Berlin Wolf (3 page)

‘Great dog!' the Major shouted above the din. ‘Now bring him over and let's see if he can sniff out any survivors.'

Peter wanted to say that he was a sheep dog, not a sniffer dog. Instead they followed dutifully. The Major came to a stop by a mass of entangled concrete and metal. He stooped down and, caressing Wolfi under his chin, whispered into the dog's ear. Peter did not hear what was said. Whatever it was it had an effect. Wolfi clambered over the pile of smoking rubble, sniffing as he went. After some ten minutes, when all hope seemed lost, the dog began digging frantically. Loose masonry and half bricks were sent flying by the dog's powerful paws. Just seconds later Wolfi suddenly sat down and began to bark loudly.

‘Over here!' the Major yelled, beckoning the auxillary firemen to the spot where Wolfi sat.

The firemen were tired and hungry. They had seen so much death and destruction that they longed to return home. Their faces were black with smoke and grime, yet even that could not hide their disbelief that a mere dog was dictating the rescue effort.

In spite of their concerns, after almost an hour of careful digging a wounded and bedraggled man in his fifties was pulled free of the ruins.

‘Thank you! Thank you so much!' he spluttered, seized by a coughing fit. He was covered from head to foot in dust. The only object clearly visible was his lapel badge with the Nazi Party emblem still prominent.

Even though not trained in this work, the three rescuers, Wolfi, Peter and the Major spent the next two hours climbing over the rubble and then digging when Wolfi barked to indicate the presence of life. In this unsophisticated way they located three survivors, all grateful to be rescued.

When eventually it became clear that it was hopeless to continue, they switched their efforts to dousing the flames. As there was little either the Major or Peter and Wolfi could do, the three of them stood back at a distance.

‘What is your name boy?' the Major asked.

‘Peter.' Peter was about to say his surname when the Major, raising his right hand, signalled him to stop.

‘You have a fine animal there Peter. Look after him well.'

He reached into the breast pocket of his tunic, took out a slab of chocolate and broke off two pieces. One he gave to Peter, the other he ate. Peter quickly devoured the small square of delicious chocolate. The Major laughed and handed the rest of the slab to the young boy. Peter hesitated.

‘Go on take it.'

‘Thank you,' Peter politely replied, as he took the chocolate and placed it carefully in a wet coat pocket.

‘Now get out of here quickly Peter Stern,' the Major urged.

‘But how..?' Peter stammered. His face was white. He was about to speak further when the Major took Wolfi by the collar and pointed to his dog tag.

‘Be more careful Peter. These are dangerous times.'

Peter thanked the Major once more and, a little shaken, walked away. He did not look behind him.

‘Idiots! Bloody idiots!' Peter seldom swore, and never in the house. And never when his mother was around. This time he could not help it.

He was pleased to be home at last. Except it was not the home he had left less than twenty-four hours ago. In his hand he held a piece of broken crockery. It was Mama's fine china. There was barely a cup or saucer left on the large oak dresser that stood against the wall by the kitchen door. The shards of fine bone china were scattered wantonly all over the floor. Several chairs were broken and fragments of glass lay everywhere. There was no doubt that someone had come looking for them.

‘Careful boy! Stay there! We don't want you to cut yourself.' Peter was anxious. A bleeding dog was the last thing he needed.

Wolfi sat patiently watching as he swept up the debris.
In a few minutes the task was finished and it was safe for Wolfi to move freely around the room. Peter filled a bowl with water and placed it in front of Wolfi. The dog lapped the water noisily.

The sight of the mound of broken china and glass upset Peter. He recalled clearly the events not so many hours earlier when Mama and Papa had argued over that china.

‘You can't take it,' Papa had said forcefully.

‘But it was my mother's and her mother's and her mother before her,' Mama had replied.

‘I know my darling. We have to take only the essentials. If we are stopped with precious china it will be obvious that we are escaping,' Papa responded less harshly.

‘What is more essential than our history? Our past? This is our identity,' she said and looking away, started to cry. Papa had taken her in his arms and kissed her gently for several minutes. In the end she packed two particularly beautiful matching egg cups. Now the rest of Mama's family history lay in pieces on the floor.

* * *

The house was in semi-darkness. It was a few hours until dawn. Peter had remembered the advice from the kind Major and had sneaked into the house. Luckily the spare key was still under the plant pot outside the door. Wolfi did not understand the need for caution. As far as he was concerned he was home and ready for breakfast. Peter knew he could not risk a light in the kitchen. Gradually his eyes accustomed to the half-light. Wolfi was sitting hopefully in front of
the
tall cupboard where his food was kept.

‘Poor boy! You haven't eaten since that bit of cheese and cracker,' he said. Wolfi's ears pricked at the word ‘cheese' and his tail wagged vigorously. Peter could not help smiling. It was almost like any other morning as far as Wolfi was concerned.

He opened a can of Wolfi's favourite dog food and spooned a generous portion into his bowl. Still sitting, his dog shuffled from one paw to the other, licking his lips at the same time. In just a few gulps his breakfast disappeared. Wolfi stared at his master, hopeful for more.

