Berlin Wolf (30 page)

He was sitting on a bench marked ‘
Aryans only
'. His appearance looked quite smart, apart from his shoes. ‘Always the shoes,' Peter winced. Understandably the little money they had was spent on food to survive rather than expensive shoe repairs.

Peter was closer to the target than either the Gestapo or the Jew catcher, for that was his occupation. To save himself the Jew catcher helped the Gestapo locate and arrest Jews by befriending them. He would pretend to be living underground as well and the fellow Jew would thus happily confide in him, before being betrayed.

‘Not this time,' Peter said to himself. He called Wolfi to him and took the stick from the dog's mouth. He leaned over and stroked the dog, all the time saying very loudly, ‘Good dog. Good dog.' As quietly as possible he ordered Wolfi to take the stick to the Gestapo's target. Wolfi obeyed perfectly and ran towards the man on the bench.

‘Wolfi come back. Leave the man alone,' Peter shouted after him. Without the customary whistle from his master, the words ‘come back' meant nothing to Wolfi who continued on his way.

Wolfi was a large dog, black and sometimes ferocious looking. Even other dog lovers sometimes found him intimidating. The appearance of a dog rushing towards him was enough to grab the man's attention and he looked up, not just scared, terrified.

By now Peter was near the bench. With his back to the Jew catcher and the Gestapo, Peter mouthed the words, ‘Jew catcher and Gestapo behind me! Get out of here!'

The man's look of surprise was mixed with his genuine fear of Wolfi. He hesitated on the bench. ‘If you don't leave now you will be arrested,' Peter mouthed again, this time a little louder. He was becoming very anxious. Perhaps he had made a mistake?

The man leapt from the bench and started to run from the park. Two of the Gestapo men gave chase. The Gestapo agents were obviously fitter and healthier for they had regular nourishment and regular sleep. Unfortunately for the Gestapo they could not outrun Wolfi who particularly liked this game, especially when he could run in front of the pursuers. The man may have been weakened by hunger, but he ran for his life. Every time an agent seemed within grabbing distance, Wolfi somehow weaved between their legs.

‘No! No! Don't shoot!' Peter shouted, ‘You will hit my dog.' One of the agents, the fattest of the three, had given up the chase. In his hand he held a revolver, his arm outstretched and one eye closed to aim at the fugitive u-boat.

‘Phew!' Peter said, rather too loudly. With two agents blocking his view the fat Gestapo man could not fire. Hitting a civilian was one thing, hitting another agent was a disaster.

‘Besides the paperwork would be too tiresome,' he consoled himself. As the revolver was slowly lowered, Peter was just able to see the target jump onto a passing tram as the other two Gestapo agents struggled to reach him. The agents waved their arms frantically at the driver as the tram moved on defiantly. Not even the Nazis could delay German public transport.

‘That was close boy.' Peter patted Wolfi on the head, all the time aware of a person behind him.

‘What did you say to that Jew? You warned him didn't you?' the person demanded. Peter ignored the question. He was aware of the shadow of someone standing over him. ‘And why were you so happy he got away?' the voice continued. ‘Answer me when I speak to you! Papers! Papers now!'

Once more Peter ignored the demand. Instead he stood up and feigned surprise when he turned to face the person. It was the third Gestapo agent.

‘Papers now!' the agent screamed. He was now so close to his face, Peter could smell his tobacco breath. ‘And why aren't you on board ship at the people's hour of need?'

Peter calmly handed over his papers. Included was an official document from the war ministry. ‘Sorry. I can't hear very well,' Peter indicated apologetically, tapping his ear at the same time. ‘Thank you for not shooting my dog.'

The Gestapo agent calmed slightly as he read the official confirmation. Peter had been injured by an explosion. As a result he was virtually deaf and unfit for war service. This was now so common even amongst the civilian population that the agent did not doubt the truth of it. The agent folded the letter from the Ministry and handed it back to Peter along with his identity card.

‘Okay you can go. Be careful who you speak to in future.'

Peter did not wait around. Both he and the target were lucky that day. In the subsequent days, instead of avoiding the park Peter deliberately went back to the same place, hoping to see the escapee. He did not see him again.

