He turned to face both Wolfi and the boy. The boy was lying on his back, asleep. Peter lifted the blanket to cover him. Taking his arm and slipping it under the blanket, he noticed a red cloth triangle sewn onto his jacket and on the other side a six digit serial number.
‘I wonder what that is?’ Peter thought. He pulled his coat tighter around the neck and lay down next to the boy, with Wolfi squashed between them.
* * *
The next morning Peter was awakened by the break of dawn. Next to him Wolfi was asleep. The boy was not there.
‘He’s gone!’ Peter said to himself. Hurriedly he checked his provisions. Everything was as he had left it. He felt a moment’s shame for his unfounded suspicions. He walked from under the tree branches into the small clearing, where the boy stood looking at the sun.
‘The sun never seemed to shine in the camp,’ the boy said.
‘What camp? You mean a camp like this?’
‘No,’ the boy said sadly.
Peter said no more and proceeded to make breakfast, feeding the young guest more than he would ordinarily consume in a day. After they had eaten and were enjoying a cup of coffee, he tried to encourage him to tell his story.
At first the boy was reluctant. Peter tried to wean information from him, bit by bit. Noticing that the boy still followed Wolfi’s every move, Peter asked ‘Why are you so afraid of Wolfi? Have you been bitten in the past?’ The boy simply shook his head. After a pause he said, ‘They use dogs like him in the camp. They make them attack people for fun or when they do not work hard enough.’
On hearing this Peter persuaded the boy to stroke Wolfi’s ears.
Next he made his dog sit and then roll over dead as he had been taught. For his encore he rolled onto his back waiting for his tummy to be tickled. Clearly reassured, the boy began to tell his story.
Peter listened intently, scarcely believing what he was hearing. As each new horror was revealed, he fought back the tears, wondering if this was what Mama and Papa were suffering.
‘My name is Franz. I am fifteen years old. My father was an industrialist and a politician. He was very wealthy. When the Nazis seized power in 1933 he opposed them. He refused to allow his factory to be used for their ‘evil’ purposes as he described it. For years he fought with the authorities, always managing to politely yet firmly decline their demands. One evening the police came and arrested him for ‘undermining the resistance of the people’. He was taken to Prinz Albrecht Strasse, the Gestapo headquarters and kept in ‘protective custody’. My mother went to the station every day for a month, with an expensive lawyer. Each time they were told only that they were continuing their enquiries.
‘On one particular day my mother attended as usual and was told he was no longer there. They would not tell her where he was. After bribing one of the policeman the equivalent of three months wages, she found out that he had been taken to a camp in Oranienburg, north of Berlin, called ‘Sachsenhausen’. Nothing that the police did dissuaded my mother from seeking his release and undeterred she had gone to Sachsenhausen. She took me with her.
‘Yet again it was the same story. At the gates of the camp we were politely refused entry. The guards told us they would find out what they could. ‘Come back tomorrow,’ they said. The next day we arrived at the front gates and were met with the same response. Each day for several weeks we went to the front gates and each time we were sent away with no news. The guards became increasingly hostile in their attitude, demanding bribes in return for information. Determined to see my father, she just ignored their insults and paid the bribes.
‘After about three weeks of the same wearying routine, we finally met with a different response. A senior SS officer came to the front gates and looked us up and down. He asked my father’s name. Mother repeated it again. She could not hide the irritation in her voice. He asked her if we really wanted to come in and see him. She replied, ‘Of course, why did he think we were there?’ The guards on the gate smiled. They opened the gates and let us inside.
It was horrible. The people were like skeletons, men, women and children. We were taken to a wooden barrack where we were introduced to a jaundiced looking man in what we thought were pyjamas. His head was shaved. It was my father we had failed to recognise. In the few months of his incarceration he had already lost a lot of weight.’
At this point in his tale Franz had tears welling in his eyes, but stubbornly refused to cry. He continued his narration. Peter blocked as many of the details from his mind as thoughts that he simply could not bear.
