Berlin Wolf (5 page)

He took off his upper layers of clothing, scooped a handful of the looser snow and gave himself a snow bath. It was more important than ever that he did not attract attention. This he would do if he were smelly and dirty, like a vagrant living rough. Ignoring the unpleasant cold, he even gave his hair a type of wash with the snow, brushing it afterwards with a pine cone.

‘Time to sort out your paws, Wolfi.' Wolfi looked on, disinterested. Peter sat down and set to work. It took him some time. Four pieces of cloth were threaded around the top with string that could be pulled tight. Wolfi was in his customary place next to Peter, lying on top of the map of Berlin. He held out one hand and on cue Wolfi held up his front right paw as Peter tied the first snow shoe to it. Looking very unimpressed, Wolfi stood up and walked around the tent, with his snow shoe making a padding noise.

After a little experimentation he pierced four holes at the front to allow Wolfi's claws to poke through. This was more to Wolfi's liking and he stopped trying to remove the boot with his mouth. All the while a basic stew was simmering above the oil burner and, as Peter finished the last boot, the stew was ready.

Whilst Peter ate a new problem occurred to him. His current camp was too close to the path. When the better weather arrived more people would venture further into the woods. He needed to find a more remote site. He had already decided on a location from the map. It was on the western side of Wannsee in the woods. He would scout the area soon.

Even though not particularly optimistic about catching anything, he made a number of snares from the wire he had taken from the shed. This skill his father had taught him in the summer of 1932 when he was just six. They were due to camp out in the mountains later that year and Papa had insisted, much to everyone's amusement, that they ‘practise' in the woods around Schlachtensee. Hence, only a short walk from their comfortable suburban home they had snared rabbits, trapped wood pigeon and water fowl and caught fish. They had been so successful they ended up taking some of their haul home to Mama.

As each trap was set, Wolfi offered his assistance by sniffing the ground and showing his approval in the usual dog fashion. Making his way from their original hideaway, he laid traps as he went, until he was on the shores of Wannsee.

‘Not much fishing here,' he thought and returned to his camp. The edges of the lake were frozen solid.

* * *

The following day Peter breakfasted, finishing a cold meal with his first cup of coffee in days. He had remembered to bring coffee beans. Unfortunately the coffee percolator remained forgotten and missed back at his house. Instead he created a coffee pot out of two old cans that he washed, then squeezed one inside the other. Folding the rim inwards, he pierced the bottom of the inner can to form a filter. Apart from granules in the liquid this worked very well. Taking a sip, he toasted the American relations who had supplied the coffee.

He disciplined himself that each time he left the campsite he must hide all traces of his existence. With this in mind he cut more branches with the axe, taking care to minimise the noise. These he used to completely hide the tent. His food he stored in a makeshift larder in the ditch, always ensuring that it was adequately wrapped in a sack. The rest of his equipment, apart from his fishing rod, was left in his rucksack and satchel which were hidden separately under a thick bush. By this means he hoped that, if discovered, they would not lose everything.

Unless it was impossible he had resolved to take Wolfi with him on each trip. On this, his fifth day since separating from his parents he was determined to find another secure hideout. Following the line of his snares he checked each one and with each was disappointed. As he approached the shores of Wannsee he thought back to the evening when they had hidden in the trees awaiting the Captain.

‘Stop thinking about it,' Peter chastised himself. ‘We have work to do.'

After a while he came across a thicker copse of trees with low-hanging branches. As he crawled on his hands and knees he discovered it was dry underneath the thickest branches. As he anticipated he soon came to a spot where they were much higher above his head, so high that he could stand comfortably. In all the area under the trees was almost three metres in diameter. Beyond the trees and barely visible when standing was a clearing, three or four metres across. He used the small axe to cut a tunnel through the undergrowth, lowering the height as he went. When finished only a small gap remained at the edge of the copse, about the height of Wolfi.