Making his way along a badly damaged and potholed street, an elderly, but well-groomed man was wending a path through the ruins. So many craters had opened up that the Professor found it faster to walk than cycle. Under his arm he held a small, tightly wrapped, brown parcel. It was not much, though the few provisions he had managed to purchase were substantially more than most Berliners could ever hope to buy.

* * *

As the Professor negotiated the rubble and the potholes, elsewhere in the city a haggard and battle-worn grey man was handing out medals to boy soldiers, their uniforms coated in dust. The boys were frightened and the man disconsolate. On his fifty-third birthday the great warmonger and murderer, Adolf Hitler was decorating the last line of defence outside his bunker. It was his penultimate official act before marrying his long term mistress, Eva Braun and then committing suicide.

Berlin was on its knees. The population were at their wits' end. Suicides amongst the population were commonplace as many feared the reprisals of the Soviet forces as they marched on the capital. Marshall Zhukov's forces outnumbered the Germans by fifteen to one. The bombardment of the city was incessant, with scarcely a single building untouched. Most streets were impassable. Boys as young as fourteen and fifteen were conscripted to serve alongside the pensioners forced to defend the city. Some were simply too small or too weak to lift the heavy anti-tank guns. Most wore uniforms twice their size that would not save them from the advancing hordes. On the Kurfürstendamm the SS hanged anyone brave enough to fly the white flag on the outside of their home. Throughout the city, special SS units executed deserters and anyone else with the courage to defy the Führer's last wish: Berlin would fight until the end. Food was scarce, morale was low and fear pervaded every part of the city.

Just a few days later, in Luisenstrasse, Lotte and her friends were celebrating. It seemed an odd celebration as they were officially going to be on the losing side, but for them the war was virtually over. The Soviet Forces were bombarding the city constantly and it was only a matter of days until the end must surely come. Apart from the news of Hitler's death rumours had spread that the Nazi leadership were negotiating an armistice. For all that, the streets of Berlin were as dangerous as ever. For Franz and Peter in particular, as many Russians sought revenge for the atrocities committed by the Nazis in their homeland and these two young men were of military age. Lotte, like many German women, was all too aware of the particular danger that she faced from the invading troops.

In spite of the fear of reprisals and the uncertainty as to their future, Lotte was optimistic. She raised her glass and toasted their freedom in champagne. ‘My dear friends. It is hard to believe it will soon be over. You can start living your lives again.'

She lifted her glass to her lips and began to sip. Her best friends were with her. Peter, Franz and the Professor. And not forgetting Wolfi. Each of her companions raised their glass and repeated her toast, ‘To dear friends!'

‘Boom! A loud thunder clap shattered the near silence. And then another. ‘Boom!'

With no further warning an enormous explosion shook the building. The force of the blast was so powerful that Lotte and Peter were thrown to the floor. The Professor and Franz were still sitting on the sofa, covered in plaster and dust. Wolfi's usually dark black coat was white with a covering of the powdered plaster. This was not a thunderstorm of nature's making.

‘Lotte! Lotte! Are you all right?' Franz was the first to react and was frantically digging for Lotte under a pile of plaster and debris. Peter checked the Professor was uninjured and began to help Franz. Wolfi shook the dust from his coat and began to dig in the rubble where once the wall had stood. As they flung bits of masonry to one side, the rapid fire of machine guns came ever closer, accompanied by more mortars exploding. The Russians were close to the Reichstag just a few streets away.

After a few tense minutes Peter and Franz helped Lotte to her feet. She was dazed and apart from a few scratches, unharmed. She had been blown under a mahogany side table that had taken the force of falling masonry.

‘I'm fine,‘ Lotte said again and again, as the boys fussed around her. ‘Pity about the champagne.' Peter and Franz smiled at one another. They knew she really was fine.

