Berlin Wolf Read online

  Peter stopped to admire his handiwork and noticed Wolfi’s paw prints in the snow. Luckily these crossed over so frequently it was impossible to say in which direction they were heading. With a branch tied to the rear wheel of the bicycle and trailing behind him, he walked the cycle back to the path with the satchel over his shoulder. Wolfi was just in front. The trailing branch hid their footprints just as Peter intended.

  Once on the path, he mounted the bicycle and began cycling slowly. Occasionally the wheels skidded on the frozen snow, although for the most part he was able to make good progress.

  Concentrating hard on avoiding a fall, it was only as he rounded a bend that he noticed Wolfi was no longer with him. He was some distance behind at the side of the track. He was lying down and biting at his paws in turn. Peter wheeled the bicycle back to Wolfi and leaned over to see what was wrong. Lumps of ice had formed from the snow compacting in the gaps between Wolfi’s pads. Each step was painful for the poor dog.

  ‘It’s all right boy, we’ll soon clear that for you,’ Peter said, as he examined each paw.

  With a hoof pick on his pocket knife he scraped out the icy lumps as best he could, knowing that it would not be long until more ice formed. He rummaged around in his satchel and eventually found the two pairs of socks he had been looking for. He wrapped one sock around each paw and tied them in place with the twine he had taken from the garden shed. For a little while this prevented the buildup of ice until one sock, then another, came off. Peter grew worried. He could not leave Wolfi nor could he carry him.

  He scanned the terrain about him. Spotting a gap in the trees, he whistled to Wolfi to follow. He wheeled the bicycle into the gap. It was some sort of firebreak. They followed it for about 100 metres. Peter struggled to carry the heavy bicycle short distances at a time and Wolfi limped alongside.

  Their progress was difficult and slow. They eventually slid into a ditch going off to one side. At this point the vegetation was so thick that the snow had not penetrated to the dry ground beneath. Peter heaved the bicycle under some low branches and covered it with greenery cut from a fir tree. He crawled on for another 150 metres under the branches, until they came to a clearing, surrounded on all sides by thick foliage. For the time being this was where they would camp.

  Peter cleared the snow from a patch of ground and built a temporary kennel out of branches, angled against a tree. He was pleased he had thought to bring the small axe from the woodshed. The makeshift shelter completed, he took Wolfi and with a bit of the twine and his lead tied him to the tree.

  ‘Sorry boy, you’ll have to wait there while I fetch our things.’

  Peter hated tying up Wolfi. In the circumstances it was all he could do. It was now reaching the time of day when there would be more people about, some using Schlachtensee as a shortcut. The best approach with strangers was to keep moving and give the appearance of going about everyday life. This could be difficult if Wolfi was suffering problems with his paws. Even in these troubled times, in the midst of a war, there were still those who would stop to admire a handsome dog.

  He kissed Wolfi on the forehead and prayed that he would not bark as he had done the first time that Peter had ever left him on his own. Settling down with his head between his front legs, Wolfi looked dolefully after his master as he left the clearing. Minutes later Peter was by his bicycle, debating whether he should cycle or continue on foot.

  ‘The bike is quicker,’ he thought. He did not want to leave Wolfi for long. In the back of his mind he knew he might have to make a getaway. He rode off as quickly as he could. Without the breaks to clear Wolfi’s paws, he made rapid progress and less than half an hour later he was back at the oak tree. His journey had been uneventful. The few people that he had passed had hardly given him a glance, either dwelling on their own problems or assuming he was just a rather lucky schoolboy with a bicycle.

  Thankfully no more snow had fallen and he quickly retrieved his rucksack and sack of food. As best he could he obliterated the tracks that showed he had been there and then carried the bike and precious belongings back to the path. The weight of both was such that even in these temperatures he began to sweat.

  On leaving the trees he ditched the bicycle and peered in both directions. Confident that the coast was clear he returned, picked up the bicycle and carried it back to the path and mounting it, pedalled as fast as he could. He nearly crashed into the only person he came across, a pedestrian who swore at him and demanded that he stop and apologise. Peter carried on regardless and in even less time than his outward journey he was almost back at the clearing.

  As he crawled out of the trees he was relieved to see Wolfi, straining at his tether, tail wagging and apart from the odd low whine, completely silent.

  ‘Good boy Wolfi! Good boy!’ Peter was as pleased to see his dog again as Wolfi was to see him.

  He spent the next few hours erecting and concealing the old tent he had brought from home. He disguised it from aerial view as best he could with more tree branches. Inside he spread out his sleeping roll and any spare clothes that he was not going to wear. These he placed over a layer of dry pine needles and moss for insulation.

  Removing the food items he needed for that evening, he placed the rucksack inside the tent to use as a pillow. He pinned back the flaps at the front of the tent and took out a small oil burner and saucepan with its fitted lid. He started to prepare a stew of vegetables and salt beef with clean snow as a stock. He cut everything into small chunks to save his precious fuel, a trick his Papa had taught him.

  ‘Enough for about a week,’ he thought, as he examined his fuel bottle. Taking his father’s gold lighter he lit the burner. As the purple flame glowed underneath the pot he turned the lighter over and over in his hand.