‘We were allowed just fifteen minutes together, until he was taken away. When we got up to leave the SS officer stood in our way, asking where we were going. We had wanted to come inside, now we had to stay, he said. My mother was taken away shouting her protests all the time. I never saw her again. I was deloused and forced to wear this striped outfit, the one I am still wearing. At least I got to share a hut with my father.’
Franz went on to tell of the hard labour he endured, the cruelty of the guards and the starvation rations, mainly consisting of turnip soup and mouldy potatoes. If they were too slow in their work they were whipped or beaten with rifles. Sometimes an inmate was shot ‘as an example’.
‘On one work detail outside the camp,’ he continued, ‘two of the guards had gone off into the woods, leaving just one guard behind. Whilst they were gone my father whispered to me to sneak away and escape. I did not want to. I did not want to leave my father. I knew that the whole work party would be punished. But as a dutiful son I could not ignore the pleading in my father’s eyes and reluctantly I obeyed. The last words I heard father speak were to tell me that I should go to the Weiss family, to Uncle Willy and Aunt Berta. They would look after me.’
Franz paused. He stared at the ground for several minutes then continued. ‘I have been on the run for days, scavenging whatever food I can find. I hid on a freight train and arrived in the outskirts of Berlin. I was making my way to the Weiss family, though I do not know exactly where they live. Yesterday I ducked into the bushes to avoid some pedestrians and I found this camp.’
That was his story. There were some details missing, such as the significance of the red triangle and serial number on his jacket. Franz would tell him when he was ready. He put his arm around his guest and neither moved for a number of minutes.
‘We can look after each other and Wolfi can look after both of us,’ Peter said.
‘I would like that,’ Franz said smiling. Reaching out his hand he stroked Wolfi’s ears. Wolfi barked his agreement.
Franz’s story had taken several hours to tell and by now all three were hungry again. Normally Peter and Wolfi would have little for lunch, usually surviving on breakfast and a larger dinner. Franz’s tale of deprivation and hardship was still very much in his mind and Peter determined that here, at least for the next few weeks, he would not go hungry. Fifteen years old, Franz’s size and weight suggested he was much younger. Peter prepared a luxurious feast of meat and preserves followed by hot coffee for Franz and himself. Wolfi was to enjoy his now regular treat of caviar, supplemented with preserved offal. As Peter began opening the tin, Franz’s eyes bulged in wonderment.
‘You know caviar?’ Peter asked.
‘Of course, of course,’ Franz confirmed enthusiastically. ‘My father served it to important guests at many banquets.’
‘And you actually like it?’ Peter said, questioning the sanity of his visitor.
‘Oh yes. I love it. But it is so expensive I was seldom allowed any. Only on special occasions.’
Until this moment Peter had simply regarded these fishy eggs as a bizarre foreign food that came in impractically small tins. How expensive could it be? Franz, guessing what was in Peter’s thoughts, leaned over and whispered in his ear.
‘How much?’ Peter shrieked. ‘Wolfi is the most valuable dog in all Germany!’
For the first time in over a year, Peter and Franz laughed, really laughed. Wolfi stared at them both. He
was still waiting for his lunch.
Once they had regained their composure, Franz explained that whilst thin toast was important, champagne was the essential companion to caviar. In honour of his guest, Peter chilled a bottle of champagne and a tin of caviar to sample that evening. When the moment came he watched as Franz closed his eyes and spooned an indecent amount of the fish eggs into his mouth, followed closely by a swig of the champagne. Franz licked his lips in rapture. With this encouragement Peter followed suit. To Wolfi’s approval he spat the lot out.
Once more, in the space of one day, both boys laughed and laughed until their sides hurt. Any concerns Peter harboured about this unexpected extra mouth to feed were now long forgotten. Even though he had used almost three days’ rations in just one day, he and Wolfi had something much more precious: a new friend.