‘Hands in the air! Now!' The order was in German, with a distinct Russian accent. It came from a young soldier in Soviet Army Uniform. He was pointing his weapon at Peter. To either side of him were standing two other soldiers. A fourth soldier in what appeared to be an officer's uniform pushed past them. None of them had heard the rifle bolt as it was pulled back, such was the ringing in their ears from the explosions. Peter, Franz and Lotte stayed completely still, moving only to raise their hands. Just moments before they had been celebrating the imminent defeat of the enemy.

‘Jews! We are Jews!' Peter said desperately.

‘No Jews, all dead!' the soldier said in broken German.

‘No! We are Jews! It's the truth,' Peter pleaded.

After everything they had been through the prospect of dying at the hands of the Russians was too cruel. He held Wolfi back by his collar as he strained to get to the intruders. One of the soldiers looked menacingly back at Wolfi and grasped his rifle tightly.

Behind Peter an unfamiliar sound could be heard. The Professor was speaking in a language he could not understand.

‘It's Russian,' he said to Franz, ‘the Professor speaks Russian. He will be able to persuade them.' But their hopes faded as the aggressive faces of the soldiers remained unchanged. Their guns were still threateningly close to their faces. None but the Professor could understand the soldiers' gruff responses. The manner of delivery left little doubt however.

‘It's no use,' the Professor explained. ‘They have this address as the home of a top Nazi. They refuse to believe there could be any Jews here. Everywhere they go, everyone is claiming to be Jewish.'

‘Tell them I still have my original identification card with ‘J' for Jew stamped on it,' Peter replied. His desperation was heart rending.

‘It won't help Peter. They have seen so many forged passes they will think it is just another one. Especially as we are all carrying forged passes at the moment.' The Professor spoke again in Russian. They did not understand, although the anxiety in his voice was clear. The officer said something in Russian and pointed towards Franz and Peter.

‘Niet! No!' the Professor shouted, moving towards his friends. The officer prodded his chest with his machine gun. Walking towards Peter and Franz, the three soldiers held the muzzles of their guns just centimetres from the boys' faces. Wolfi reared up at the soldiers barking all the time, his fangs bared and gnashing. Peter struggled to restrain his dog.

‘Down Wolfi! Down!' Peter said. One of the Soviet soldiers had aimed his rifle at Wolfi's head and was about to shoot.

Wolfi did not understand, but obeyed nonetheless. Thankfully the soldier did not shoot and momentarily lowered his weapon, before raising it to shoulder height once more.

‘Come with us,' one of the soldiers said in German and roughly grabbed Peter's shoulder.

‘No! Leave him! Let him be!' Lotte's shout was so loud it caused everyone to stop. Peter and Franz were no longer scared of their own fate. The officer was looking at Lotte and both were terrified of what might happen to her. Worse still the other soldiers were now fixated on her.

The Professor began to babble in Russian once more. He had said just a few words when a strange sound pierced the air. Even with a background accompaniment of gunfire and shells it was unmistakable. And it was getting closer.

Herr Riesen climbed through the hole the soldiers had used. He was no longer Herr Riesen. He was the concert violinist once more. Even as he clambered over the rubble his hands expertly played the violin. Peter had heard it before, but could not name the piece. It did not matter. Whatever the music was the Russian soldiers stopped and listened.

After a few minutes the great violinist took the instrument from under his chin and began to sing. The words initially meant nothing to Peter.

‘
Hava neranenah ve-nismeha, hava nagila
,' the violinist sang. His voice was loud and clear. Soon the violinist's voice was joined by another. It was the Professor. It had been years since either he or Peter had used this magical language. A third voice joined in the singing as Peter recalled the words he had learnt so long ago.

‘Let us sing and be happy. Let us rejoice.' That was the meaning of the song. If they were to die they would die defiantly.

‘
Hava neranenah ve-nismeha,
' the words rang out, this time in a deep bass voice. A voice with a strong hint of a foreign accent. It was a miracle! The officer had joined in.

‘He is a Jew! He is a Jew!' the Professor shouted. It had been twelve long years since anyone had been able to shout these words in public in Germany. After several magical minutes the song came to an end and silence fell. At first no-one moved. Then the Professor spoke pointing at the violinist and at each of his friends in turn, first Lotte then Peter and finally Franz. The violinist bowed as his name was spoken.

