Fritz looked at the red engine and tried to think of a question he could ask. “What’s this?”
“That’s a photo of me and my dad.” Konrad held up a black-and-white photograph of a younger Konrad standing beside a handsome man in a suit who was embracing Konrad with his right arm. The man’s hand, resting on Konrad’s shoulder, was delicate for a man’s hand. Fritz couldn’t remember his own father’s hands.
“He looks very nice,” Fritz said.
“He is,” Konrad answered, looking down. ”When he comes back, he can work for the Reichsbahn again. My mother says he will find work anywhere the trains go. We can move to another city when we are back together.”
“Where is your dad?” Fritz asked.
“We don’t know exactly. The Red Cross is searching its lists for his name. He must be either a prisoner of war, or he is injured in a hospital. I am sure we will find out more soon.” Konrad sounded optimistic, but if his dad hadn’t returned from the war by now, he might be dead or starving in a prison camp. Fritz knew how terrible it felt to miss a parent.
“Do you have a letter from your dad?”
“No, but I am sure he soon will write.” Konrad nodded as if to confirm his optimism to himself. “What about your dad? You said you live with your grandmother. And where is your mother?” Konrad asked.
Fritz took a breath to tell Konrad his story.
34
“And then they closed the tarp, and the truck left. That’s the last time I saw her,” Fritz ended.
“Do you know where she is?” Konrad asked.
“No. We don’t know where she is,” Fritz replied. “My grandmother asked the mayor, but he had no information.”
“But if you didn’t have any weapons, it should come out soon that it was a mistake,” Konrad said.
“That’s what I thought, too. But other people have been arrested as well without any evidence. My sister heard that it happened to the baker in Revekow and to the woman who operated the laundry press.”
Konrad wrinkled his forehead, as if he were thinking about a really hard question.
“But if she was taken to a prison, wouldn’t there have been a trial first?” Konrad reasoned.
Fritz could not answer. It became too painful to talk about it. He was caught up in the image of Mama in a prison dress, her head shaved bald and her eyes large dark-circled caves. He swallowed.
“I don’t know,” Fritz said quietly. “I wish I could do something to find out where they are. The mayor will be no help!” He didn’t want to tell Konrad about his attempt to talk to the mayor. “My grandmother says we just have to wait. That’s what adults always say. First we waited for the Russians. When peace came, things would be better, they said. But everything only got worse. We had to leave our farm, and then they took my mother!” Fritz felt hot. He looked at Konrad, reading his face.
“But the Russians in Nirow might know something. That’s where they have their headquarters. You could go there,” Konrad said.
“That would be dangerous,” Fritz said. “And how would I get there anyway?”
“I saw the post bus passing through the village today. I’m sure that the mail comes from the city,” Konrad said. “You could take a ride with the post bus and then come back by foot.”
“That’s a very long walk,” Fritz said. “I wouldn’t make it in one day.”
“How about a bicycle?” Konrad suggested. “It would be cold, but as long as it doesn’t snow, you could get there by bicycle.”
“Do you have a bicycle?”
“The blacksmith has one. It’s standing in his shop, and he rarely ever uses it. Since he repaired his motorcycle, he drives that whenever he has gasoline,” Konrad said. “He lets me use his bicycle. I’m sure if I ask him I could get it for a day.”
Fritz wondered if Konrad really believed that he could ride the bicycle to Nirow. Or was Konrad trying to talk him into something?
“Maybe I could go on Friday. Then I would miss school for a day.” Fritz thought out loud. But he wouldn’t commit yet. He needed more time to think.
“I could cover at school for you. I could tell Fräulein Streblow you are not well and take your homework. Then she won’t contact your grandmother,” Konrad said. “You should do it.”
The plan was very tempting. “I’ll think about it,” Fritz said.