* * *
That first full day Franz spent with Peter and Wolfi had been occupied with Franz’s tale and caviar sampling in the evening. In the hours between, Peter had recounted his own story and his adventures since separation from his mother and father. Not wishing to embarrass himself in front of the younger boy, Peter struggled not to cry. Luckily, each time he felt that he was about to give in and weep, Franz appeared to look away, allowing him to gather his thoughts. Whenever Wolfi’s heroic deeds were mentioned, Franz looked in amazement at him and then patted Wolfi approvingly, saying ‘You are not like the dogs in the camp.’ When Peter had finished and was silent again, Franz simply put his hand on Peter’s, saying nothing.
After this moment of silence, Peter showed Franz the layout of his camp and the supplies that he had gathered. He told him the geography of their location and a few basic rules to ensure their safety. At the end of the friendly lecture, Peter removed his prized uniform from its hiding place. In spite having heard about it when Peter recounted his night time raid to the Hitler Youth centre, Franz was nonetheless stunned when he actually saw it. It was the genuine article and awe inspiring.
On seeing Franz’s reaction, Peter gestured to him to follow and taking him to the edge of the lake, he proudly showed him the Seawolf. Any doubts that Franz still retained, disappeared in an instant.
‘So it’s all true!’ Franz said. He was impressed. ‘The night time visits to the bomb site, the spying over the wall at the villa, the aircraft with its sunken treasure. So many adventures Peter!’
Franz had heeded his father’s parting words and he would obey them, eventually. For the moment he was not only content, he was positively enthusiastic to stay with Peter and Wolfi.
CHAPTER NINE
Within days of their first meeting the two boys had become close friends, united by their past suffering and common struggle. Franz’s initial fear of Wolfi had completely vanished. In the short time they had been together, he had become as fond of Wolfi, as Wolfi was of him. Indeed, when Franz thought Peter was not looking, he would often slip a morsel of his own share of food to Wolfi. Peter simply pretended not to notice.
Even though their provisions were now required to feed an extra mouth, neither Peter nor Wolfi bore any resentment. In little time at all, even though the rations were meagre, Franz started to regain some weight, so that his face was less sallow and his eyes less sunken in appearance. The times Peter would see Franz staring into space with a deep sadness in his eyes became thankfully less frequent.
Franz was not as skilled in trapping or cooking as Peter. It turned out he was a talented artist and wood carver. Borrowing Peter’s knife one day, he took a section of wood from an empty crate. It was about fifty centimetres long and fifteen centimetres wide. For two hours he hid from Peter’s gaze, whittling and carving the wood. By the time he had finished he had carved ‘Seawolf’ in perfect Gothic writing. After a further two hours he had cut each of the letters from the original piece of wood, so that they were now individual characters. Charred in the fire, they turned black and would be perfectly visible when affixed to the side of the boat.
On another day, when the weather was too poor to venture out, Franz carved a wooden spoon with a fork and knife to match. This was appreciated by both, as hitherto one had eaten with a spoon and the other a fork. Peter did not assist in any way at Franz’s request, he simply marvelled at the skill involved.
Of even greater use was the simple wooden trap that Franz fashioned from a crate, with some guidance from Peter. Peter’s own rope or wire snares were quite efficient except often the quarry could struggle free. Either that or they had been taken by someone else, something he had grown more concerned about lately. This latest invention, when properly sprung, would prevent escape. In return, he taught Franz the essential skill of how to start a fire with a lighter flint, dried moss and sedges. Franz was intelligent and a quick learner. His contribution was immense and greatly appreciated.
When Christmas Eve arrived they celebrated as if they had not a care in the world. Jew, gentile and canine shared a sumptuous meal and afterwards, to each other’s surprise, they exchanged gifts. Peter’s present from Franz was a walking stick carved from a hazel branch. On the top the handle was shaped to resemble a wolf or as Peter soon realised, Wolfi! There was even a leather strap to loop it over his hand. Nor did Franz forget Wolfi. His present was his own wooden bowl to drink from.
