Berlin Wolf (9 page)

As possibly one of their last trips that year he wanted to travel further afield than ever. He headed north from Wannsee into Havelsee, passing as he did the field centre for the Hitler Youth at Gatow. He kept as far from the shore as possible because even now the memory of his night time raid made him nervous.

As he neared the centre of Berlin the sides of the lake became more and more built up. Swinging the rudder to one side and telling Wolfi to move, he hauled on the sail and having tacked successfully, the boat was soon speeding in the opposite direction.

As the wind hit his face and the waves lapped along the side of the vessel, his thoughts drifted onto the sombre subject of his parents. How his mother would have enjoyed today. His father would have come along to be sociable. One of the few clear memories of his first sailing adventure, when he was just five years old, was how keen Papa had been to return to dry land. And even more keen to find excuses if Peter ever asked about their next boat trip.

‘Oh hell!' With the picture of his father clinging to the side of the boat still in his imagination, he had failed to notice the obstruction in the water ahead. The bow struck the unknown object and he fell to one side, jerking the tiller from his hand. As he hit the deck, Wolfi sprang to his feet and was sniffing to satisfy himself that everything was as it should be.

His instant fear was that he may have damaged the bow. He tied the tiller in position, loosened the sail, and fastening it around the mast, edged towards the front of the boat. As best as he could tell the bow of the boat appeared intact. Leaning over the side, he tried to see what had caused the collision.

A metal tail fin was just sticking out of the water by no more than thirty centimetres. Below the surface of the water he could see the black cross emblem of the Luftwaffe and a serial number.

‘It's a plane!' Peter was unusually excited. He and Papa were very interested in aviation.

He moored the boat to the piece of the tail fin visible above the water and tried to get a closer look. It was a smaller aircraft, not a bomber, not a fighter either. It appeared similar to the aircraft he had seen on newsreels in the days when he could freely go to the cinema. It was the type of plane that high ranking officials or dignitaries, or even film stars were seen climbing from at private airstrips.

The main body of the craft was angled into the water at about forty five degrees with the metal fuselage still attached. The wings were missing with only short stubs of plywood covering indicating where they had once been.

Usually planes that crash landed into the lake were retrieved by the authorities, keen to reuse instruments and materials and repatriate the dead war heroes. Or if it was an enemy plane it might give them vital secrets for future use in the war. Wannsee, in particular, despite its size, was not especially deep, dropping down to about nine metres at the deepest point. As a result most crashed planes could be salvaged quite easily. The day after heavy aerial battles in the area Peter would avoid the lake for that very reason. The previous night had been very peaceful and so, he concluded, this plane must be from an earlier battle. For some reason it had been missed by the salvagers.

He stripped off his outer clothing. ‘Stay there Wolfi,' he ordered, and dived into the clear water. It was cold and took his breath away.

By following the line of the fuselage he began to dive deeper into the lake. With each extra metre, the pressure on his ears intensified until he wondered whether he should give up his search. By pinching his nose and blowing gently the pressure was relieved. Once he had become accustomed to the extreme cold, he looked around for clues.

‘Siebel FH104
Hallore
,' he read. The name was in small lettering on the side of the fuselage. The last word was written in Gothic script. This was not a standard war plane. His first thoughts as to its usage were correct. He
had
seen this type of plane in a newsreel. In 1938 it had won a long-distance flying competition and in 1939 had flown 40,000 km around Africa. In spite of its heritage, few had been manufactured and so he surmised that this one had belonged to someone quite wealthy or important. He recalled how excited he and his father had been when they had heard of its achievements and had discussed the possibilities for future air travel. Now here it lay, broken and unwanted in Wannsee.

Peter came to the surface, his lungs screaming for air. He knew this type of plane was normally used to carry passengers. If that were the case he was anxious as to what he might find. The war had brought death to Berlin on an almost daily basis. The prospect of confronting it in the water was something he did not relish.

Bracing himself, he dived under the surface once more. Whatever his fears, he had to insure that there was nothing of practical use on board. Secretly he hoped he might find a radio set or a pair of binoculars. He was almost disappointed when he reached the cockpit. The single pilot's seat was empty.

