Berlin Wolf

by Mark Florida-James

  It was several weeks since the Professor had undergone his transformation. He was living in a small apartment about half an hour away by tram from Luisenstrasse. He was registered with the authorities in his new name and had received his own genuine ration cards. It transpired the owner of the original identity card had been recorded as dead and therefore when the Professor turned up to apply for new documents and accommodation, no-one queried his story that he had been pulled from the rubble of a building destroyed by Allied bombs. He had been concussed for some time, but was now much better, he had claimed. They even renewed his Party membership card. In view of his age and Party membership he was given priority status in the search for lodgings.

  The two boys set to work transforming their old den. Five hours later, and after much hard work, they stood back to admire the results of their labour. It was greatly improved with a larger underground shelter, an expanded larder and a new stove lined with bricks as well as a proper funnel for a chimney. Wolfi gave his seal of approval as he lay down inside the new shelter.

  ‘No boy. It’s not for us. Not this time,’ Peter said. Wolfi tilted his head to one side, curious to know who was to use the shelter.

  ‘I have one more thing to do,’ Peter said and walked off, Wolfi by his side as always.

  * * *

  After half an hour travelling in silence they came to a part of the woods neither had visited for some time. They left the path and walked a little way into the trees until they came upon a large oak tree. At the base was carved the word ‘Prokofiev’. It was the hollow where Peter had hidden on his very first night in the woods. Beneath the word Prokofiev was carved a long number:

  3 9 14 35 7 24 18 21 26 11 20 8 1 24 13 11 24 24 1

  Taking out his pocket knife Peter carved another number below the old one.

  7 18 1 15 25 11 20 22 24 1 11

  When he had finished he stood back. Franz scratched his head, looking bemused. ‘I know it’s some sort of code,’ Franz ventured, ‘but what it means and who it is for, I can’t work out.’

  ‘It’s quite simple,’ Peter replied. ‘I left a message under a flower pot at my house. When my parents return they hopefully will find it. It says ‘summer 1932’. My father and I camped at this spot in summer 1932. When they get here he will see the word ‘Prokofiev’. That will tell him that I have been here.’

  ‘Of course ‘Peter and the Wolf’, Prokofiev’s famous composition,’ Franz interrupted.

  ‘Yes, Wolfi is named after it,’ Peter said, pleased that Franz understood the meaning.

  ‘The word has another purpose too. It is a key to the code. It was a game we played, inventing codes and leaving messages for each other. Each letter of the alphabet is assigned a number from one to twenty-six, starting with ‘A’ at one. The first letter of the key word, ‘P’, is the sixteenth letter of the alphabet. The last letter ‘V’ is the twenty-second letter of the alphabet. The secret with this code is that the first letter of the key word is moved to the position of the last letter. So if we place ‘P’ where ‘V’ is and then number all the letters thereafter, we find that ‘P’ is twenty-two, ‘Q’ is twenty-three etc. and ‘A’ becomes the number seven, and so forth.’

  With this knowledge Franz began to crack the code, each time stumbling over certain letters. ‘I know it is an address, except some of the numbers are wrong,’ he complained.

  Peter laughed. ‘I should have told you another feature is that the very first number is random and is nonsense. It also tells you the position of another random, nonsense number that you should ignore. In the first line of numbers it is the three and the thiry-five.’

  Franz punched Peter playfully on the arm. ‘Now you tell me!’ he joked. With this new information he was able to work out that the two messages read ‘Charlottenburger Rue’ and ‘Luisen Rue’.

  ‘You can’t spell,’ Franz chastised his friend.

  ‘That was deliberate, it makes the code harder to break,’ Peter retorted, ‘and I have used the French for street for the same reason.’

  Satisfied with the explanation, Franz turned to leave and as he did so said to his good friend, ‘I hope your parents see it one day, I really do.’