  ‘I hope you and Mama are safe,’ he said.

  After dinner, Peter and Wolfi crawled into their bed and went to sleep. Once darkness fell there was little else to do. He was reassured by Wolfi curled up next to him.

  * * *

  They were awakened by the early morning sunlight shining into his tent. Peter’s sleep had been broken, not so much by the bitter cold, more by the horrific memories that haunted him. Each time he woke Wolfi’s deep breathing calmed him and he would lie down once more.

  When he crawled out of the tent he was pleased to find that no more snow had fallen in the night. He whistled to Wolfi and both of them disappeared into the trees to answer nature’s call. After feeding Wolfi on a smaller portion of dog food than usual, Peter quickly munched on a few paltry crackers and an even more paltry portion of cheese. He knew that with careful rationing he might eke out his supplies for three, maybe even four weeks, perhaps longer if the snares he planned to make were successful. After that he had no idea what he would do.

  He took off his upper layers of clothing, scooped a handful of the looser snow and gave himself a snow bath. It was more important than ever that he did not attract attention. This he would do if he were smelly and dirty, like a vagrant living rough. Ignoring the unpleasant cold, he even gave his hair a type of wash with the snow, brushing it afterwards with a pine cone.

  ‘Time to sort out your paws, Wolfi.’ Wolfi looked on, disinterested. Peter sat down and set to work. It took him some time. Four pieces of cloth were threaded around the top with string that could be pulled tight. Wolfi was in his customary place next to Peter, lying on top of the map of Berlin. He held out one hand and on cue Wolfi held up his front right paw as Peter tied the first snow shoe to it. Looking very unimpressed, Wolfi stood up and walked around the tent, with his snow shoe making a padding noise.

  After a little experimentation he pierced four holes at the front to allow Wolfi’s claws to poke through. This was more to Wolfi’s liking and he stopped trying to remove the boot with his mouth. All the while a basic stew was simmering above the oil burner and, as Peter finished the last boot, the stew was ready.

  Whilst Peter ate a new problem occurred to him. His current camp was too close to the p
ath. When the better weather arrived more people would venture further into the woods. He needed to find a more remote site. He had already decided on a location from the map. It was on the western side of Wannsee in the woods. He would scout the area soon.

  Even though not particularly optimistic about catching anything, he made a number of snares from the wire he had taken from the shed. This skill his father had taught him in the summer of 1932 when he was just six. They were due to camp out in the mountains later that year and Papa had insisted, much to everyone’s amusement, that they ‘practise’ in the woods around Schlachtensee. Hence, only a short walk from their comfortable suburban home they had snared rabbits, trapped wood pigeon and water fowl and caught fish. They had been so successful they ended up taking some of their haul home to Mama.

  As each trap was set, Wolfi offered his assistance by sniffing the ground and showing his approval in the usual dog fashion. Making his way from their original hideaway, he laid traps as he went, until he was on the shores of Wannsee.

  ‘Not much fishing here,’ he thought and returned to his camp. The edges of the lake were frozen solid.

  * * *

  The following day Peter breakfasted, finishing a cold meal with his first cup of coffee in days. He had remembered to bring coffee beans. Unfortunately the coffee percolator remained forgotten and missed back at his house. Instead he created a coffee pot out of two old cans that he washed, then squeezed one inside the other. Folding the rim inwards, he pierced the bottom of the inner can to form a filter. Apart from granules in the liquid this worked very well. Taking a sip, he toasted the American relations who had supplied the coffee.

  He disciplined himself that each time he left the campsite he must hide all traces of his existence. With this in mind he cut more branches with the axe, taking care to minimise the noise. These he used to completely hide the tent. His food he stored in a makeshift larder in the ditch, always ensuring that it was adequately wrapped in a sack. The rest of his equipment, apart from his fishing rod, was left in his rucksack and satchel which were hidden separately under a thick bush. By this means he hoped that, if discovered, they would not lose everything.

  Unless it was impossible he had resolved to take Wolfi with him on each trip. On this, his fifth day since separating from his parents he was determined to find another secure hideout. Following the line of his snares he checked each one and with each was disappointed. As he approached the shores of Wannsee he thought back to the evening when they had hidden in the trees awaiting the Captain.

  ‘Stop thinking about it,’ Peter chastised himself. ‘We have work to do.’

  After a while he came across a thicker copse of trees with low-hanging branches. As he crawled on his hands and knees he discovered it was dry underneath the thickest branches. As he anticipated he soon came to a spot where they were much higher above his head, so high that he could stand comfortably. In all the area under the trees was almost three metres in diameter. Beyond the trees and barely visible when standing was a clearing, three or four metres across. He used the small axe to cut a tunnel through the undergrowth, lowering the height as he went. When finished only a small gap remained at the edge of the copse, about the height of Wolfi.

  In the middle of the copse Peter made a mud wall from the pine needles and earth, supported with wooden stakes. Over the top he spread an interwoven layer of fir tree branches. He left a small entrance for a door. Once complete he was able to sit in his shelter but not stand upright. Stepping back to admire his labour he was pleased with his efforts. He would be sheltered from the very worst weather and no-one would stumble across this site accidentally. With his old tent and other equipment, the new den was well-protected from the elements.

