Berlin Wolf (7 page)

At his destination, he jumped from the saddle and wheeled the bicycle down the side street. He leaned the bicycle against the same railings, this time without locking it. It was a gamble leaving it unsecured, a necessary gamble, as he might need to make a quick getaway. Fortunately there were very few people around, and none in this area. Checking in all directions, he began to climb over the mound of bricks and debris and was ecstatic to find that the hole in the wall was still unrepaired. He pulled aside the wooden cover. As it scraped across the uneven ground the noise seemed deafening. Hesitating for a moment, he watched for any sign of movement inside the building. Satisfied the occupants were sound asleep, he squeezed his slight frame through the gap. He switched on his small torch and began to fill his rucksack with tins of meat and fish.

‘What would Mama and Papa think? What would the Rabbi think?' he wondered, as he carefully placed each tin inside the canvas rucksack. In spite of his extreme care, each tin seemed to clink more noisily than the first. With each clink Peter stopped and waited for the inevitable challenge. None came.

Picking up a small barrel of salt, he exited through the hole, this time quietly sliding the board into place.

With the salt barrel stowed in the wicker basket on the handle bars, he mounted the bicycle and rode off into the night. As he turned the corner he took one last look at the shop front. His earlier guilt disappeared as he noticed the sign in the window. ‘
Jews not allowed
.' Above this the partially defaced shop sign with the word ‘
Neuberger
', the name of the previous owner, was still legible.

With his larder replenished, Peter had a new optimism that they would make it to the spring and summer months. Once the snows had melted and the ice thawed there would be a plentiful supply of fish. Game would be much easier to trap and nature would supply berries and wild mushrooms, as well as wild garlic and some herbs. The bland diet of the winter would be replaced with a true feast. He would not need to pursue his overnight raids, placing himself in terrible danger. With a sizeable quantity of salt he hoped to preserve the excess meat and fish for the harsher winter months. With any luck the war would be over by then. All of these advantages comforted him, even though he knew that with the passing of winter, the woods and lakes would attract families and walkers, lovers and friends, all of whom might stray into the
Wolf's Lair
.

Throughout these months he kept his own form of calendar. From the first he had notched each passing day on a stick, making sure to remember what day of the week it was. Although a Christian festival he celebrated Christmas with an extra portion of meat for both of them. New Year came and went with little to mark it, save the catching of a rabbit. Since the early weeks his skills as a trapper had improved enormously and what little game there was he seemed to bag. With each rabbit caught or wood pigeon snared, Peter's confidence grew that they could survive.

Apart from their physical well-being, he tried to obtain information wherever he could. Very occasionally he would find a discarded newspaper in a bin. As a Jew this was something he could not legally buy. Most of the ‘news' was propaganda. Nevertheless he hoped to glean some inkling of how the war was progressing. It might also help locate the best bomb sites for his occasional sortie for provisions, provided the raids were properly reported. In the months leading up to their attempted flight Papa had insisted that they should listen to the BBC radio broadcasts, a dangerous business as it was punishable with hard labour. Anyone caught spreading the news from foreign broadcasters was liable to be executed.

At first Papa as a law-abiding citizen had reluctantly retuned the radio set. As the war progressed and the official news bulletins did not match the reality in Berlin, Papa, like so many other Germans, had insisted on listening as one of the few means to find out the truth. How Peter wished he still had a radio set. He was getting used to the constant dangers he faced, always being on guard, sometimes having to take risks he wished he could avoid. A radio, he reasoned would have helped him minimise those risks.

The greatest hardship was not the uncertainty of whether they would be caught or whether they would eat; the greatest hardship was when would it all end or even would it end? What if, as seemed highly probable, the war was won by Germany? In spite of the persecution he had suffered in recent years, he still felt guilt when he found himself hoping that Germany would not be victorious.

* * *

On a day in January, Peter determined to make another excursion. He still had a number of supplies. He faced a new problem. He was bored. Several uneventful days had passed. It was some time since they had journeyed far from the camp.

‘Time for a long walk.' Wolfi jumped up and down enthusiastically as Peter announced his intentions.

It was customary when they left to scout for food outside the woods that he wore his uniform. He hated what it represented, even though it gave him a measure of confidence. On this occasion he decided not to wear it. The value of his simple disguise had proved itself over and over and he was now concerned that it would not survive the constant wear and tear.

