Peter made good progress on foot. The combination of the fresh, cold night air and the exercise helped to revive him. His eyes were by now quite accustomed to the darkness and he was able to avoid the many obstacles on the pavements.
He was in a much better frame of mind. Wolfi was far from saved, but he now stood a decent chance of recovery. His original decision to contact Lotte had proved to be the correct one. The vet had confirmed this. Without her name and his obvious devotion to her, Peter doubted whether he would even have spoken to him.
It was approaching four in the morning when Peter arrived outside the Professor’s tenement block. It was much less grand than Lotte’s residence, in the poorer working class district of Kreuzberg. As everywhere these days the buildings were half-standing, half-demolished. The great advantage of the Professor’s residence was that the concierge did not live in the building itself. He was responsible for several buildings and lived in the next street. The Professor, like all residents of Berlin, had his own warden to enforce Party rules. In this building it was a man of almost seventy who seldom left his apartment on the top floor. He had deliberately chosen the top floor, in spite of the stairs, as he liked the view over Berlin. He was not particularly well-qualified to act as the official warden. Nobody complained as his son was a high-ranking Party member, and all assumed, rightly, that it was his son who got him the job. A warden who kept himself largely to himself was much more preferable than the snooping, prying Herr Klein.
Peter pushed open the front door into the foyer. It was not locked. He climbed the stairs to the second floor and gently tapped on the door to the Professor’s lodgings. Two short taps, a single louder tap and then two further short taps. The noise was deliberately gentle, though sufficiently loud to be heard by Franz who was asleep on the sofa.
Franz was rubbing sleep from his eyes as he casually opened the door.
‘For heaven’s sake, Franz, ask who is there before opening up. I could have been anyone,’ Peter said.
‘Sorry. Why are you here?’ Franz said, holding back a yawn.
‘Wolfi’s been hurt. The camp was raided by soldiers and he was mauled by their dogs.’
As soon as Franz heard the words ‘Wolfi’ and ‘hurt’ he woke up completely. Peter could see his distress and tried to reassure him. ‘He’s all right for now. It’s touch and go, but at least he’s with a vet.’
‘What about the others?’ Franz asked, fearful of the reply.
‘Robin didn’t make it. The others are safe for the moment on Peacock Island.’
‘Robin has been caught?’ Franz asked. The prospect of Lotte being arrested was uppermost in his mind.
‘Not caught. Killed,’ Peter replied. Both were aware that the poor man’s tragedy had probably saved them. He could not have withstood questioning at the hands of the Gestapo.
Peter pushed back the blanket on the sofa and sat down on Franz’s makeshift bed. He related the events of the previous few days. Franz winced when Peter described how the Doberman had torn Wolfi’s flesh. He was on the verge of crying as Peter told how he found Wolfi curled up on his jumper half-dead. He smiled as he listened to Lotte’s role and the effect that her name had on the vet.
When Peter had finished Franz paced up and down then announced, ‘You are tired. You have been up half the night. I will look after our friends on Peacock Island.’
‘No Franz. We shall go together,’ Peter replied. ‘We shall wait until midday.’ That matter settled, Franz gave up his bed to his companion. Peter lay down and fell asleep instantly.
He did not sleep for long, no more than a few hours. Instinctively on waking his hand fell to the floor, looking for Wolfi. Then with some sadness he remembered.
It was after dawn. The Professor was awake and preparing breakfast. He had been updated about the previous days and night. His response was as so often, simply ‘dear, dear’.
Peter took little persuading that he should stay with the Professor for a few days, at least until Wolfi had recovered. The last thing he wanted was to be stranded on Peacock Island with no news of Wolfi and no way of seeing him. He was desperate to know about Wolfi’s condition, but accepted his friends’ advice that it was better and safer to leave that to Lotte. At least for today. Similarly, for the time being his old camp was unusable and it was essential to avoid it for the next twenty-four hours.
* * *
‘We will not make it to the island today.’ Franz’s words were unnecessary. It was obvious to both of them. It was two o’clock later that day. Peter and Franz were back at the Seawolf. They were disconsolate. The water was calmer than either had ever seen it. There was no way they could sail anywhere, let alone the long distance to the island. The prospect of the wind picking up later was remote.
‘We’ll try again tomorrow. Let’s go,’ Peter said.
Both knew that they could not abandon the family of three and they would have to reach the island, if not today, then by tomorrow at the latest. Having seen the island for himself, Peter was now convinced it was a poor place to hide and they would soon be discovered.
The boat was just five metres long and had oar attachments in the middle, with no oars. In the past they had never needed them. If they could not sail, they simply did not go out on the water. Now that travel on the water was a necessity, the lack of oars was extremely frustrating. One person might struggle to row to Peacock Island; two strong young men could surely manage it. Their first priority after Wolfi was to find some oars. They walked away in silence.
