion for Lotte had not dwindled, even in the years since he had first presented her with the pair of earrings, one of which this stranger held in his hand. They had cost him almost three months income in the years before the war, but she was worth it.

‘Please will you help my dog?' Peter pleaded, interrupting the vet's reminiscence.

‘Where is the animal?' the vet said, adopting a professional manner.

‘In the car. I will bring him to you,' Peter said, so overjoyed he was already running back to Wolfi.

At the passenger door he leaned into the vehicle and spoke encouragingly to his friend. ‘It's all right boy. You will be all right.'

Wolfi lifted his head barely millimetres from the seat in acknowledgement. Peter winced at Wolfi's painful whimper as he placed his arms under the dog and lifted him out of the car.

It was not long until he had carried Wolfi from the car and into the doctor's surgery. They were in a room at the back of the building on the ground floor. The vet was unwrapping the blanket covering the wounded animal. Under the spotlight Peter could see for the first time the amount of blood that Wolfi had lost and the depth of the wound. He recoiled in horror at the sight.

‘It may be worse than it looks,' the vet attempted to reassure him. He wiped around the affected area as Peter held Wolfi's head, comforting him.

Once cleaned, the wound, though still long and deep, did not appear quite so bad. They hardly spoke. Peter was not in a state to note the irony of the black and white poster on the wall behind the vet. It was entitled ‘Law on Animal Protection 1933' which prohibited cruelty to animals and threatened severe penalties for their mistreatment.

The vet looked up. ‘He has lost a lot of blood and is dehydrated. I shall do my best. Be prepared. He may not survive.'

Peter was not surprised, though reassured himself that Wolfi had survived a long time already. Now he was in the right hands he knew his dog would fight on.

‘Come on boy. Don't leave me now,' Peter whispered close to the dog's ear. He cradled Wolfi's head in his arms.

He watched as the vet skilfully inserted a drip and suspended it from a stand. He shaved the fur around the hole in Wolfi's thigh. Next he sterilised the wound with iodine and began to stitch the flesh back together. Wolfi initially tried to bite at the area as each stitch caused pain, then settled as Peter calmed him, in spite of the discomfort.

‘I'm sorry I don't have any pain relief,' the vet said.

Peter nodded his understanding and the vet continued stitching. As he finished the final stitch, the vet looked up and said what Peter had hoped not to hear: ‘He'll have to remain here for a few days. He has to be completely rehydrated and he needs medicine to counteract any infection. The greatest danger is that the wound has been exposed for so long. Ideally I would like to give him a blood transfusion, but I have no supplies.'

So be it. This was clearly the best place for Wolfi and his best chance of survival. Peter would just have to trust the vet with his friend. Whatever hold Lotte had over him, it was a powerful influence.

‘You look exhausted. Will you take a coffee with me? You can tell me all about Lotte,' the vet offered. For the first time Peter noticed the limp and the prosthetic leg as the vet stood upright.

‘That would explain why he is not in the forces,' he thought. ‘I would like to. I must get the car back. This is for the treatment.' Peter held out the earring to the vet.

The vet closed Peter's hand around the piece of jewellery and said, ‘That was a gift to a special friend. Tell her a visit from her would be more than enough payment. It has been far too long.'

‘I'm sure that can be arranged. I will bring you payment of my own. Thank you doctor. Thank you very much.' Peter reached out and shook the vet warmly by the hand.

The vet was impressed by the maturity of the young man in front of him and his quiet determination. Mostly though, he was excited about seeing Lotte again.

* * *

It was one thirty in the morning and Peter was at the wheel of the long black limousine again. He was very tired and regretted that he had not accepted the vet's offer of coffee. Even substitute coffee. Before he could return the car to Lotte's address he had one more thing to do. As Lotte's husband was still at home she would not have the opportunity to warn Franz that their camp had been raided. He would have to do it.

He was making his way as carefully as possible along the still dark streets. There was virtually no other traffic and although the kerbstones were identified by fluorescent paint, at times it was difficult to keep the car in the correct position.

His eyelids were heavy. A combination of mental and physical exhaustion began to take its toll and he struggled to stay awake. As he rounded a bend he jolted upright as the runner board scraped the pavement.

‘Damn it!' he swore at himself and the dark. There was nothing for it he would have to go straight back to Luisenstrasse and deposit the car. He would pass the Professor's apartment on foot and alert them. With luck he would still make it early in the morning before anyone was up and about.

There were a few near misses as he drove through the dark streets, until eventually he pulled up outside Lotte's apartment. He was so tired he did not see Herr Klein pull back the curtains in his basement flat and observe as he got out of the car and locked the door. He bent over to examine the nearside runner board. It was badly scratched. He hoped that the car's official driver might not notice the difference in fuel level from the night before. He could not fail to spot the damage to the runner boards, certainly not in daylight. A near exhausted Peter pondered whether to ring the doorbell and warn Lotte. It was so late at night she would struggle to explain to her husband what was happening. He placed the keys into the envelope which had originally contained the card with the vet's address, and sealing it he was about to drop it into Lotte's postbox when the door opened. Lotte appeared in the gap.

‘Your friend the vet has stitched Wolfi's side. He has to stay with him for a few days. I am really sorry, I have damaged the runner board.' Peter gave her the envelope and the earring. Lotte was completely calm and simply touched his arm.

‘The main thing is that Wolfi gets better. Now take this parcel and go to the Professor's. I will visit Wolfi tomorrow and the day after,' she promised. ‘We shall meet at the Professor's the day after tomorrow, at two in the afternoon.'

Peter took the parcel and peaking inside could see his naval uniform. His quizzical expression told Lotte he had not comprehended. He was obviously too tired to think straight.

‘You can't turn up at the Professor's dressed as a chauffeur, when you have previously been seen as a sailor. You must change before you go,' she explained. She beckoned him into the lobby and kept watch as he switched outfits. He wrapped the chauffeur's uniform and his old clothes in the brown paper and wished Lotte good night.

As Peter descended the steps, Herr Klein moved away from behind the curtains. He did not notice the new uniform, nor had he heard any of the conversation between Lotte and Peter as they were speaking very quietly. Unluckily for him he was unable to observe the exchange on the steps, as they were out of the light. Nor had he been able to identify the young man, either from earlier that night or more recently. He suspected that they were one and the same. It might even have been someone he had seen at the apartment, except that young man was never without his dog and too young to be a chauffeur, for he was confident it was a chauffeur he had seen just now. He so wished he had heard and seen more. It was clear, however, that their meeting and the one earlier had not been innocent. He would do nothing at that precise moment. This was an opportunity and he would have to consider carefully how best to exploit it.