‘He must have bailed out,' he thought. There was no sign of any fire. He wondered whether he had been shot down or crashed for other reasons. Many planes crashed without help from the air defences.

Coming back up for air, he passed the mid-section where the five passengers would normally sit. Instead of two rows of seats there was a number of wooden crates, all stamped with a black swastika, about twenty centimetres tall. He broke the surface, took one more deep breath and descended again, the last thing he saw being Wolfi's large face, peering anxiously into the water.

The door to the rear of the aircraft was ajar, where the hinges had been damaged. The pressure of the water was such that Peter had great difficulty in opening it. The door finally moved to one side and he swam deftly through the opening. Tugging at one of the crates, he managed to dislodge it by a few centimetres. There were loops of string on each end and by pulling on one he managed to drag the crate through the open door and then followed as it bobbed to the surface. Treading water, he passed the string handle on one end through a mooring ring and fastened it with a knot. He hoisted himself onto the side of the boat in a continuous athletic movement, then exhausted, wriggled over the side and onto the deck where Wolfi greeted him with excited licks to the face. Peter quickly put on his vest for warmth and then, untying the knot, he hauled the crate into the boat.

‘Let's see what we've got here,' he said aloud. Wolfi was sniffing the wooden box. With some difficulty Peter prised open the crate with his pen knife. There was straw inside. Rummaging around, his hand felt the familiar touch of cold glass.

‘Cheers!' he shouted, as he pulled out a bottle of champagne and held it up for Wolfi to admire. He pulled out another, then yet another and another. There were six bottles in total in the crate. Wolfi was unimpressed.

Peter took off his damp vest, and slid from the side of the boat into the water. It felt much colder this time. Diving again and again, he retrieved another nine crates. There were at least another six crates and he was now completely exhausted, cold and hungry. This was a valuable cargo and if the pilot had survived he was bound to search for it. He could not stay here for too long.

In spite of this concern, he forced himself to dive just one last time. Wolfi looked somewhat uncertain as Peter rose out of the water wearing a life jacket and with a gas mask held aloft in his hand. With the life jacket he would resemble an amateur sailor even more; the gas mask would be the final touch in his Hitler Youth disguise. Peter was thrilled.

He stowed as many of the crates in the small cabin as possible and covered the rest with the original canvas sail he had taken off the rigging. He dressed without drying himself off, and only when he had put on his hat and gloves did any warmth flow back into his body. Without stopping or detouring he sailed back to his regular mooring on the side of the lake.

Instead of carrying his haul straight back to camp, Peter decided to open each crate. ‘More champagne,' he said disappointed as he opened the first of the crates.

The next two crates were similarly disappointing. They contained cognac. He had sampled the odd glass of wine or champagne on special holidays, and like most children had wondered why adults were so keen on the taste. ‘Ah well, we can always cook with it,' he thought.

The other crates were more interesting. In one there were small tins of something labelled ‘caviar', forty all told. Peter had heard of it, though never tried it. He knew from the movies that it was something that was eaten with toast and champagne. Another crate had jars of preserved fruits in brandy and Armagnac. Gradually he began to fear that all the crates contained alcohol of some kind, or caviar. Then they struck gold.

‘Look Wolfi, meat!' Peter held aloft tins of paté and cured meats. Wolfi barked. Most things he liked came from tins. Peter was pleased to find that there were another three crates that contained meats of some sort, either dried or tinned.

As he began prising open the last of the wooden boxes he tried guessing what this one might hold.

‘Probably more wine,' he thought. As the last of the nails lifted out of the wood he looked inside hopefully. As with all the others there was a layer of straw on top. He pushed the straw to one side and felt around the box with his hands.

‘Coffee! It's Coffee!' he shrieked. It had been many months since he had tasted even the horrendous ersatz coffee. ‘And chocolates!' Wolfi looked at him, wondering what all the fuss was about.