Peter was a little embarrassed when he handed over his Christmas offering. It was a tin of the caviar and a bottle of champagne. Franz was delighted. Just a few months ago he could not have imagined dining so well and with such excellent company. He only wished his parents could have shared the evening with him. Thanking Peter and Wolfi profusely, for in reality the sacrifice was Wolfi’s, he went to bed that evening happier than he had felt in a long while.
* * *
As the days became weeks, the nights became shorter and colder. Their success rate in hunting and fishing had dropped completely. Apart from a decent supply of coffee beans, champagne and cognac, there was little to eat. Peter had insisted on only turning to their larder when the hunt had been unsuccessful. This strategy had stretched their stocks for much longer than he ever thought possible, but now things had reached rock bottom. It was six weeks since Franz had first arrived in the Wolf’s Lair.
In that time Peter had not ventured into the city to scavenge bomb sites. It had not really been necessary. One of the attractions had been the chance to mingle with others, not necessarily speaking to anyone, enjoying the knowledge that he and Wolfi were not alone. Franz had satisfied this craving for human companionship. The knowledge of how Franz and his family had been treated, even as non-Jews, brought home the fear that he had previously managed to suppress.
Reluctantly and with some foreboding, Peter began to don his uniform. He struggled to button the shirt and the shorts were even worse. In spite of his sparse diet he had grown from a boy into a young man and the clothes no longer fitted. He had been aware of this problem more and more in recent weeks, as the boots he wore were much too tight and walking was becoming increasingly painful. He must find new boots soon. But how could he acquire them without the disguise?
Franz had watched as Peter had tried each piece of clothing and quickly guessed the truth. ‘I can look for food. Let me wear it,’ he begged.
‘No,’ came the single word answer, more harshly than intended. Peter would not enter into further discussion. It was not that he lacked faith in Franz, he simply could not bear the idea that anything should happen to him.
Instead they checked the traps once more and hauled out the fishing lines from the icy water. Nothing. That evening Peter made a thin soup of water and some of the sedges he hoped were edible, along with the few dried fungi that were in the larder. The resulting mixture was barely drinkable, though neither wished to show the other their disappointment. Wolfi was scarcely any more fortunate, only having a half-gnawed bone to chew on.
* * *
The next day Peter decided that regardless of the hazards, they would have to launch the boat. At least it would distract them from their hunger. There was a slight bree
ze, just about enough to sail. Franz was visibly excited at the prospect of their first excursion, hardly listening to Peter’s safety advice. With Franz in the only life jacket and Wolfi between them, they cast off.
It was a pleasant enough trip. As expected at this time of year and in this bitter weather there was no-one else on their part of the lake. Trailing a line of hooks with feathers knotted together as bait, they sailed the lake for almost an hour. By now they were both turning blue with cold. They had caught nothing. At least it had been a break from the camp.
Back in their den, the two boys sat pensively. To keep the cold at bay they had opened a bottle of cognac. At first the smell and taste were off-putting, although the warming sensation in their throats and chest made the effort worthwhile. After a long period of silence Franz said: ‘It is because of me that you two are starving. It is time for me to go.’
‘I will not allow that,’ Peter said.
‘I must obey what my father said,’ Franz replied firmly.
‘You don’t even know where they live, this Weiss family.’ Peter was adamant.
‘Then let me go into the city to scavenge. I can wear the uniform,’ Franz begged once more. The dialogue between the two boys went back and forward in this manner, until Peter gave in and agreed that Franz should go into the city.
‘Only if I go with you,’ Peter said. Franz knew from his tone that any further debate was useless.
And so that night the two boys, accompanied by Wolfi, crossed the woods and entered the blacked out city. They could have left Wolfi behind. Their attachment to him and his attachment to them was so strong, that neither wished to contemplate it. For two hours they nervously moved in convoy around the city, looking for suitable targets. As usual the threat of collision with others was always present. They found a row of bombed out houses with the stark warning sign ‘looters will be shot’. They spent an hour looking through the rubble with no success. It had already been picked over many times. Two other sites produced similar results. One yielded a tablecloth, but nothing to eat.
Berlin Wolf Page 10