On his way home Fritz stopped at the pond. He put his backpack down and dug his cold hands deep in the pockets of his jacket. The gray, low winter sky reflected on the still water like a dark blanket. Lech had taught him how to skip a stone over water at the pond in Schwartz. Fritz imagined himself pedaling all the way to Nirow. Once he arrived, he would have to find the Russian headquarters and muster the courage to go in and demand to see someone with power. Tomorrow he would need to tell Konrad if he wanted to go or not. He felt that familiar ball of fear in the pit of his stomach, but Konrad had encouraged him. He thought Fritz could find out about Mama and Lech in Nirow. Fritz picked up a flat stone and skimmed it across the top of the pond. Lech used to say that if the stone bounced more than three times he could make a wish. The stone bounced four times, leaving a trail of ripples on the water’s surface. Fritz closed his eyes and made his wish: Let me find Mama and Lech in Nirow.
35
Konrad delivered the bicycle to the meeting spot behind the church the following Friday. It was still dark outside, and the clear night had chilled the air close to the freezing point. A sliver of the moon gave off yellow light. “I’ll make sure nothing will happen to the bike,” Fritz said, wrapping his scarf tighter around his neck. Even with two sweaters under his jacket he was cold. He would need to pedal fast to keep warm.
Fritz entered the city limits at dawn. It looked as if little progress had been made since the end of the war. Most buildings stood in ruins, with their fronts bombed away. Groups of women, wrapped in what looked like several layers of clothes, stood on piles of rubble hammering stones or throwing each other pieces of debris. White clouds of breath billowed from their mouths. Their colored headscarves dotted the gray surroundings. Fritz stopped to ask one of them for directions to the Russian headquarters.
“Oh, the Ivan stays in the old residence,” she said. “You need to cross the town square and turn right behind the city hall—or what’s left of it.”
The residence was a castlelike structure built in the last century by one of the county’s dukes. Bullet holes speckled the walls, one wing of the building was burnt out, the roof had caved in, and scorched beams stuck out like pointy, rotten teeth. Fritz took a deep breath and got off his bike to push it closer to the entrance. I can do it, I can do it, he told himself. He had come this far. Now he would get inside.
“Stoj!” a Russian guard stepped into his way. The man asked him something in Russian. Fritz shook his head to signal that he didn’t understand. He smiled and pointed to the building. “I need to speak to the commander.” The man laughed, but not in a friendly way. It was more like the kind of laugh Mama would give when someone offered her a very low price for milk. The man walked once around the bicycle before he let out an approving sound with his tongue, pointing his weapon to the bicycle. Fritz’s heart sank. If the guard took away the bicycle, it would cause great trouble for Konrad. It also would be very difficult to get home on time. Fritz couldn’t let the plan fail already. He pulled the bike closer and said with as much confidence as he could muster, “I need to see the commander!” Fritz held the man’s gaze, forcing himself to stand straight. The guard broke into deep, loud laughter, this time showing amusement. He nodded at Fritz, patted him on the shoulder, and motioned him to go.
With a sigh of relief Fritz pushed the bicycle onward. He leaned the bicycle against a chestnut tree in the yard and entered the building. Inside, he stepped into a large vestibule. The tile floor was broken, and several picture frames enclosed empty spaces on the wall. Fritz walked up the l
avish staircase. On the first floor a man stepped out of a door and asked him in heavily accented German where he was going.
“I’m looking for the commander,” Fritz said.
“What do you want from the commander?” the man inquired. His brows pulled together into a hostile frown.
“I need to ask him something important.” Once again Fritz tried to look more confident than he felt. On the man’s shoulder pads twinkled two golden stars. A silver medal attached to a short striped band of ribbon was fastened to his shirt and swayed on his chest with every word. “Out!” The Russian reached for Fritz’s shoulders, turned him around, and pushed him in the direction of the staircase, adding a stream of angry Russian words. Fritz stiffened his body and stood his ground as the Russian’s fingers pressed into his shoulders.
“No!” he screamed. “I need to see the commander! Please!” The words came out louder than he intended, and the high ceilings gave them even more volume.