In the middle of the copse Peter made a mud wall from the pine needles and earth, supported with wooden stakes. Over the top he spread an interwoven layer of fir tree branches. He left a small entrance for a door. Once complete he was able to sit in his shelter but not stand upright. Stepping back to admire his labour he was pleased with his efforts. He would be sheltered from the very worst weather and no-one would stumble across this site accidentally. With his old tent and other equipment, the new den was well-protected from the elements.

‘No-one will ever find us here Wolfi,' Peter boasted.

The young boy was now so confident in navigating through the woods that he moved everything to this one camp in the darkness. The real danger lay in crossing the footpaths. When in the trees he saw no-one, mainly because of the inhospitable weather.

By minimising their movements and carefully rationing their food, they survived in this way for the next few months. As expected, the oil for the burner ran out. Peter built a type of oven using large rocks. At night he would burn wood underneath when there was nobody about. The warm food would produce tantalising smells. His greatest fear was that the flames would act as a beacon or that the fire might ignite the dried pine needles all around him. By half burying the oven in the ground and creating air holes he hoped to reduce the danger. During the day they would largely sleep, only attending to necessary tasks requiring full light. They would eat lightly and at night consume their one hot meal of the day. His traps were largely unsuccessful, nonetheless their infrequent haul of just a few rabbits was enough to feed them for three or four days at a time. With the added protection of the trees and the warmth from Wolfi, Peter found this new camp really quite comfortable. Only the frequent thoughts of his parents interrupted the tranquility. Each morning they would venture out of the copse simply to alleviate the boredom of trees all around. For the moment life was a mixture of routine with the odd adventure, but at least they were together.

* * *

One morning, towards the middle of December, Peter looked in his homemade larder. He knew there was nothing inside, yet he still looked. They had not caught anything for over a week and the previous day they had finished the last of their tins. The only remaining supplies were of salt, vinegar and some flour. It was time to go hunting again. For a brief moment he had contemplated returning to his own house. He had been fortunate the last time. In truth he was reluctant to risk another visit. It had been dangerous for him. The pervading memory was the evil look on a young boy's face as he had pointed his father's gun at Wolfi.

‘They'll have changed the locks on the door and blocked the gap in the fence,' he argued, more for his own benefit.

Having rejected that idea he was now underway at night-time under the cover of the trees of Grünewald. Wolfi was trotting along by his side. Living wild, both he and his dog had lost weight and gained some fitness in the last few months. Peter was unsure exactly what they were looking for. He hoped and prayed that some opportunity to obtain supplies would arise. This was the third night in a row they had been out searching. Neither had eaten for several days, other than a few solitary tasteless flat breads and both were starving. Peter trusted in his good luck whilst Wolfi trusted in his friend and master.

‘What's that?' Peter whispered. Wolfi looked up at him, barely visible.

Peter had been on the verge of giving up when he spotted dim lights in the distance. At night-time it was unusual to see any sort of lights other than the blue flash from the S-bahn trains. The blackout was so effective. Even the smallest glow of light could lead to a report or reprimand by the air raid wardens.

His fear, overcome by curiosity and extreme hunger, drew him towards the source. As he neared he could see that it was a large building set in its own grounds. They were in the Gatow district not far from the western side of Wannsee. As a rule he did not venture out of the woods. On this occasion necessity drove them forward. As he crept towards a fence he could just decipher a sign beneath a large swastika. ‘
Auslandshaus der Hitlerjugend
'. Peter's first instinct was to turn and run. He did not.

‘So this is where the Hitler Youth train,' he said very quietly. He had heard of this place. What little he knew did not reassure him.

From inside the building he could just make out the distant strains of the Nazi anthem, the Horst Wessel song. Horst Wessel, a hero of the Nazi party who had been killed in the struggle before the war and personally honoured by Hitler. The very nature of the occupants of this building chilled Peter's blood and enraged him at the same time. He had no choice in the matter.
He
could fast for another day, he simply could not bear the longing look in Wolfi's face when his usual mealtime came around. They moved along the fence to their right hoping to find a side entrance. After several hundred metres they were out of sight of the main door.