  Before finally returning to the apartment the three friends went to the lakeside to check on the Seawolf, Peter’s beloved boat. They were overjoyed when it was still there and they promised each other that they would come back to use it soon. Pleased with the accomplishments of the day, the two boys and Wolfi made their way back to Luisenstrasse.

  The following day the first occupant of the newly constructed camp was in residence. They nicknamed him ‘Robin’. For security they had decided, where possible, not to use real names. The man was in his forties and very nervous. So nervous about his ‘Jewish appearance’ he had spent the last year concealed in a wardrobe, and looked after by friends. They had since been bombed out and he had been homeless again. Identity papers were no use to him as he was betrayed instantly by his constant nerves that made him shake uncontrollably.

  * * *

  Lotte read the letter to herself again. She had no need to do so. Its contents were firmly fixed in her mind and she was racking her brains as to what to do. At first she had been delighted on seeing the Swiss postmark and knew at once it could only be from Berta.

  Berta had learnt her lesson about being too explicit in her writing. As a result the contents were of the seemingly dull, everyday type. It was not all dull however.

  ‘So Kurt is returning to Berlin,’ Lotte said out loud. Only Wolfi was with her. ‘And he is to be given the great honour of attending a Napola School in recognition of his achievements in furthering the National Socialist ideals,’ she read from the letter.

  The Napola schools were for the most elite of Nazi children, the leaders of the future where the indoctrination exceeded anything ever imposed in the Hitler Youth. It appeared that the disclosure to Kurt of his Jewish origins had not harmed his prospects in any way, nor had it dampened his enthusiasm for the Nazi cause. From the elite school he would quickly enter the military to serve the Fatherland.

  Lotte had witnessed Kurt’s outright hatred towards Peter and Franz and his determination to catch them. His contempt for Berta had been all too evident. Berta who had done so much for him. It was little consolation to Lotte that Kurt did not know her name.

  Placing the letter to one side, she resolved that by the end of the week she would have come up with a plan of action. The doorbell interrupted her thoughts. It was the coded ring and so she knew it must be the Professor. He had proved a real asset. In spite of being at risk himself he happily acted as courier. In his new disguise he attracted a lot less attention than Peter or Franz.

  Soon the little Professor was inside the apartment. On the sofa sat a family of three: father, mother and twelve-year-old daughter. This was a problem as the remaining identity cards were for adult males only. Altering the sex as well as date of birth and names was too dangerous. Only the father could be given a new identity card. At least with new ration cards and money, he had some hope of feeding his family. In return the father, a skilled tailor would help with clothing repairs. So many of those in need had only the clothes they wore.

  * * *

  Whilst Lotte looked after the most recent guests, Peter and Franz were looking at the bathing beach at Lake Wannsee. Peter was holding the handlebars of his bicycle. They were close to the spot where he had hidden in the copse of trees with his mother and father and Wolfi, waiting for the arrival of the tugboat captain. Little had they known then that he was to betray them. The memory was painful and Peter tried hard to concentrate on the task at hand.

  ‘Look Franz,’ he said, pointing towards the bathing beach.

  Franz had already noted what he was pointing at. It was a mild day in late April, yet colder than previous days. In spite of this the hardier residents of Berlin were bathing in the lake. For some this was their only real means of washing. What had attracted the boys’ attention was the group of fo
ur sailors larking around at the edge of the water. None could have been much older than Peter or Franz.

  They were in bathing costumes and their uniforms were neatly folded at the edge of the water. They had not paid the admission to the official bathing area and as such their clothing was unguarded. Neither Franz nor Peter relished the idea of stealing their clothes. The uniforms would be invaluable and they could see no other option. They waited patiently until the four young men were further out into the depths of the lake, one swimming ahead of the other three.

  ‘Give me 200 marks,’ Peter said.

  Franz looked around him and took out a money belt hidden under his shirt, unfastened it and handed over the notes. He looked on as Peter reached down and picked up two stones. Each stone he wrapped in a 100 mark note.