Suddenly a door opened, and another soldier stepped into the hallway. He looked at the scene and shot a disapproving gaze at the man who had pushed Fritz. Fritz recognized him immediately. “Mikhail!” Fritz called. The man took a moment to focus his eyes on him. “Fritz?” he said. Then he asked in German with his heavy Russian accent, “What are you doing here?”
It was Mikhail, the Russian who had lived with them in the house in Schwartz, the man who had protected Irmi from the assault of his drunken colleague. Mikhail came closer and turned to the other Russian, uttering some stern words in Russian. The man left. Fritz felt the fear drop from his back.
“Come inside.” Mikhail motioned him to enter. The room was a huge octagon, topped with a high ceiling decorated with stucco ornaments. A dark red velvet sofa stood in front of an ornamented balcony door. Fritz wondered where the duke and his family, who used to live on this estate, were now. Mikhail motioned him to take a seat.
“So what’s the matter?” Mikhail made himself comfortable in the wing-back chair across from Fritz. His German had improved since he had lived in Schwartz. “Why were you screaming outside in the hall? Do you live in Nirow now?”
Fritz looked into the Russian’s open face and began to tell how they had to leave Schwartz and about the day they took Mama and Lech.
36
“. . . and the military police officer said they were in their custody,” Fritz finished and took a deep breath. “Can you help me find my mother?”
Mikhail fished a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. “I’m sorry to hear about your mother. If she had no gun, she will be free soon. If this was a misunderstanding, it will be cleared up quickly. The Russian system is just,” he said tartly. The tone in his voice had changed. Suddenly, he seemed uncomfortable. He lit a cigarette, and they both followed the smoke with their eyes.
“You are the commander,” Fritz said, his voice thin. “You must know where they bring prisoners.”
“Yes, but I have nothing to do with criminal cases.”
“But it’s not a criminal case! It’s a misunderstanding, and I need your help to clear it up!”
“No, Fritz. I can’t help!”
“But you have to!” Fritz had leaned forward. On the desk he saw the photograph of Mikhail’s children he had shown him the day Mikhail had moved in with them in Schwartz. “What if it was your children who didn’t know where their mother was? Wouldn’t you help them?”
A shadow moved over Mikhail’s handsome face. He looked down at his cigarette. Fritz saw his Adam’s apple slowly bob up and down as he swallowed. Fritz waited for an answer, but Mikhail only checked his watch. “I have to go. There’s a car waiting to take me to a meeting in town.” He stood to leave. “You need to wait. If they haven’t done anything wrong, there won’t be any reason to hold them. Just wait, and it will resolve itself.”
“No, don’t tell me ‘just wait’! I don’t want to wait any longer. I waited for a long time, and things got worse. You are the only person I know who could help us!” Fritz didn’t like the sound of his voice. “You lived with us! You know Mama and Lech! We haven’t done anything wrong! Why are you doing this to us?” His last words came out sounding as if his voice needed oil.
Mikhail bit his lower lip. “We do collect some prisoners in the basement of the next building. But they never stay long before they are transported to real prisons,” Mikhail said in a somber tone. He walked over to the phone, picked up the receiver, and dialed. Fritz touched his cheek with the back of his hand. It felt hot. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself.
“No,” Mikhail said after her finished the phone call. “They’re not here. That’s all I can do.”
Fritz got up to leave. He had a new plan.
37
Mikhail had said that they kept prisoners in the basement. Fritz walked along the side of the building, keeping his back close to the wall. He peeked around the corner. He could see the back entrance, but a guard stood leaning against the wall beside it. Fritz pulled his head back quickly. He waited for his heart to settle down before he took another look. It didn’t matter now how late Fritz would return home. He had come this far. Now he had to continue.
The next time he peeked around the corner he saw the soldier walking over to the flat building on the other side of the yard. This was his chance. Fritz quickly ran to the back entrance and opened the door. Just as he stepped inside, he felt a pull at his shoulder. Fritz turned around. The guard had returned! The man lifted Fritz up with a swift movement and held him under his arm the way Oma Clara had held the pig halves. The man’s turnip-thick fingers squeezed Fritz’s side. Fritz squirmed and punched his fists into the man’s padded jacket. He cried for help, but the guard’s paw sealed his mouth.