‘I should have taken two uniforms,' he repeatedly berated himself

If absolutely necessary, he supposed, he could always return to the same laundry block to obtain another. The image of all those ardent young Nazis, arms in the air and voices singing fervently, gave him such an icy feeling inside that he preferred not to think about it.

* * *

They walked for hours, through the trees and along the lakeside. Wolfi seemed to sniff every possible smell and jumped in the air eagerly when Peter took his ball from a trouser pocket. Boy and dog wandered together, forgetting their predicament for the time being and for a while they could almost have been back in the days before the war. For Peter it was therapeutic that there was no purpose to this walk, no hunt for supplies, no advance reconnaissance; it was simply a walk. He had calculated earlier in the day that it was the 20
^th
January 1942, almost two and a half months since their ill-fated escape attempt.

As he was about to turn for home, he heard a noise in the distance. They were close to a gravel track leading down to the lakeside. Instantly he recognised the sound as that of a car.

‘Wolfi! Here!' he called to his dog, whistling at as low a volume as he could. Wolfi ran to his side and both hurried into the trees.

Within seconds of reaching the cover of the trees, a convoy of vehicles whooshed down the gravel track, spraying pebbles everywhere. At the front was a long black staff car with elegant runner boards and a swastika flag on the bonnet. This was followed by several more such vehicles, four motorcycle outriders in army uniform and a truck full of soldiers with rifles. As this disappeared into the distance a similar convoy drove past.

Scared, but curious, Peter made his way through the trees in the direction of travel of the convoys. Ahead he saw the large wrought iron gates of a villa. Wolfi was by his side.

‘Quiet boy,' he whispered to Wolfi, as he crept towards the perimeter. The villa was surrounded by a large whitewashed wall. Trying various trees, Peter finally found one that he could climb, and pulling himself ever higher into the branches he eventually secured a comfortable viewpoint. Wolfi waited at the foot of the tree anxiously. Fortunately he did not bark.

Behind the whitewashed walls, Peter could see a large gravel drive which swept around in front of the villa's main doors. The doors were set back in a grand covered archway. On the drive were the staff cars he had seen and many more vehicles, all with various flags and insignias on the front. Either side of the entrance to the villa there was stationed an SS sentry. On seeing them, he recoiled slightly, then leaned forward again.

From the last in the row of cars he watched as a tall distinguished man in a black uniform with a black attaché case under his arm exited the back of the vehicle. The door was held open by another soldier. The soldier was saluting. On the other side, another man in black SS uniform was also leaving the vehicle. From their demeanour it was clear that the taller of the two passengers was the higher in rank and by the exaggerated way that the others nodded to him, Peter guessed he was someone of great importance. As he looked more closely, the face jumped out from various newspapers and newsreels.

‘It's Heydrich,‘ he murmured and leaned away. In his mind he could now see the photograph with the typed words underneath. ‘
Heydrich: Reinhard Heydrich, Head of SS Intelligence
'. The man responsible for Jewish
‘emigration'.

Heydrich and his entourage entered the building. Peter scrabbled down the trunk of the tree.

‘Let's go boy. I don't know what they are up to, but I don't think it will help us in any way.' With that Peter and Wolfi walked back to their camp, whilst inside the villa, for just one and a half hours, the top Nazis debated the fate of the Jews in Europe.

* * *

Gradually the blanket of winter lifted from Berlin. The trees were in bud and the sound of wildlife was all around. New life sprouted everywhere. For Peter a new opportunity arose. He could fish in the lakes and supplement their bland diet. Not only did fishing provide a practical benefit to them both, it lifted Peter's morale and occupied many hours. He still had to be careful and try to stay in those spots where fewer passers-by were likely to appear. Of these passers-by, many would simply ignore him, some would try and give advice as to how to cast and from time to time, some would try and barter or steal his catch.

On one such occasion he sold a pair of catfish for the princely sum of twenty marks. He had no idea what he would do with the money; without identification and a ration card he could not purchase anything in the shops. In the back of his mind he thought that it would improve his Hitler Youth disguise if at least he had some money with him when he travelled about. Whether he used the money or not, it was worth the loss of two fish for the feeling of normality that it brought to him, even for a brief period.

