The Dog in the Wood

by Monika Schröder

  “Fritz!” Mama called. “I want you to come with me.”

  They walked briskly over to the village pub. Instead of entering the main room where the men gathered to drink beer, they knocked on the door to the right. After a distant “Come in!” they entered a large room where the villagers had once celebrated weddings and holidays. Now it was used as an office for the representative of the Russian military administration and Johann Müller, the village’s appointed mayor. Mama approached a thin, bald man sitting behind the desk. “Guten Tag, Johann!”

  The man looked up from his papers and got up to shake hands with Fritz’s mother. “Hello, Gertrude! What brings you here? I’d heard that you were back in Sempow. How are you?”

  “I’m here to complain!” Mama said. “A Polish worker who lives and works with us on Clara’s farm has just been forced to help the Russians demolish the railroad lines.” She took a deep breath. “We need him on the farm. He was getting wood from the forest when a Russian soldier snatched him away.”

  “Gertrude, I’m sorry that you are so upset. But the Russians need all the help they can get, and so they ask for help from the able men and women in our village.”

  “But we need the man to help us. He was cutting firewood. If the Russians need to take our railroad tracks, why don’t they do it themselves?” Mama’s face was flushed with anger.

  “He’ll be back tonight, and once the work is finished, he’ll be able to help on your farm again.” The mayor’s voice grew more officious.

  Fritz wanted to pull Mama’s sleeve. She shouldn’t say any more. But before he could move, Mama continued. “What is this? Have we not been punished enough?” Mama’s voice reached a high pitch. “I lost my farm in Schwartz. Now I am trying to make ends meet with my mother. We are trying hard to do everything right. Isn’t that enough? Haven’t you socialists taken enough from me?” She gasped as if with her last words she had surprised herself. Fritz saw the mayor’s lips tighten into a straight line.

  “Gertrude, you had better watch what you say!”

  “Are you threatening me?” Mama took one step toward the mayor, who had gotten out of his chair. She focused her eyes on him, bending slightly forward. How could she be so brave? She could get arrested. Fritz was clenching his hands into tight fists.

  “All I’m saying, Gertrude, is that you should be careful. We don’t need a troublemaker in Sempow!”

  Mama let the last comment echo unanswered. She took Fritz by the hand and pulled him out of the room.

  “Mama! You’re hurting me!” Mama was still pulling his arm when they were back on the sidewalk.

  She slowed down and turned to him, looking puzzled, as if she had momentarily forgotten that she was with Fritz. “Sorry!” She let go of his hand. “I’m just so upset.” She took a deep breath and exhaled loudly.

  When they entered the house, Lech’s jacket was hanging on the wardrobe in the hallway. “He’s back!” Mama burst out, and she ran into the living room.

  25

  They came during lunch.

  The door opened abruptly, and a tall man in a dark green uniform entered the room. He was holding a rifle. Another armed man followed.

  “Are you Gertrude Friedrich?” The tall man held his rifle toward Mama.

  “Yes,” she answered. “What do you want?”

  “We have been informed that you are hiding weapons illegally,” the man continued. “You are hereby arrested. The Military Government Decree forbids civilians the possession of weapons.” Fritz stared at the man, “hereby arrested” echoing in his head.

  “But we don’t own any weapons,” Mama answered, her voice trembling.

  “There’re no weapons in my house,” Oma Clara interrupted. She got up and stood now between Mama and the man with the rifle. “My daughter was evicted from her farm in Schwartz. She lost her husband in the war. She and her children are helping me keep up the farm. You cannot arrest her.”

  “You have to come with us.” The tall man nudged Oma Clara aside with his rifle and gestured toward Mama.

  “No!” Fritz cried out.

  “We have no weapons, comrade.” Lech had gotten up. The tall man pushed Mama toward the door. Lech stepped ahead, grabbed the barrel of the rifle, and pointed it toward the floor. “You cannot take her, comrade! She has two children!” he insisted. “And she hasn’t done anything wrong.”