Back at the Professor’s flat, Peter helped with the latest forged documents. It filled the time, but he could not stop thinking about Wolfi. Franz sensed this and every so often would utter words of reassurance.
‘We shall find out how he is tomorrow at two,’ he kept saying. They especially looked forward to seeing Lotte again.
When the next morning came Peter and Franz were very happy to discover the wind had picked up. Their planned trip was on once more. They walked to the boat’s moorings laden with a rucksack each. There was equipment for building a more weather-tight camp: an axe, hammer and nails and some tarpaulin. Although Peacock Island was a bad hideout, it was the only place available to them at that time. They knew they needed to find somewhere else, and soon. They thanked their luck that they had not left all their tools at the old camp. The family would be dry for the few days they stayed in hiding on the island.
One of the rucksacks was almost filled with the supplies of food that Peter had hidden at the camp. It was risky. They had decided that they could not simply waste all those provisions. As it transpired, the soldiers had burnt any items they could and smashed the earthenware stove. The canopy of branches that provided such decent shelter formed the base of their impromptu bonfire. The fire had been fuelled with the books Peter had left behind, from which he had sensibly torn any inscriptions. It was not the first time the Nazis had burnt books. It was distressing to see and more so when they came across the patch of blood where Wolfi had lain for so long. It was a wonder they had not burnt Peter’s jumper as well, for it was all that the poor dog had to comfort him for such a long time.
On board the Seawolf Peter guided the boat towards Peacock Island. It was still quite early with few people about. The boys were in their navy uniforms. It was a good disguise as what could be more natural than two young sailors sailing the waters of Lake Wannsee. The lake was virtually empty, apart from the odd person or couple in a rowing boat close to the bathing beach and one or two brave souls swimming near the edge of the water.
As the bow broke through the water, they discussed the merits of finding a new hiding place for the boat, somewhere closer to Lotte, the Professor and Peacock Island.
‘I know it’s a long way to travel Franz, but the boat has not been found so far. We can’t risk losing it.’ Peter was keen that his pride and joy should not be discovered.
Once on the island Peter was impressed to see that the violinist and his two children had not been idle. They had reinforced the ‘temporary shelter’ with rocks and fashioned a type of barbeque. They had explored the island and utilised whatever discarded equipment they could find. It was all unexpected from a musician. More satisfying was that they did not complain in any way that they had been left for so long.
‘I knew we would not see you when the wind dropped,’ the father said casually. ‘We managed all right any way.’
Having said this, he took Peter by the arm and led him to one side. In a low voice he said, ‘I think there is some kind of secret army installation on the other side of the island. I spotted some soldiers guarding an underground bunker. They don’t leave the site. Still, we need to be careful. On an island this size they are bound to come across us soon. Don’t mention it to the children.’
Peter nodded. Franz, Peter and the violinist sat on the ground out of earshot of the children and considered what they should do. For the time being a camp on the side of the lake was not safe. The authorities may still be combing the woods for ‘undesirables’. They had no more permanent accommodation to offer them. The family would have to stay there at least for the next few days.
‘Be careful about lighting fires. During the daytime the smoke can be seen a long way off, unless you cook everything in a pit underground. At night the glow of the flames may be visible, so you need to construct an oven of some sort. My advice would be to cook at night and not in the open. Sleep during the day. Keep a lookout for day trippers. Best stay hidden in the trees in daylight,’ Peter said, passing on his invaluable experience from life in the woods.
On the point of leaving the island Franz broached a new topic. ‘We understand your concern about using fake identity cards,’ he began sympathetically, ‘but you cannot continue to live like this. We know from experience that very few can survive outdoors without regular help. You really must reconsider.’
Peter shook his head vigorously in support, adding: ‘Your greatest fear is that someone will recognise you from the concerts you gave? We can help disguise you so that even close friends will not know you.’
The violinist stood up. His movement made it clear he could not believe it was possible, no matter how much he wanted it to be true. Peter glanced at Franz for his agreement before he broke one of their cardinal rules.
‘The man who brought you and your children to us for help?’
‘The Professor, as you call him?’ the violinist interrupted.
‘Yes, the Professor,’ Peter replied, ‘He is someone you have met on many occasions yet you did not recognise him. He is Professor Blumenthal. He has had drinks with you several times after your concerts.’
‘That was Professor Blumenthal?’ the violinist asked.
‘Yes,’ Franz replied, ‘and if he did not recognise you and you did not know him for who he was, does that deal with your worry?’
‘I should have guessed when you called him ‘professor’,’ the violinist responded. ‘How stupid of me! It is a good disguise.’
Persuaded, the concerned violinist determined that as soon as practically possible, they would adopt a new identity.
Pleased with the morning’s work Peter and Franz left the island, mooring the boat at its usual place.
Back at the Professor’s apartment they impatiently awaited Lotte’s arrival. Peter paced up and down the small living area. It was almost three o’clock and Lotte had not appeared. She was sometimes late. Many people were these days, though not this late.