  ‘No-one will ever find us here Wolfi,’ Peter boasted.

  The young boy was now so confident in navigating through the woods that he moved everything to this one camp in the darkness. The real danger lay in crossing the footpaths. When in the trees he saw no-one, mainly because of the inhospitable weather.

  By minimising their movements and carefully rationing their food, they survived in this way for the next few months. As expected, the oil for the burner ran out. Peter built a type of oven using large rocks. At night he would burn wood underneath when there was nobody about. The warm food would produce tantalising smells. His greatest fear was that the flames would act as a beacon or that the fire might ignite the dried pine needles all around him. By half burying the oven in the ground and creating air holes he hoped to reduce the danger. During the day they would largely sleep, only attending to necessary tasks requiring full light. They would eat lightly and at night consume their one hot meal of the day. His traps were largely unsuccessful, nonetheless their infrequent haul of just a few rabbits was enough to feed them for three or four days at a time. With the added protection of the trees and the warmth from Wolfi, Peter found this new camp really quite comfortable. Only the frequent thoughts of his parents interrupted the tranquility. Each morning they would venture out of the copse simply to alleviate the boredom of trees all around. For the moment life was a mixture of routine with the odd adventure, but at least they were together.

  * * *

  One morning, towards the middle of December, Peter looked in his homemade larder. He knew there was nothing inside, yet he still looked. They had not caught anything for over a week and the previous day they had finished the last of their tins. The only remaining supplies were of salt, vinegar and some flour. It was time to go hunting again. For a brief moment he had contemplated returning to his own house. He had been fortunate the last time. In truth he was reluctant to risk another visit. It had been dangerous for him. The pervading memory was the evil look on a young boy’s face as he had pointed his father’s gun at Wolfi.

  ‘They’ll have changed the locks on the door and blocked the gap in the fence,’ he argued, more for his own benefit.

  Having rejected that idea he was now underway at night-time under the cover of the trees of Grünewald. Wolfi was trotting along by his side. Living wild, both he and his dog had lost weight and gained some fitness in the last few months. Peter was unsure exactly what they were looking for. He hoped and prayed that some opportunity to obtain supplies would arise. This was the third night in a row they had been out searching. Neither had eaten for several days, other than a few solitary tasteless flat breads and both were starving. Peter trusted in his good luck whilst Wolfi trusted in his friend and master.

  ‘What’s that?’ Peter whispered. Wolfi looked up at him, barely visible.

  Peter had been on the verge of giving up when he spotted dim lights in the distance. At night-time it was unusual to see any sort of lights other than the blue flash from the S-bahn trains. The blackout was so effective. Even the smallest glow of light could lead to a report or reprimand by the air raid wardens.

  His fear, overcome by curiosity and extreme hunger, drew him towards the source. As he neared he could see that it was a large building set in its own grounds. They were in the Gatow district not far from the western side of Wannsee. As a rule he did not venture out of the woods. On this occasion necessity drove them forward. As he crept towards a fence he could just decipher a sign beneath a large swastika. ‘Auslandshaus der Hitlerjugend’. Peter’s first instinct was to turn and run. He did not.

  ‘So this is where the Hitler Youth train,’ he said very quietly. He had heard of this place. What little he knew did not reassure him.

  From inside the building he could just make out the distant strains of the Nazi anthem, the Horst Wessel song. Horst Wessel, a hero of the Nazi party who had been killed in the struggle before the war and personally honoured by Hitler. The very nature of the occupants of this building chilled Peter’s blood and enraged him at the same time. He had no choice in the matter. He could fast for another day, he simply could not bear the longing look in Wolfi’s face when his usual mealtime came around. They moved along the fence to their right hoping to find a side entrance. After several
hundred metres they were out of sight of the main door.

  ‘Sit boy! Wait here!’ Peter said in a whisper and proceeded to climb over the fence. Fortunately it was not electrified. No doubt here in Berlin at the heart of the Reich they felt totally safe. As he looked behind him the only thing he could discern was the light reflected in Wolfi’s eyes. His deep black fur camouflaged him perfectly.

  Approaching silently over the frosty grass, Peter came to the edge of the building. He could see chinks of light from inside where the blackout curtains did not quite cover the whole window.

  He hauled himself onto a drain pipe and peered carefully through the gap. Instinctively he recoiled in terror. He could see a long hall with two rows of connected refectory style tables running lengthways and with benches either side. At the front was a stage with a huge picture of Hitler suspended above, next to a slightly smaller flag of the Hitler Youth consisting of a swastika on a red background. On the stage in an array of uniforms were four males, facing the flags at an angle of forty-five degrees, right arm raised in the Nazi salute. Alongside each bench was standing a boy about his age in the uniform of the Hitler Youth. They stood feet perfectly together, straight-backed and arm raised towards the flags. They were now singing a different song, the Hitler Youth anthem. On the tables next to each boy was a plate and goblet. Most plates were empty, except for a few where he could make out the remnants of a ham hock. He had never eaten pork, and in spite of that, the sight of the hock bones made his mouth water.