‘Sit boy! Wait here!' Peter said in a whisper and proceeded to climb over the fence. Fortunately it was not electrified. No doubt here in Berlin at the heart of the Reich they felt totally safe. As he looked behind him the only thing he could discern was the light reflected in Wolfi's eyes. His deep black fur camouflaged him perfectly.

Approaching silently over the frosty grass, Peter came to the edge of the building. He could see chinks of light from inside where the blackout curtains did not quite cover the whole window.

He hauled himself onto a drain pipe and peered carefully through the gap. Instinctively he recoiled in terror. He could see a long hall with two rows of connected refectory style tables running lengthways and with benches either side. At the front was a stage with a huge picture of Hitler suspended above, next to a slightly smaller flag of the Hitler Youth consisting of a swastika on a red background. On the stage in an array of uniforms were four males, facing the flags at an angle of forty-five degrees, right arm raised in the Nazi salute. Alongside each bench was standing a boy about his age in the uniform of the Hitler Youth. They stood feet perfectly together, straight-backed and arm raised towards the flags. They were now singing a different song, the Hitler Youth anthem. On the tables next to each boy was a plate and goblet. Most plates were empty, except for a few where he could make out the remnants of a ham hock. He had never eaten pork, and in spite of that, the sight of the hock bones made his mouth water.

Peter stepped off the drain pipe and looked around him. He could not enter the main building, he must try an outbuilding. Further to his right he could make out a brick construction with wooden, barn style doors. He crept across the lawn and tried the door. It was unlocked. Pressing through the gap in the doors, he looked around nervously.

‘Boom!' In the half-light Peter's foot kicked a large wooden tub with a wash board protruding from one side. The noise echoed in the roof spaces, seeming to announce his presence. Wincing, he remained completely still, the rapid beat of his heart seeming to mimic the noise of the wash tub. He waited. Thankfully no-one came. He looked cautiously about him. To his great disappointment it was a laundry block with not a scrap of food anywhere. He turned to leave.

‘Get off! Get off me!' Peter cried out. Someone had grabbed him around the neck and was strangling him. As he struggled the grip tightened. The more he fought the worse it seemed to get, until finally he realised the true nature of his assailant. He had walked into something hanging from a washing line. In anger he pulled it to one side. ‘What's this?' he wondered, his anger subsiding.

On closer inspection he could just see that it was the brown shirt of the Hitler Youth. Not only that, there were at least half a dozen shirts and the accompanying shorts and ties, with socks to match. On a table on the side were the dark leather belts and straps that they wore across their chest and around their waists. In a pile next to these were the badges presented to them by the SS and the accompanying armbands with the Hitler Youth emblem. These were clearly uniforms for new recruits.

Taking as little time as possible, Peter selected a shirt and shorts and gathered up two belts, an armband and the insignia badge, which he stuffed into his rucksack. The only thing missing was a pair of boots. He may not have found anything to eat, but with this uniform he might be able to venture further afield. Best of all, the uniform was clean and dry. In the few months living wild he had discovered that cleaning and drying clothes was virtually impossible in winter.

Next to a row of large porcelain sinks he spotted an almost whole bar of carbolic soap which he stashed in a trouser pocket. He carefully closed the barn door behind him and tiptoed across the lawn and back to Wolfi. He could just make out Wolfi's thick tail wagging in anticipation. Hopping over the fence, he patted Wolfi on the head. Wolfi sniffed the rucksack and turned with an air of disappointment. Still nothing to eat!

* * *

On the way back to their hideaway Peter was deep in thought about the possibilities of the uniform.

‘Wolfi! Wolfi! Come on boy!' Distracted by the uses he might make of his find, he had not noticed that Wolfi had vanished. Desperately he searched around in the darkness, without success, until his only course was to whistle.

‘Wolfi!' he called out, and whistled again. It was a chance he had to take. After a few minutes there was still no response. It was useless to search in this light and Peter knew from experience that retracing his steps would only confuse the scent for Wolfi. With a sigh he looked around him once more and began his journey again.