  ‘I’ll see you at the other side of the lake, at our usual meeting point,’ Peter said, mounting the bicycle. He rode to the edge of the lake.

  Franz watched as he swooped down and gathered up one bundle and then a second bundle of clothing and dropped them into the basket on the front. He rode off as fast as he was able. Where each bundle had lain Peter deposited the banknotes, weighted with a stone in the middle.

  Just as Peter gathered up the second bundle one of the young sailors turned to face the shore and spotting the theft shouted, ‘Stop! Thief! He has stolen my uniform.’

  The crowd of about twenty people on the bathing beach turned to see the cause of the commotion. Luckily for Peter he was already cycling furiously and was out of range of even the fastest pursuer. Franz walked in the opposite direction to Peter’s flight.

  About fifteen minutes later Franz met up with his friend, well out of view of the bathers. Peter was holding two identity cards in his hand and some small change. In the other hand he had a black leather wallet. ‘We have to return these some how,’ Peter said, not even taking time to greet Franz.

  ‘Of course,’ Franz agreed.

  Both knew the sailors faced a severe penalty for losing their identity cards. They would be punished for the theft of their uniforms, yet the boys earnestly hoped it would not be so severe in light of the way it had happened.

  Franz walked back towards the bathing beach. The young sailors were talking to a policeman. Two of the sailors were in bathing trunks, their arms flapping in the air. Clearly it was their uniforms that Peter had taken.

  Franz approached the group surrounding the policeman. Not many months ago he would have been terrified, but after his success at the Gestapo headquarters his confidence had grown immensely.

  ‘Excuse me officer. I found these by the side of the path just round the corner. Someone must have dropped them.’ He held out the wallet and ID cards to the policeman.

  The policeman was about to examine them, when one of the sailors snatched the wallet and opened it. His face gave away the immense relief that he felt.

  Quickly the young sailors verified that the property was theirs. To avoid questions, Franz had turned and was about to go when a voice shouted: ‘He was with the boy on the bike, the thief. I saw them talking to each other.’

  The voice belonged to one of the other bathers, a middle-aged woman.

  ‘Is that true?‘ the policeman said.

  ‘Yes, but I was not with him. He stopped and asked me something about bathing in the lake. I did not really pay him any attention,’ Franz replied.

  The middle-aged bather was about to speak again. The policeman was mulling over Franz’s answer. Franz acted quickly to back up his story.

  ‘Look if I am with the thief, why would I bring back these items? Even the ID cards are valuable, let alone the money in the wallet. I would have to be a very stupid and an unusual thief to do that!’ he said indignantly.

  The policeman, the sailors and most of the other bathers nodded in agreement.

  ‘Now please may I go? I have important factory work to go to.’ Franz’s indignation had by now increased.

  ‘All right, you can go, just give me your name,’ the policeman said, the matter settled in his mind.

  Without waiting for the customary identity check, Franz had begun walking away and simply shouted back, ‘Franz, Franz Becker. Thank you constable.’

  The policeman scratched his head as he wondered whether he should follow him and insist on seeing his identity card, but by now the two sailors were demanding he find them some clothes.

  * * *

  Half an hour later Peter and Franz were at the den in the woods handing over supplies to ‘Robin’, at that time still the only inhabitant. Having demonstrated how to use the traps and a few other basic tasks, Peter and Franz travelled back to Luisenstrasse. They chose a longer route than usual, one that kept them a safe distance from the bathing beach.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Peter and Franz had barely spoken for almost half an hour. They were shivering and a little out of sorts. The weather was unseasonally cold for the time of year, as spring defied the approaching summer of 1943. The icy wind blowing through Berlin in the middle of the night penetrated their overcoats all too easily. The warming effect of Lotte’s coffee laced with cognac had long since gone. If only Wolfi had come with them. With his thick fur coat they would have been cosy and warm. This was not an occasion for Wolfi’s help, much though it would have been appreciated.