  “Who are you?” the second man stepped toward Lech, lifting his rifle.

  “This is Lech. He is a friend of ours. He helps us with the work,” Mama explained hastily, stretching her right hand out in front of the man, trying to protect Lech.

  The man looked at Lech skeptically. Picking up on Lech’s Polish accent, he said, “Why don’t you go back home to Poland? Do you have something to be afraid of there?”

  “I like it here. These are good people. They can use all the help they can get. They pay me well for my work,” Lech said. Fritz felt cold. The taller man nudged Mama closer toward the door. Lech tried to follow, but the second man swung the stock of his rifle and struck Lech with its butt on the side of his head. Lech fell, and Mama screamed. Oma Clara buried her face in her hands. Irmi gasped. Fritz waited for a shot to split the air. For a moment they all seemed frozen as in a painting.

  Then everything happened quickly. The two men grabbed Mama by her arms and pulled her outside. “Lech!” Fritz heard his own voice as though echoing in a barrel. Lech tried to get up just as the two men returned. They grabbed Lech and pulled him outside.

  Fritz forced his legs into motion and ran outside. Mama was hunched down in the back of the truck, her hands cuffed to the rack of the truck. The two men snapped handcuffs around Lech’s wrists and shoved him into the back of the truck as well. Fritz stared at Mama, trying to hold her with his glance. Just as he screamed her name, the vowels sounding like the yelp of an animal in pain, a tarp came down, covering the last glimpse he had of Mama and Lech. The engine howled, and the truck drove off.

  Fritz stood on the sidewalk watching the truck disappear. Oma Clara shook him out of his trance. “Come inside, boy!” She put her arm around his shoulders and moved him gently toward the house.

  Irmi still sat in the kitchen, her eyes red and her face swollen from crying. “Where will they take them?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Oma Clara answered. She went to the window and stared out into the yard. “It’s all a big misunderstanding.”

  “But we need to tell the police that it was a mistake.” Irmi pleaded, wiping her face with the kitchen towel. “Can’t you ask someone?”

  “I’m going to the mayor’s office and ask.” Oma Clara took her cardigan from the back of the kitchen chair. “He is friends with the Russian military administration and might know something.” Oma Clara walked toward the kitchen door.

  “I think we should come with you,” Irmi suddenly blurted out. Fear quivered in her voice. Oma Clara hesitated for a moment, then said, “Get your jackets!”

  26

  The three of them walked quickly to the mayor’s office. Fritz had to take long strides to keep up. He needed to wake up from this nightmare. A mistake had been made, and soon it all would be resolved. They briskly walked over to the mayor’s office, where only a week before he had been with Mama. Oma Clara opened the door without knocking and stormed into the room.

  “My daughter has just been arrested by the military police, together with a Polish worker who lives on my farm. It is a mistake, and I would like to know where she is now.” Oma Clara stopped in front of the mayor’s desk. The startled man did not have time for a formal greeting. He stood up and folded his hands in front of his chest. She had to look up to meet the mayor’s eyes.

  “I know, Clara.” Johann Müller focused his eyes on a spot somewhere behind Oma Clara on the other side of the room. “We had received information that she had hidden weapons. Therefore, we—”

>   “What do you mean? Who told you that?” Oma Clara’s voice grew louder.

  “I cannot disclose the sources,” the mayor said, still averting his eyes from Oma Clara. “We have to follow orders. It’s a crime to own weapons, and whoever breaks the Soviet military regulations has to live with the consequences.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Oma Clara was exasperated. “Follow orders? Breaking the Soviet regulations? You know me. We went to school together. My daughter had to leave her farm in Schwartz, and she and her two children live with me now.”

  Oma Clara motioned toward Fritz and Irmi. “We don’t have any weapons. I handed over the hunting gun I used to own when the Russian demanded it right after May eighth.” She took a deep breath and shook her head. “Who told you a lie like this? Why? Haven’t we suffered enough through the war? And how can people be snatched away without any proof?”