‘All right then,' Peter said. He picked up the clean bowl and emptied the rest of the tin into it, then placed it on the floor. After a few more seconds the bowl was empty. On seeing the dog's clear satisfaction Peter was hit by the realisation that he too was extremely hungry.

‘My turn,' he said and walked across to the larder in the corner. He was cold and half-starved. As he opened the door a dreadful thought entered his head.

‘Whoever did this will have taken all the food.' With a heavy heart he passed through the larder door.

‘Cheese! A whole round! And a whole joint of salt beef!' he cried out. The joint hung invitingly from the ceiling.

He could have jumped for joy. Not as full as in pre-war times, there was still a treasure trove of food. Tins of meat, fruit, soups and vegetables as well as flour, powdered milk, sugar, coffee and tea, a large bag of salt and a bottle of vinegar. Several jars of homemade jams and pickles as well as a large tin of syrup and a tin of molasses were neatly stacked on the shelf above his head. On the floor in the corner were stored a variety of vegetables in hessian sacks: potatoes, beets, turnips, cabbages and carrots as well as a sizeable quantity of onions.

Apart from the items Mama had removed for their picnic, virtually everything else of their wartime larder remained. Mama had been keen to take as much food as possible or at least give it away. Papa had persuaded her not to. It would be too suspicious.

‘Strange,' he thought, `why smash Mama's china and leave all this food?' Peter blessed their stupidity and the wisdom of his Mama.

He had never understood how she had managed to accumulate such a range of foodstuffs when the whole of the city was chasing smaller and smaller supplies. It was even more surprising as the authorities' restrictions on the Jews prevented them exploiting the opportunities presented to their fellow Germans. Yet until the previous evening Peter had never known real hunger. In spite of the general shortage of metal, Mama had even been able to get hold of Wolfi's tins of dog food.

He took two eggs from a bowl and a generous slice of the cheese, and went back into the kitchen. He felt the old cast iron stove. It was still warm after all this time. Peter recalled how they smiled when Mama had stoked the fire and placed several more logs in the stove just before they had left. Living so close to Grünewald they had a good supply of wood.

‘We can't let the stove go out,' she had said. ‘A cold kitchen is a miserable kitchen. And a miserable kitchen makes a miserable home.' She had even gone to the trouble of tidying the kitchen. ‘For when we return,' she had said.

Within minutes Peter was voraciously forking pieces of cheese omelette into his mouth. It was delicious. Mama had taught him well. Papa could not understand why his son should learn to cook, but Mama was adamant.

‘What for?' Papa had joked. ‘Men don't cook. He will be a banker like his father!'As he swallowed the last piece of omelette Peter noticed Wolfi looking intently at him. He was clearly disappointed.

‘Still hungry? Don't worry you can have some beef.' This seemed to satisfy Wolfi, who sat patiently, his tail wagging noisily as it swept across the floor. Peter cut two slices from the joint and gave one to the hungry dog. As always Wolfi was very gentle, taking the meat from his friend with the softest of touches. Both licked their lips with satisfaction.

‘Coffee time, Wolfi!' Peter declared.

Minutes later the water began to gurgle in the percolator on the stove and the delicious aroma of fresh coffee filled the air. He blessed both his aunt in America for sending the precious coffee beans and Mama for showing him how to eke out the supplies by reusing half of the old coffee grounds.

Whilst the coffee brewed he removed all his clothing and hung as much as he could over the metal rail at the front of the stove. The rest he hung over the back of the kitchen chairs.

In the dark he went silently around the rest of the house. From each room he took items useful for his survival: clothing from his bedroom, as well as his best leather boots and overcoat and a warm woolly blanket; camping equipment from under the stairs, including an old alcohol burner, camping pots and pans, a tin mug and plate and a bed roll; his fishing rod, his penknife, his torch, his compass and of course his watch all from the study; a tin and bottle opener and knife, fork and spoon from the pantry; a small towel and soap from the bathroom, as well as some razor blades; wirecutters and twine from the garden shed. All were stashed carefully in the old rucksack he had left behind. To avoid suspicion he had been forced to use his school satchel instead.

* * *

After an hour he returned to the kitchen. Wolfi was snoring gently in front of the stove. His ears pricked as Peter entered the room. He stroked Wolfi, running his hand from the centre of his head, between his ears, all the way down his back to his thick tail. With a seemingly effortless movement Wolfi flipped onto his back, front legs folded at the elbow joint, his belly exposed. His head was raised from the ground and to one side and his tail wagged back and forth.

As he had done so many times, Peter bent over and rubbed his dog's tummy. Wolfi started snoring again. After a few minutes Peter stood up, took the coffee pot in his hand and poured the steaming black liquid into a cup. Adding a spoonful of sugar, he stirred the coffee rapidly and then took a sip. In his eagerness he burnt his tongue. He didn't mind. He was dry and warm and, for the moment, in his own house. He finished the last of the coffee, then gathered the tins and all the perishable items onto the kitchen table.