The officer issued a command in Russian. The soldiers immediately lowered their weapons. The officer spoke to the Professor and as he did he took a small notepad and a pen from his breast pocket. He scribbled several sentences. They did not understand, but Lotte, Peter and Franz recognised their own names. The Russian officer stopped and spoke to the Professor in Russian once more. The Professor replied briefly in just a few words. Finally their new found friend signed the document and handed it to the Professor.

The two men shook hands. The officer said something to his soldiers in Russian and, saluting all those present, left the way he had arrived.

‘We have safe conduct around the city,' the Professor beamed. ‘And when things are settled we can exchange it for official passes. Our war is over!'

The piece of paper in his hand bore not only his name, but those of his friends.

‘It says that we are all enemies of the Third Reich and friends of the Soviet Union,' the Professor translated. ‘Anyone who harms us will be treated as a war criminal.'

The five companions embraced in a circle. Not one of them could hold back the tears. Wolfi sat right in the middle barking his approval.

* * *

Almost a year after the Soviet forces entered Berlin and tore down the Swastika from the Reichstag, Peter and Wolfi were in the Tiergraten. Peter was sitting on a bench that not long ago had been denied to him. In the year since the war in Europe had ended, Peter and Franz had remained at Lotte's apartment. The wall had been rebuilt at enormous cost. Fortunately, even though close to the Russian sector, Lotte now lived in the British zone. The Professor, a regular visitor, remained at his old apartment, free from the fear of denouncement. Berta had returned from Switzerland with little Hannah and somehow managed to reclaim her old house. Remarkably it was undamaged by either bombing or shelling. Lotte bravely accepted the strong attachment that Hannah had formed in the months with Berta and resolved to play the loving aunt, rather than mother. Herr Riesen, as he was once known, had very quickly been able to emigrate to the USA with his children where he played to packed concert halls.

On this particular day Peter had just returned from the synagogue in the Oranienburger Strasse. Each day for almost the last year this had been his first port of call. It was the headquarters of the ‘
Organisation for Displaced Persons
'. Each day, like so many others, he had sought news of his mother and father. As usual there was none. Franz had long ago accepted that his parents were no more. Peter was still unwilling to give up hope. From time to time he travelled back to his first hiding place in the woods where he had left clues for his father. He found nothing. For the first time in a long while he was overcome by an unfamiliar feeling. Despair. During the war his fight for survival had largely occupied his mind. Now that the full horrors of the camps had emerged he knew the prospect of seeing his parents again was very remote. As he contemplated this terrible reality for the first time he failed to notice Wolfi and the man playing with him.

‘What a great dog you have. I knew a dog like that once. What is his name?'

Peter looked up at the figure in front of him. It was an old man. His face suggested he was about seventy, his eyes somewhat younger. He was very thin, which was not uncommon, even so long after the war. His hair was very grey and receding and his hands looked frail. Peter could just see the last few numbers of a long tattoo on his left arm. Wolfi was bouncing up and down excitedly. More excited than Peter had seen him for years. His tail was wagging and he was barking. The bark was not aggressive. It was the sort of bark he gave when Peter returned to Lotte's apartment. The sort of bark that used to greet his father when he returned from the city.

Wolfi's reaction to this man confused Peter. Other than the Professor he had greeted no-one else with the same enthusiasm.

‘Wolfi. His name is Wolfi and he is a great dog,' Peter said proudly.

The old man looked up. ‘Wolfi, Wolfi,' he murmured. The excited dog was pressing against the old man's legs.

‘Down boy! Down!' the man commanded. Wolfi sat immediately, though his tail still made semi-circular sweeps across the ground.

‘I followed my son's clues. I have found his dog, but not my boy,' the man said sadly.

Peter's mouth had gone dry and he struggled to speak. He had hoped for so long, but now the reality refused to sink in. ‘Papa? Can that really be you?' He was standing holding the elderly man by the elbows.

‘Papa?' he repeated in disbelief. This could not be his father. He was a large man, very tall and stocky with a paunch. Now Peter towered over him. Whereas Peter had grown tall and athletic, his father was stooped and weary.