Spring ran into summer and life for Wolfi and Peter mirrored in many ways the old life they had once known. Only, at the end of a long day fishing or swimming or walking in the woods, they did not return to their comfortable home with the certainty of something hot and delicious and the warmth of family life. Apart from that, compared to the winter, their day to day existence was filled with more little moments of joy and triumph. It had been some months since Peter had felt the need to don his uniform and mix with the rest of civilisation.
As the different varieties of wild fruits appeared he would gather them and either eat some there and then, or dry them, or mash them into a type of jam. He wished so much that he had some real syrup or even alcohol to help preserve the fruit. The best he could manage was boiled rosehip which produced an acceptable syrup, although not as effective as the real thing. From his experience of the previous winter he knew how much a taste of the summer months would help to lift his spirits. He was always careful not to pick anything growing near to the large networks of paths as often there were other starving Berliners who were supplementing their diet in the same fashion.
He was now so familiar with a large area of the woods that he knew most of the secluded copses and clearings where few others went. Though he was scarcely recognisable as the young boy who had narrowly avoided drowning almost a year ago, he did not wish to gamble upon being spotted by a former neighbour or school friend who might denounce him. He was still only a short distance from his old home and, as he constantly had to remind himself, this was the main area of recreation for the whole of Berlin. In spite of the longing to visit his home, he managed to resist. One of the most productive areas for wild fruit was the villa at Wannsee where he had spied into the garden. Blackberries and loganberries as well as wild cherries all grew near the walls that surrounded the huge mansion. He guessed that the inhabitants were so immune from the ravages of the war that they did not need to seek the riches on their doorstep. The building was so imposing, with a regular stream of military and official vehicles, no-one else dared to venture near its perimeter.
Peter was as wary as the next Berliner. He simply could not ignore what nature had to offer. He had devised a route to approach the villa which avoided the front gates completely. As far as he could tell there was no patrol around the outside. When he did cross the path of anyone else he simply kept walking as if there was nothing more natural in the world than a fifteen-year-old boy walking his dog. Sometimes it seemed that those he encountered were as keen to avoid eye contact as he was and he wondered whether they too were illegal. Often he sensed repulsion at the sight of his uniform, repulsion that might one day spell their downfall. The most important lesson he had learnt in his months alone was that an arrogant demeanour and an air of confidence would often deflect suspicion.
Thus it was that the summer passed by. He avoided travelling far on the weekends and public holidays. Most movements were restricted to early morning or late evening when the woods were largely deserted. By these means they avoided unwanted attention. By the time autumn approached and the trees began to shed their leaves and colour, Peter and his canine companion had built up a healthy stock of provisions, well hidden in the depths of the forest.
* * *
One October night a strong wind began to howl eventually turning to a gale, with rain lashing his camp. Wolfi was unsettled as thunder claps bellowed from above and lightning streaked across the sky. Wolfi had grown more accustomed to the noise and flashes of the air raids, yet they still frightened him. He sensed a fear in Peter that Peter did not wish to confront: one day a plane might crash into their hiding place or a bomb land in their precious woods. These fears were not unfounded. When the aerial battles took place over the city many stricken pilots would try and avoid crashing in to the heavily populated urban areas. Their clearest option was to crash land on Wannsee or Muggelsee or another of the large lakes. This applied to German and enemy pilots alike, for regardless that one had come to bomb the population and the other to defend, neither desired to be personally responsible for civilian casualties by crashing into a house. The result of these noble sentiments was that many planes were seen to plummet into the waters of Wannsee and disappear.
On this particular night the weather was so poor that Peter knew that no planes would be in the air, but he could not convey this to Wolfi.
‘It’s all right boy,’ he whispered over and over, stroking Wolfi’s head. The wind shook the trees above and around them and the rain fell in sheets to the floor of the forest, thankfully not into their den. With each clap of thunder and each bolt of lightning, Wolfi crept closer and closer to Peter, seeking reassurance from his friend.