  A man in a Russian uniform approached her from a corner of the room. “Your daughter is in our custody,” he said in German, with a heavy accent. “She has committed a crime, and she will be held responsible for it.”

  “This is crazy.” Oma Clara shook her head. “Where are they? Can we visit them?”

  “No!” the man said firmly. “And you must leave now.”

  Oma Clara glared at the mayor, who just shrugged his shoulders. Then she turned to Fritz and Irmi, her face gray, older. “Let’s go home,” she said quietly.

  Back on the sidewalk Irmi searched for Fritz’s hand. As her fingers joined his, Fritz did not pull back.

  27

  Somehow they managed to have dinner. Oma Clara said something about how food kept body and soul together, but Fritz couldn’t eat and mostly just stared at his plate. No one spoke. Finally, Oma Clara got up and heated water for the dishes. Fritz wanted to bang his fist on the table or break a plate. The ticking of the clock in the corner echoed in his ears. He couldn’t sit still any longer.

  When the table was cleared, he ran outside. A stack of firewood waited to be split in the barn. Fritz picked up the ax, set a log onto the block, and swung the ax, letting it crash down, splitting the log into two halves. He picked up the pieces and stacked them along the wall. He placed the next log on the splitting block and lifted the ax. Even though it was cold in the unheated barn, he soon began to sweat. After each swing of the ax he replayed in his mind how the men had grabbed Mama, how Lech had tried to protect her. When his ax came down and the wood cracked in two, Fritz heard again the sound of the man hitting Lech. He remembered the cold fear he felt, waiting for someone to get shot. Then he saw again the last glimpse he had of Mama before the tarpaulin was thrown over the back of the truck. He replayed these images over and over again. They accompanied the rhythm of his work.

  The feeling of loss clenched him and would not let go. Another log split into two. Fritz tried to imagine where Mama was now, but he had no picture for the place she could be. Maybe they were close and would come back soon? Oma Clara said they probably had been taken to a military police station by the Russians. But what did she know? She should go back and ask more questions. When would he see them again?

  The sound of splitting wood lessened the pressure inside. He didn’t want the pile of logs to grow smaller.

  28

  Fritz hated how Oma Clara made helpless attempts to cheer them up. What could help? He felt numb, and all he could think of was the last glimpse of Mama. But the next morning Oma Clara was all business again. She sent Irmi out to milk the cows.

  “What are you going to do?” Fritz asked.

  “What do you mean?” Oma Clara collected the dishes.

  “What are we going to do to get Mama and Lech back?”

  “There is nothing else we can do right now.” Oma Clara looked at Fritz. “It has happened to other people, too.” She turned toward him, leaning with her back against the counter.

  “What has happened to them?”

  “They were taken away by the military police under a false accusation. That’s all we know.”

  “And where are they now?”

  “The Russians have them.” She looked down on the kitchen floor. “And they might have put them in prison.”

  “In prison?” The thought of Mama behind bars cut through him. “But she is innocent,” he said, his own voice sounding thin and helpless.

  “It makes no difference.”

  “You only asked the mayor.”

  “The mayor is the only one we can ask.” She sighed. “No one can battle the Russians.”

  “You cannot be sure! We’ve got to try someone else!”

  “Fritz!” Oma Clara looked at him sternly. “I know this is painful for you. But we can’t do anything else. We need to wait for the misunderstanding to be cleared up. Then they’ll come back. In the meantime, we have to continue our lives.”

  “It’s your fault that they’re not back!” he screamed and jumped up, the chair screeching over the floor. “You could have asked more people or found out where the prison is.”

  Oma Clara shook her head. “My boy,” she said, “they don’t want us to know what they do with their prisoners. I wish I could explain this to you.”

  “You’re defending them!” He beat the kitchen table with his fist.

  “No, I am not defending them. I’m trying to explain to you that this is all we can do.”

  “It’s your fault!” he yelled. “You didn’t do enough! You didn’t show them that there were no weapons! You could have gotten them back!” The words shot out of him in a hot stream, his face burning.

