Berlin Wolf (6 page)

Try as he might, he could not dispel the agonising thought of what he would do without his dog. More than an hour later, he crawled through the tunnel he had cut out of the copse and emerged into the centre of their den.

‘Wolfi! You're back! And what's that you have got?' Peter could just see Wolfi's outline in the dark. His thick tail was wagging even more vigorously than usual and in his mouth he gripped the limp body of a rabbit. They would eat that night after all.

For the next few days and nights, Peter and Wolfi stayed close to their hideaway. Secretly hoping that the uniform would not be missed, Peter was nonetheless quite aware of the German obsession for proper accounting. They might search the woods far and wide if they discovered that a theft had occurred. The fanatical youths would delight in the hunt, especially if they had any inkling of their quarry. It was too dangerous to appear in public dressed as a Hitler Youth just yet. Indeed for the time being he did not wish to venture far from the camp. Better to let the dust settle.

What was now evident was that he had to find other sources of food or they would starve. Their supply of wild game was irregular and unreliable. Even though he had never actually seen anyone else when hunting, he suspected there were others who had the same idea. The supply of meat in wartime was especially scarce and he may not be the only refugee in these vast woods. The rabbit would feed them for up to three, maybe even four days if he was careful. None of the animal was wasted with the less palatable innards roasted and then devoured by Wolfi. As far as Wolfi was concerned his master loved him very much, always letting him have the best parts of the animal. The carcass was boiled for many hours until it reduced into a stock which Peter would drink like soup.

Their den was quite comfortable, though Peter would often wear several layers of clothing at night to keep warm. After a while the clothes had started to smell and washing them in winter was impractical. To avoid suspicion they had to maintain the highest levels of cleanliness. Even though the shortages of war had forced many Berliners to wash both themselves and their clothing less often, more would be expected of a member of the Hitler Youth and his dog. This meant regularly brushing Wolfi's coat to avoid knotting. For Peter it was a case of scraping the mud off his boots and always being careful not to sit in the dirt so as to avoid muddying his clothes.

None of these tasks was objectionable and helped pass the time. For apart from the Nazis and the fight against cold and hunger, their greatest enemy was boredom. Wolfi was happy to lie next to Peter and sleep for long periods, awaiting their next adventure in the woods. The moments of inactivity for Peter were filled with both painful and happy memories, occasionally tinged with regret that he had separated from his family. Often he wondered where they were and what they were doing at that exact time. In his heart he kindled the desperate hope that they were safe, whilst in his head he could not expel the last images of them being captured.

* * *

Some four days having elapsed since his foray into the laundry block, Peter figured it was now safe to make his first appearance as a member of the Hitler Youth. He had carefully stored the uniform so as to avoid creasing. The belts, straps and insignias he polished with rabbit fur. His best synagogue boots were likewise buffed until they reflected the sunlight. Stripping to his underwear, he assembled the outfit one piece at a time, knotting the tie beneath his Adam's apple as the finishing touch. A flattened tin can served as a mirror. His first reaction was one of disgust and shame, the swastika armband reminding him of why they were here in the woods, eking out an existence. Apart from the fact that he was an escaped Jew in the uniform of the enemy, something else was not quite right.

‘It's the hair,' he said. Wolfi looked baffled, tipping his head to one side.

In the months in the woods, Peter's hair had grown until it now touched his shirt collar. No member of the Hitler Youth would ever appear like this. He took a razor blade from his rucksack and wedged one side into a piece of wood. With the wood end in his hand and with extreme care, he managed to trim the hair back from his collar. He could do nothing about the thickness. Instead he wet his hair and combed it backwards so that it stuck to his head. The desired effect was achieved. He had inherited his mother's blonde hair and blue eyes and looked every bit the poster version of Aryan youth. Finally, he cleaned his fingernails with his pocket knife and held his hands out to Wolfi.

‘What do you think Wolfi?' Wolfi barked his approval.

Before leaving their camp he brushed Wolfi's coat as best he could. As he did so the dog's metal identity tag glistened in the winter sunshine. The single word ‘Wolf' now adorned the metal disc. Peter had remembered the warning from the Major and with the skill and patience of an engraver he had smoothed away the inscription ‘Stern' and the address in Schillerstrasse. He had contemplated trying to carve a new address and surname, then abandoned it as each attempt looked more amateurish than the next.