The man carried Fritz inside and opened the door to a staircase that led down to the basement. With each tramp of the man’s boot on the stairs, Fritz’s heart sank lower. Would they lock him in the basement? Fritz tried to wriggle himself out of the man’s grip. The stronger he resisted, the firmer was the man’s clench. The Russian opened a wooden door and dropped Fritz down. Fritz staggered, and before he found his balance, the man nudged him deeper into the dark room. Fritz stumbled and fell, catching himself with his right hand. A sharp pain jagged through his right arm. Before he could turn around, he heard the door slam shut, leaving only a slim bar of light at the bottom of the door. He heard the Russian stomp back upstairs. Then there was no light at all.
The room smelled like mold and damp potatoes. Fritz sat up and waited until his eyes got used to the darkness. He closed and opened his eyes, but there was not much difference. He patted the wall around the doorframe, searching for a light switch, but could feel nothing, and the room remained dark. His right arm and hand throbbed. He sat down, his back against the wall, hugging his knees with both arms. What would they do with him? How long would he have to stay here? It must be dinnertime by now. If he didn’t return the bike in time, Konrad would be worried. Oma Clara would be furious when she found out what he had done. But that didn’t matter.
Fritz tried to steady his breath, but his body kept shivering. He didn’t know if the shiver came from fear or the cold. The whole trip had been in vain. Even Mikhail couldn’t help—or didn’t want to. There was no more hope that he would find Mama and Lech. And now he was caught like a rat. Tears began to swell at the back of his throat. He swallowed hard. No, they wouldn’t make him cry.
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The door opened with a bang, and light shot into his cell. Fritz didn’t know how much time had passed or if he had fallen asleep. He sheltered his eyes with his hand, but a shadow fell toward him and someone grabbed his shoulder and pulled him up. The man yelled a one-syllable word. Fritz tried to steady himself against the wall before he was dragged out onto the staircase where he looked up into the grinning face of the soldier who was tugging him up the stairs.
Upstairs, a group of seven men in uniforms were sitting around a dinin
g room table. Long-stemmed candles dripped wax on a lace tablecloth. Bottles stuck out between white soup tureens and platters of potatoes and vegetables. Two men held their glasses in Fritz’s direction and cheered as the soldier pushed him onto an empty chair. The men’s flushed faces glimmered in the candlelight. One of them filled a plate with a thick piece of meat and set it in front of Fritz. He stared at the feast. Jars of pickles and marinated cauliflower stood together with plates of cabbage rolls. In one bowl Fritz saw chanterelles, his favorite mushrooms, which both of his grandmothers had kept in their pantry “for special occasions.” The soldier who had taken him out of the cellar sat down next to him, added two potatoes to Fritz’s plate, and nudged him to eat. Fritz picked up the fork. The meat was delicious. He had not eaten roast in a long time, and he chewed carefully, keeping his eyes on the scene around him. What would they do with him after they had finished eating and drinking? Drunken Russians were unpredictable. He remembered what had happened after the dancing in Schwartz. Would he have to spend the night in the dark cellar? Would they let him go? The soldier next to him spooned some melted butter onto his potato and smiled.
Suddenly, loud voices came from outside. The door jumped open, and the soldiers scrambled for their revolvers. Mikhail stood in the doorway. The soldiers straightened themselves. The room suddenly grew quiet.
“Come.” Mikhail motioned Fritz to get up. Mikhail said something in Russian to the soldier next to him. He looked angry. “What are you doing here? I thought you went back home.”
“I need to find my mother,” Fritz said. “You said that you held prisoners in the basement.”
“But I told you she was not here.”
“I wanted to meet other prisoners to pass them a message.” Fritz looked straight at Mikhail. “I need at least to get in touch with Mama and Lech.”
The Dog in the Wood Page 9