It was not just slabs of ordinary chocolate. These were handmade chocolates from Bruges just like those Papa had brought back from a business trip. Eight boxes of chocolates and four large sacks of coffee beans. He filled his rucksack with the most valuable of the commodities and took them back to camp. The remainder, the bottles of champagne, the cognac and most of the caviar he replaced in the boxes, and nailing down the lids, hid them near the boat. No chocolates or coffee were left behind. One of the bottles of champagne he suspended in the water from the side of the boat, something he had seen done in a film.

That evening they dined like kings. Instead of their usual diet of fish or meat stew, man and dog enjoyed several courses. The first course was the caviar. They had no toast to accompany it and as the tins seemed very small Peter had selected two. With a spoon he scooped out a generous portion and placed it in his mouth. The caviar burst on his tongue releasing an overwhelmingly salty flavour and not much else.

‘Yuck!' The look on his face instantly told Wolfi that something was wrong. This was confirmed when Peter spat out the tiny black eggs. ‘Disgusting!' he exclaimed, looking at the tin for signs that it had been damaged. ‘Perhaps it needs the champagne and toast, Wolfi,' he joked.

For once Wolfi was oblivious to Peter. He had gobbled down the caviar on the ground and was leaning over with his tongue licking out the small tin.

‘Well, well. At least one of us likes it.' Peter took the tin away from Wolfi and scraped the remainder of the contents into his bowl. Within seconds it had disappeared and Wolfi sat down, eyeing up the other tin.

‘Okay, okay!' Peter proceeded to open the second tin. That disappeared more rapidly than the first.

The second course was savoured by both Wolfi and Peter, consisting of a tin of compressed meat with a wild berry jam. This was followed by some apricots in brandy. The final course comprised four of the delicious chocolates accompanied by fresh coffee. The simple task of grinding the beans on a stone and then brewing the coffee in his homemade percolator, brought immense pleasure. It was not that he had drunk much coffee in the past. It was the association with his family, particularly Papa who had often declared that ‘dinner without good coffee is a meal not a feast.'

‘Mama and Papa,' he toasted, as he drained the last mouthful of coffee from his cup and washed it down with a swig of the cognac as he had so often seen his father do.

* * *

The following day Peter returned to the wreck of the Siebel aircraft, this time early in the morning. He had worn his Hitler Youth outfit, just in case he was disturbed. He was not, and after twenty minutes of diving he had retrieved another four cases. Two he had been unable to budge as they were wedged in a damaged part of the plane. He resolved to try one last time.

‘Last two cases Wolfi,' Peter cried and dived into the icy cold water. His eyes were now accustomed to the light under the water and he soon found his way to the rear of the cockpit. He tugged as hard as he could on the rope handles. They did not budge. A combination of tiredness and cold had weakened him.

‘Better leave it,' he thought and started the swim to the surface. He was now almost completely out of breath as a result of his exertions. He pulled himself through the open door of the cockpit, kicking his legs at the same time. He was half way through the opening when he could move no more.

‘I'm stuck! I'm stuck!' Panic began to take hold. He knew he could not hold his breath much longer. He wriggled as hard as he could, aware of Wolfi staring into the water above him.

Desperately he reached behind to find the cause of his distress. His underpants were snagged on the door handle. A few more seconds passed and his wriggling ceased. His eyes began to close. His mouthful of air had gone and he knew he could not keep his lips closed any longer as the instinct to breathe would overcome him. His mind returned to the terrible day when he had almost drowned rescuing Wolfi from the River Spree. The traitorous Captain's face appeared and seemed to be laughing at him until the even more terrible vision of his parents swept the image away.

Though terrible, the sight of his parents was somehow comforting and he held on to the image as a permanent sleep began to overwhelm him.

`Uhhh!' he groaned, exhaling the last remnants of air from his lungs, as suddenly he lurched forward. He was freed! He shot out of the water, gasping for breath. His underpants were half-ripped and still on the door handle. Wolfi paced up and down the boat whining. Peter hung onto the side of the boat for several minutes. His breathing was heavy and noisy. He was glad to be alive, even if cold and naked.