  Apart from the cold they were cramped, having spent an hour in a hollow on the side of the railway embankment. It was a black night with little visibility as the normal blackout curtain had once more shrouded the city. In the near distance the dim glow of Lehrter railway station could just be seen as the workmen operated in the minimum light necessary. Other than the light of the station the only other illumination was the blue flash or spark as trains arrived and departed.

  Many freight trains had come and gone. It was approaching four in the morning and no passengers had either arrived or left the station. The one train that they awaited was overdue and they were close to calling off their raid. The temptation was so much the greater with the knowledge that they were so close to Lotte’s apartment, just minutes away. This was to be their most audacious escapade yet. A train was due with a valuable cargo: not coal, nor oil, nor weapons, nor even foodstuffs. It was carrying paper and not just any old paper. This was the same cardboard-like paper used for official documents such as identity and ration cards.

  A few days ago the last of the ‘official papers’ had been distributed. It had been an extremely worthy gift, for the recipient was a former railway worker, who had worked at this very station. His job had been in the dispatch office, checking and counting consignments bound for destinations throughout the Reich or arriving at the station for distribution throughout Berlin.

  Shortly before he was due to be arrested for ‘anti-war sentiments’ and ‘sabotage’, he had happened to see a ‘special order’ about which he knew nothing. Taking a great risk he had opened the document to discover that a train was due to arrive a week later and its cargo was paper for printing. The train was to be heavily guarded by an army escort. Luckily the man had been tipped off about his imminent arrest and had disappeared just as the Gestapo appeared to take him away.

  Within a week of his disappearance he had come to the Professor’s attention. Though not a fleeing Jew, he still needed help and all had agreed, without dissent, that he should receive their assistance. And so it was that a few days later, Peter and Franz were freezing in a ditch at the side of the tracks, awaiting a train.

  ‘This is madness,’ Peter whispered.

  ‘Maybe it is, still we have to try. We need that paper,’ Franz whispered back.

  Peter knew he was right. With the correct paper they would no longer have to rely on altering stolen passes. They could print their own without regard to the sex or age of the recipient. It would save them a fortune and there would be no more dangerous liaisons at train stations.

  ‘At least tell me your plan again,’ Peter insisted.

  Franz’s plan was hardly that. They would await an opportunity to
sneak onto the train. If no chance arose they would return home empty handed.

  ‘Don’t worry. It will work. At least we know when the shifts change.’ Franz’s optimism was often infectious. Not on this occasion.

  They were about to concede defeat, when a locomotive approached the station. As soon as they saw it, they knew this had to be the one. As it slowed to enter the siding sheds they could just make out at least eight, possibly ten soldiers armed with machine guns and rifles.

  ‘The train is too well guarded. We’ll have to forget the whole thing.’ Peter was disappointed, but looked forward to the warmth of the apartment.

  Franz had other ideas. As soon as the convoy came to a standstill he began to creep across the tracks towards the rear of the train.

  ‘Franz! Franz! Come back!’ Peter said, as loudly as he dare. It was too late. He had to follow.

  In the darkness of the night they were able to reach the end of the train undetected. Some of the soldiers walked towards the platform to use the toilets or purchase a sludgy substitute coffee. As one soldier left his post he was relieved by a different soldier.

  Peter was about to drag Franz away when they noticed that the guard at the very back of the train had left and had not been replaced.

  ‘Now’s our chance Peter.’ Peter nodded.

  Moving alongside the rear wagon, Franz tried the lock on the sliding door. It was firmly shut and would not budge. With his pocket knife he attempted to pick the lock. Again it would not yield. He ducked under the compartment and tried to prize two floorboards apart. To Peter’s amazement a section of one of the boards came away and then another. The carriage had seen much more use of late than was normal and much less maintenance than was required. Fortunately the creak of the boards splintering was drowned out by the sound of men working all around them. There was now a gap about seventy centimetres wide. It was too small for a full-grown man, or even Peter to climb through, but Franz was smaller and in seconds he disappeared completely into the darkness.