This was one of the very few journeys they had made in daytime since they had been living in the woods. He was extremely nervous and could hear the sound of his own heavy breathing. He had brought Wolfi with him. Only the privileged few could afford to keep a large dog in wartime and this added to Peter's air of importance. Likewise, many bicycles having been requisitioned for the war effort, anyone so fortunate to own one must have powerful connections, especially a foreign bicycle. The uniform also provoked the desired response. Germans responded to authority and that usually meant someone in uniform or with an impressive title. Even caretakers had grandiose names. No-one stopped to question why Peter was not wearing an overcoat, normally obligatory at this time of year. One man even saluted as he cycled past.

* * *

Some thirty minutes later Peter came across his first prospect of success. He had left the environs of the lake and was in a residential suburb. There were pedestrians and the odd motor vehicle passing by, otherwise it was quiet. Most adults these days were either on war duty at the front, or on night-time patrols, or required in essential war work, sometimes next to the slave labourers in the many factories.

The object of Peter's interest however was a building in a side street that was almost completely flattened. One side wall was still partially erect and in the middle, a lone fireplace and chimney breast gave away the identity of the ruins as a former dwelling house. In front of the fireplace was a huge pile of rubble that was still smouldering, telling everyone that this was a casualty of the previous night's bombing. He knew that as a private dwelling it was unlikely that there would be any food under the rubble. Most ‘legitimate' residents in Berlin queued with their ration cards on an almost daily basis. This was not possible for Peter. New regulations stipulated that tins had to be opened by shopkeepers as they were sold in order to prevent hoarding. Hardly anyone save the elite was able to stockpile rations. For the majority of Berlin, as for Peter and Wolfi, each day was a struggle to survive.

Peter was not interested in the ruined house. What had caused him to stop quite abruptly was the adjoining building that rounded the corner of the street. This had a large advertising sign on the side that indicated it was a grocer's specialising in fruit, vegetables, meat and fish. Below the sign and largely obscured by the rubble, he could see a gap in the bricks, small enough that a grown man would not get through, but large enough for a boy his age. In front of the hole someone had placed a large sheet of wood. At the front of the shop he could see a row of people waiting patiently to enter.

It was approaching midday and he guessed that the shop would soon shut for lunch or shut completely as it had nothing else to sell. As there were restricted provisions many shops opened for limited periods only. He had a choice: either he continue his journey and return to this spot if nothing else presented itself or he could stay here and wait for the right moment. As he was some distance from his camp, he was already feeling uncomfortable and concluded that he would stay where he was.

‘Come on boy,' Peter whistled to his dog. Lifting his bicycle onto the rubble, he clambered over the ruins with Wolfi gingerly following him. As he had done with the kind Major, he would search for survivors, except this time it would be pretend only.

He looked at his watch and hoped that this charade would not have to last too long. He was aware of the great risk he was taking, as looters, whatever their background, were liable to be shot at the scene of their crime.

For half an hour he moved bricks from one spot to another. No-one disturbed him. In a built up area such as this looting in plain view was not suspected and the uniform deterred anyone from querying his motives.

‘Let's hope the owners don't return.' As he said this a dreadful thought came to him. The owners were probably somewhere under this mound of bricks and cement.

One useful item he found was a pair of scissors, slightly bent though working. He stored them in his satchel, taking care not to be observed.

At a few minutes after one o'clock, Peter descended from the ruins and walked to the front of the grocer's. The blinds were pulled down and the queue had dispersed. Upstairs he detected movement and assumed the shopkeepers were having their own midday meal. He walked back to the pile of rubble at the rear of the building, and chaining his bicycle to some railings, left Wolfi standing guard, his lead loosely knotted around the front wheel. He was reluctant to leave Wolfi. The piles of bricks had proved to be quite rough and uneven. With so many pieces of broken glass strewn amongst the rubble he would not risk cuts to Wolfi's pads.