  Oma Clara looked at him, concerned.

  “It’s all your fault!” he screamed, his body melting. “I hate you!”

  “Fritz! My poor boy!” She tried to pull him closer, but he backed away.

  “I hate you!”

  “Fritz!” Her voice was stern now. “Look at me, Fritz!” Her hand reached for his chin, but he shoved her away. Oma Clara clutched his upper arms.

  “Fritz!” She shook him.

  Wheels of red and black spun before his eyes. He kicked against her shin. She stepped aside, and he kicked the air. She slapped him. “Fritz, come to your senses!”

  The hot stream froze. It was quiet in the kitchen. He looked at her. She was crying.

  “Come here, boy! I am sorry!” She opened her arms for an embrace.

  “Don’t touch me!” He pulled away and stomped into the cold hallway. When he reached his bedroom, he locked the door and crawled under the heavy down cover, and wished Oma Clara would just die.

  29

  I have to find Mama and Lech. I have to find Mama and Lech. I have to find Mama and Lech. The words spun through his mind all day.

  The next day at lunch Oma Clara made another attempt to get him to talk. “Fritz, I know you feel a lot of pain,” she said. “You are aching so badly.” He didn’t need her to tell him how he felt. He remained silent. Fritz listened to Oma Clara but would not speak to her. She asked him to sort the last potatoes. He sorted them mechanically, thinking about Mama and Lech. She asked him to clean the kale. He washed the leaves in ice cold water, his fingers bloodless and numb, thinking about what he could do to find them. He wished it was spring or summer, when there would be many more farm chores. Now, in the darkest, coldest part of winter they only had to tend to the few animals left, but no fieldwork could be done. He longed for the harvesttime, the bundling of hay. Even weeding the beet patch, a once dreaded chore, seemed better than sitting around the house.

  Icy hail rattled down all day and forced him to remain inside. The large tile oven that was built into the connecting wall heated only the kitchen and the living room. It was too cold in the unheated bedroom, and he had to be in the same room with Oma Clara and Irmi for most of the day. Now, after a silent dinner, she had told them to dress in boots and warm jackets to help with the slaughter of a pig.

  “
How dare she do this?” Fritz handed Irmi her boots and sat down on the bench to pull on his own.

  “Dare to ask you to help or dare to slaughter a pig illegally?” Irmi steadied herself against the door frame as she put her foot into a boot. “She needs our help since she can’t call the butcher or anyone else. I hope she doesn’t get caught.”

  “How will she kill the pig without everyone in the neighborhood hearing that awful squeal?”

  “I don’t know.” Irmi shrugged. “But I am sure she has it all planned out. The hail will muffle the sound and help to wash out all the blood.” Irmi held the door open for Fritz. “We need to eat. Meat will help us to get through the winter.”

  Oma Clara had emptied one of the back stalls in the stable and piled up several bales of hay. Behind the wall of hay she had collected all the tools she would need and buckets of water.

  They had slaughtered pigs in Schwartz every winter. After the first frost, when the meat could be cured and stored in the cold, Grandpa Karl had called the butcher, who would arrive in a pony cart with his tools. He would kill the animal, examine the meat for parasites, and cut the pig expertly into the parts needed for processing. Oma Lou, Mama, and Irmi had boiled some of the meat or made sausage. Fritz had been allowed to watch, and afterward he had helped to scrape the hair off the dead animal skins. That was all Mama would let him do. On such evenings they usually had a feast of meat and sauerkraut and potatoes.

  The pig Oma Clara had hidden was small. She had tied its snout with twine to muffle its squeal. But when Oma Clara cut the pig’s throat after placing a large pot under the spot of the wound, it still let out a shrill squeal. The bright arterial blood pumped out, and the pig grew silent. When the red stream turned thin and finally ceased flowing, she handed Fritz the pot. “Stir this so it doesn’t jell!” Fritz stood for a moment with the pot in both hands. He didn’t know if he was nauseous from the smell, the sight of his grandma gutting the pig, or the assignment to stir the blood.