‘She’s probably not able to get away from her husband,’ Franz said in a vain attempt to calm Peter. ‘Or there are problems with the trains,’ he added unconvincingly. Lotte was not very familiar with public transport and had taken time to adjust.
‘One of us will have to ring her. We must know what is happening.’ In spite of his close run in with Lotte’s husband, Peter was prepared to take a chance once more.
It became clear very soon in the subsequent discussion that it was best if the Professor rang. He had the voice of the older man and might attract less suspicion from Lotte’s husband. With this purpose in mind the Professor went in search of a public phone box. It took a while. The first had been bomb-damaged. The second one was not functioning. Finally he came across a working telephone. Unfortunately it was in a post office where no doubt the operator would listen in. He had no choice other than to make the call.
To his relief, Lotte’s voice crackled across the poor line. The Professor had only just said the word ‘Lotte’ when Lotte interrupted.
‘I’m sorry my husband is out at the moment and will not be back until later this evening. I have another visitor at present. If it is about the dog that is apparently recovering so well I have already told someone else that you have the wrong number.’
With this short passage she had cleverly conveyed certain vital pieces of information. Firstly, and most importantly that Wolfi was getting better. Secondly that her husband was not at home and would not be back for several hours. Finally, that she had a visitor and an unwelcome visitor at that, judging by her tone. The Professor left the telephone booth and hurried back to Peter and Franz with the news.
Lotte replaced the receiver on the telephone on her desk and turned to face her visitor. Herr Klein, the hated warden, was grinning contentedly. He was sitting on the largest sofa with his legs crossed and arms stretched out as if relaxing in his own home.
‘Well, dear lady. Do we have a deal?’ his smile widened and displayed his tobacco-stained teeth.
‘I will need time to think it over. It is a lot that you ask,’ Lotte said, trying to hide her contempt for her blackmailer.
Herr Klein got up from the sofa and walked over to her. He raised his hand towards her long blonde hair as if to touch it. She brushed his hand aside and moved away.
‘You have twenty-four hours. If you do not agree to my terms then I will tell your husband about the many male visitors. I am sure he would be very interested.’ Herr Klein grinned once more and left the apartment.
Lotte sat down. She was glad he had gone, the odious man. She smiled to herself at the idea that he thought her late night visitor, Peter, and the other men, were lovers. If only he knew what they were really doing. In spite of her amusement, she knew that this was a serious problem and required careful consideration.
Later that day, the Professor arrived at the apartment. Lotte had wanted to leave. She now feared that she may be followed, and the last thing she desired was to disclose the Professor’s address. When the little man appeared at the door she was delighted.
Without stopping to either greet him or offer any hospitality, Lotte put on her coat and taking him by the arm, led him down the steps from the building. She put a finger to her lips to indicate the need for silence at that point. Herr Klein might still be around.
They need not have worried for at that very time Herr Klein was celebrating his good fortune in a nearby pub. This was the opportunity he had craved for so long. The residents under his care were all very wealthy and mostly snooty. Especially that Lotte! What had she done to deserve so many privileges? He had worked hard all his life and had nothing to show for it. As he sipped his pilsner beer and gulped the schnaps chaser, he planned what he would do with all the money he was going to extort.
Meanwhile Lotte and the Professor walked towards the Brandenburg Gate where they met with Peter and Franz. Lotte greeted them in her usual fashion with a peck on the cheek.
‘We have a lot to discuss,’ she said. ‘Come to my apartment in twenty minutes. If the coast is clear I will signal to you from the window. My husband is not due back for another two hours.’
Lotte and the Professor returned to her apartment. The only way that she could think of to ascertain whether Herr Klein was at home was to brazenly knock on his door. There was no reply. She prayed that he was indeed out of the way.
When Peter and Franz arrived on the pavement outside, she pulled back the curtain slightly and waved to them. Once inside she came straight to the point.
‘Herr Klein is trying to blackmail me,’ she said calmly.
‘Then what are we waiting for we have to clear out and take everything incriminating with us,’ Peter replied.
‘No it’s nothing to do with our work, Peter. He thinks that you and Franz are more than just my friends,’ Lotte said.
Peter and Franz were surprised, though a little pleased, to learn that they were suspected lovers.
‘He might have thought I was a lover,’ the Professor said, feigning upset. They laughed.
They debated the best response for some time, eventually agreeing on a plan. It was perilous, although in the circumstances necessary. Having questioned Lotte further about Wolfi, Peter and Franz left, satisfied that tomorrow Wolfi would be with them once more. Shortly after they left, the Professor said his farewell, taking the same route as his friends, only at a distance so that he could observe whether they were being followed. They were not. By now Herr Klein was slumped on the bar, his drinking companions bemused as to the source of his exceptional good humour.