Apart from fishing with his rod, he arranged lines of hooks baited with worms. These he would leave in the water and check with Wolfi on a daily basis. Often there would be nothing at all, yet on a rare wonderful occasion he would find seven or eight fish in a row. As a result, after just a few weeks of the less harsh weather they had a healthy stock of fish. With the precious barrel of salt he was able to preserve the excess. Some he would smoke. The milder weather also allowed both he and Wolfi to bathe regularly and swim from time to time. It was even possible to wash and dry clothing if the weather was suited. No longer did they need to rely on cold snow to remain clean or wash with rationed water supplies from the lake or melted ice. All in all, life generally became that much easier and relaxed.

* * *

With the excess provided by nature, Peter was grateful that his trips into the city had grown much less frequent. His physical hunger was more than catered for, but his lack of any news began to play on his mind. After some deliberation he decided that another excursion was necessary. He dressed in his uniform, ensuring that his hair was neatly combed to one side, his boots were polished and with his twenty marks in his trouser pocket, he cycled into the centre of Berlin. It was daytime and about four in the afternoon. He had reluctantly left Wolfi behind as he intended to travel further than ever from their camp.

The weather was clear and bright and he made good speed through the woods and onto the streets. In a short time he was on the Kurfürstendamm. In the pre-war years this was Berlin's premier shopping district and the centre of much of the night life. Even now in wartime it was still a hive of activity. People were everywhere. There were sweethearts wandering arm in arm, soldiers with young girls at tables that sprawled out from pavement cafes. Trams travelled up and down, interspersed with the less frequent sight of a motorcar, usually occupied by some high-ranking official. It was a beautiful spring day with sunshine and warmth temporarily dispelling any thoughts of war.

Peter dismounted. The crowds were now so heavy that he was in danger of colliding with a pedestrian. No matter how good his disguise that was not a chance he could take. Chaining the bicycle to a lamppost he crossed the street and stood in front of a cinema. A queue of mainly schoolboys and a few girls and boys in their Hitler Youth uniforms and Union of German Maidens had gathered outside. There were a few soldiers, each with their arms intertwined with a pretty girl and a courting couple, the man in an expensive looking suit with Nazi party armband. Peter stood at the back of the queue looking nonchalantly around him.

‘One please,' Peter said confidently, looking the kiosk attendant directly in the eye and handing over his twenty mark note. He ignored the sign declaring that Jews were forbidden admission. She simply smiled back handing him a ticket and some change. As he crossed the foyer he noticed a group of schoolchildren crowding around an usherette.

‘Ice cream!' Peter could scarcely believe his eyes. She was selling a small quantity of ice creams. Even better, she was not asking for ration cards! He joined the throng and some five minutes later came away with a much-appreciated, if small, ice cream cone. Greatly to the annoyance of a mother with a child of about eleven, the very last one. In other circumstances Peter might have given the cone away.

‘Sorry!' he said and shrugged his shoulders in a form of apology. He was not sorry. The ice cream was lovely and the angry mother was wearing a Nazi Party badge. He mounted the staircase to the upper level, licking the ice cream as he went. It was somehow not quite the same as he remembered, still it was the most delicious thing he had tasted since the beginning of the war.

At the door he handed over his ticket and eagerly took back the stub handed to him by the door attendant.

‘Follow me.' The usherette began to show him to the front until Peter whispered, ‘Better stay at the back in case I have urgent war duties to attend to.' As he said this he pointed to his armband. The usherette winked at him. With a broad smile on her face she guided him to a seat near the aisle, in the third row from the back.

The lights dimmed and a wave of excitement spread through the audience. It was many years since Peter had attended the cinema. Once it had been a common occurrence, with Papa especially enjoying the ‘foreign films'. They had on special occasions come to this very cinema. Often there was the added treat of dinner in one of the many cafes, usually Cafe Kurfürstendamm, where the speciality was spätzle, a type of Bavarian doughy pasta. This little pleasure along with so many others had been denied them for some time.

Peter settled back in the seat. It was a long time since he had sat on a chair of any kind. He watched as triumphant music accompanied the ‘
German Weekly Newsreel
'. Hundreds of Wehrmacht soldiers marched in formation, goose-stepping towards the audience. Stuka fighters were shown shooting down Allied planes as panzers rolled into battle, their huge canons firing. Russian partisans were rounded up and fire-fights between the Germans and Russian soldiers flashed across the screen. A headline appeared ‘the Siege of Leningrad is approaching its end with a famous victory for our glorious troops'.

‘What nonsense! We have been close to winning the siege of Leningrad ever since it started last September!' The voice was male and right next to Peter. In the dark another voice, that of a young woman cautioned the man.