Clambering over the rubble pile once more, Peter neared the gap in the bricks. Cautiously he pulled back the wooden sheet and peered inside. Visible from the top floors of certain buildings when at the front, on the street, here at the rear, there were fewer windows. With the bricks that he had earlier been moving around he had gradually increased the height of the pile. The result was that the temporary repair to the wall was only visible from close range. Once through the hole in the wall, he found himself in a storeroom.

‘Jackpot!' he said excitedly under his breath.

Wooden shelves stretched across each wall and from floor to ceiling. Most of the shelves were empty, save for one bearing tins of processed meat and fish. On the ground in small barrels were salt, vinegar and oil. He quickly removed two tins of meat and two tins of fish and hid them in his satchel. This was all he would take for now. He was uncomfortable stealing, for that was how he regarded it. He was desperate. To disguise the theft he rearranged the mound of tins, creating gaps at the back. Leaving by the same hole, he replaced the board and rushed back to Wolfi. As he rounded the corner he stopped dead in his tracks.

‘Damn!' He was about to pirouette on the spot. It was too late. The Wehrmacht officer leaning over Wolfi and examining his tag had spotted him. ‘I can't leave Wolfi,' Peter thought. He would have to brazen it out.

Approaching the officer in a confident manner, he clicked his heels together, raised his hand and arm in salute, shouting ‘Heil Hitler!'

‘Heil Hitler! Is this your dog?' the officer said. The enthusiasm and the sincerity of the Hitler salute convinced Peter that this officer was not at all like the Major. He should be particularly on guard. Wolfi was gyrating his body and wagging his tail rapidly in his normal fashion. There could be little doubt that Wolfi was his dog.

‘Yes,' Peter replied. ‘The bicycle is mine too.'

‘Wolf. A good name for a dog. You know that our Führer has a dog with the exact same name?'

‘Yes,' Peter responded, ‘that is why I gave him the name. To honour our Führer.'

‘Good. You also know that Adolf means ‘noble Wolf' and the Führer's command centre is called ‘Wolf's Lair?'

‘Of course,' Peter said with more confidence, ‘we are taught all of these things in the Hitler Youth.'

‘Good, good. With future soldiers like you, and Wolf of course, Germany cannot lose the war.' With this parting remark the officer saluted in the conventional style, hand raised to his temple, and left.

‘Phew! That was close.' Peter unchained the bicycle, mounted it and rode off with Wolfi, not looking back once.

* * *

Back at the camp, Peter changed from his uniform, ensuring he avoided dirtying it in any way. He unloaded his small bounty from his satchel and taking one of the tins of sardines, opened it. He ate half himself and gave the other half to Wolfi. The remaining three tins he stashed in his outdoor larder.

With his axe he split a medium sized log and using his knife spent the next hour carving a sign on the flat face of one half. He smiled as he showed it to Wolfi.

‘Welcome to the
Wolf's Lair
.' Wolfi barked.

* * *

That same day, in the dark, Peter rode back to the shop. It was after curfew and a bitterly cold evening. There were very few people out and about. As a precaution he had dressed in his uniform. Wolfi had been left at the camp as he could travel faster alone. He hated leaving Wolfi behind, but the close call with the officer earlier that day had settled the matter.

By using the various paths and bridleways in Grünewald, he was able to avoid the checkpoints that would mean certain detection, until he reached the point at which he had to leave the woods. If confronted he would have to cycle away as fast as he could.

He blessed his good fortune constantly for it was a dark night with no moonlight. With the strict enforcement of the blackout regulations, Berlin was in complete darkness and in reality he was in greater danger of colliding with pedestrians or other road users or even lampposts, than encountering a checkpoint. Helpfully the edge of the pavements, street corners, crossings and obstacles were marked with a stripe in luminous paint. Likewise red-filtered lights identified scaffolding or excavations in the ground. Some pedestrians marked their clothing with phosphorescent symbols such as horseshoes to avoid being struck. Nonetheless any journey at night in wartime Berlin was hazardous for all travellers, whether by cycle, on foot, in a private motor vehicle or on public transport. Peter cycled hard, concentrating all the time. His eyes were fixed ahead, searching in the tiny amount of rose-tinted light cast by the obligatory red handkerchief tied around his bicycle lamp.