‘I'll have to come back for the rest,' he said out loud. There was so much it was impossible to carry everything. Wolfi snored.

Once packed, he felt the weight of the bulging rucksack. It was reassuringly heavy. The remainder of the tins and vegetables he placed in a sack, along with the salt beef and cheese round. He kept a piece of the salt beef to one side to eat later.

‘One more thing,' he thought and went into Papa's study. On the wall was a framed map of Berlin. He took the map out of the frame and carefully rolled it up. As he rolled, he spotted Papa's framed Iron Cross, First Class. He carefully took it off the wall and removing it from the wooden frame, he placed it in his jacket pocket.

‘It might be useful one day,' he said, wistfully.

He pulled open the left hand drawer of his father's large oak desk and felt inside. His hands soon found what he had been looking for: a silver hip flask with leather carry strap. He smelt the remnants of the liquid inside, Papa's favourite cognac. It would be a small, yet useful water canteen.

Back in the kitchen he emptied his damp school satchel and wiping it dry with a towel, began to fill it with the few remaining tins of dog food and Wolfi's enamelled bowl. Once he had squeezed everything into the satchel, he turned around and saw Wolfi, sitting expectantly with his ball in his mouth.

‘We can't boy,' Peter said, looking out the kitchen window at the same time. ‘Damn!' He had been so engaged in his search that he had failed to notice that it was now daylight and getting lighter. His plan to sneak off in darkness would either have to be abandoned or postponed. He couldn't be seen with a rucksack heading into the woods in broad daylight. On the other hand he knew it was only a matter of time until a spacious empty house in an affluent area would attract the attention of the authorities. Or looters.

‘We can't hang around here,' Peter said aloud.

It was a real dilemma. Instinct told him to get out of there as soon as possible; emotion told him that waiting for darkness in these surroundings, surroundings that he knew so well, would be so much more pleasant. After some thought, emotion won the day and he determined to wait until darkness. The decision made, he was once more aware of Wolfi, still sitting patiently with a ball in his mouth.

‘All right then. But only in the garden. And quietly.'

The borders of the well-kept garden were planted with tall trees, mainly evergreens. It was a secluded spot in which he could let Wolfi run around. What he could not risk was throwing his ball, as this was bound to cause him to bark. Wolfi, unaware of any danger, kept dropping the ball on his foot and then sitting with a longing look on his face. Peter relented. It was daytime and most people would be engaged in essential wartime work. In any case the house was still theirs, at least for the time being. Perhaps it would never be taken over. For a brief moment, as he threw the ball and watched as Wolfi retrieved it again and again, he forgot the troubles of the past few days.

After some twenty minutes of playing, his mind inevitably came back to their current situation. He had resolved to leave by the back garden. As a precaution he decided to place his rucksack in the garden shed along with his satchel and sack of food. The shed was at the end of the garden and was shielded from the house by a row of mature conifers. He opened the door and placed the rucksack and satchel under a hessian sack. As he closed the door Peter spotted the shiny bell.

‘A bicycle!' His bicycle had long ago been confiscated ‘for the war effort'. This bicycle had never been used. Papa had bought it some years ago for Ilse. She had been their part-time housekeeper and cook. It was a birthday present so that her journey home would be easier. Unfortunately she never received it. Ilse had left their employ. She had no choice. She was an Aryan female under the age of forty-five and therefore by law could no longer work for a Jew.

Then the bicycle was simply too big for Peter. In any event Papa forbade anyone to ride it. It was a painful reminder of what had become of his beloved Germany. A brand new chain and padlock with key hung from the handlebars.

‘I'm sure Papa will understand,' Peter thought.

Sitting astride the bicycle, he began to ride it up and down the garden. It had been many years since he had ridden, for once Wolfi was fully grown the faithful dog went almost everywhere with Peter, trotting or walking as if glued to his side. It had somehow seemed unfair to make the poor animal run after him while he cycled, depriving him of the regular smells along the way. In their current predicament that would have to change.

Having made several trips from one end of the lawn to the other, Peter stopped and called Wolfi over to him. He gave the command to sit. Wolfi instantly responded. He attached the lead to the dog's collar, looped the other end around one handlebar and then cycled off, encouraging Wolfi to come with him. Wolfi remained firmly seated on the ground. Peter crashed to the earth.

‘Bad dog! Bad dog!' His anger quickly turned to laughter as he realised he had not given the release command. Wolfi would not leave his sit position unless told.

He repeated the experiment, this time giving the appropriate instruction. He and his dog happily rode and ran together in circles. He tried this several times with Wolfi off the lead. Wolfi complied perfectly.

‘At least now I know you will follow the bicycle,' Peter said. Wolfi gave a knowing look in reply.

He took the bicycle to the very end of the garden and hid it in the shrubbery behind the vegetable patch. This was a spot he was very familiar with. There was a gap in the fence that he had often squeezed through unnoticed on the occasions when he had come home very late. The sack of food was tied to the basket on the handlebars.