At long last, after many hours of constant rain, the storm broke and they drifted into sleep. When they awoke it was a beautiful sunny day. They left the den and walked through the trees to the quietest spot on the side of the lake where they could bathe without fear of interference. As Peter approached the water’s edge, Wolfi was already in the water, drinking and bathing at the same time. Peter bent over and, scooping some water in his hands, splashed his face, then rubbed the back of his neck and behind his ears. It had been many months since his meagre bar of soap had dwindled to nothing. He looked cautiously around and was about to undress further when, in the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a wooden object. It was to his left, protruding from some willow trees, on the bank of the lake. It was a varnished piece of wood. He waded through the shallow water, accompanied by Wolfi.
‘A boat! It’s a boat!’Peter was ecstatic.
It was one of the small sailing dinghies about five metres in length and two metres wide with a single mast and sail near the centre and tiller at the back. Towards the middle was a small cabin, no more than a metre tall and a metre and a half deep, for sheltering from the elements. It had clearly broken free of its mooring in the middle of the night. There was no clue as to how far it had travelled. The mast was broken about a third of the way up from the deck of the boat. Peter jumped on board. Wolfi hesitated briefly, then sprang in the air, landing cat-like on the deck. Unfortunately Wolfi was not a cat and as a result his claws slipped on the wet deck and he lay spread-eagled on his belly. He let out a groan, more of embarrassment than pain. Peter laughed.
Having checked Wolfi was not injured, he began to examine his find. Apart from the broken mast the rest of the boat was undamaged.
He slid into the water from the bow and pulled the front of the boat. It did not budge.
‘Wolfi. Here boy!’ he called out. Wolfi jumped into the water next to him, this time landing noisily without any mishap. He took the bowline in his hand and tied it to form a harness around Wolfi’s back.
‘Mush! Mush!’ Peter said. Wolfi looked back lovingly, remaining stationary. `Here Wolfi! Here!’ he beckoned with his hand and whistled. This time Wolfi understood and began swimming towards him.
With the dog’s added power they had soon heaved the boat into the water. Once in the water fully the boat was easy to manoeuvre. Peter unhitched Wolfi and, taking the bowline in both hands, dragged the boat along the shore for about 100 metres.
‘Look Wolfi, it floats!’ The keel of the boat was undamaged and floated perfectly. As he held the front line in his hand he noted the name Kaiser Wilhelm written neatly on its side. This was a boat that had been loved and no doubt its owners would come looking for it.
After a search Peter located a spot where the shoreline was quite steep and sheltered from view by thick trees. The path around the lake veered back from the water’s edge and was some 150 metres away. Below the trees the lake flowed into a culvert forming an inlet. By now he was waist deep in water with Wolfi swimming by his side. He guided the boat into the gap in the bank and moored it securely to a thick tree trunk, looping the rope around both the bow and the stern. From the boat’s deck he checked that it was not visible from the lake and likewise not visible from the riverbank. Only someone swimming in this precise location or on a small rowing boat would discover his secret.
Peter waded back to the shore to the point where he had first entered the water. Various ideas as to how he might use the boat came into his head. First he would have to wait. He determined that he would allow a period of one week exactly to see if the boat had been discovered.
‘Breakfast time Wolfi.’ Wolfi did not need a second invitation and trotted back to camp with Peter, who was more excited than he had been for a long time.
* * *
The week passed very slowly for Peter. He was tempted many times to go back and admire the Kaiser Wilhelm, but wisely resisted. He even avoided washing at his usual place for fear the temptation would prove too great.
Finally the day came that he had been waiting for. First thing in the morning they walked back to their usual bathing spot. Stripping to his underwear and hiding his clothes in some bushes, Peter and Wolfi entered the water. As they rounded the bend in the lake’s edge, he spotted the varnished wooden sides. It was still there! He pulled himself out of the water onto the deck, then reached back into the water and hauled Wolfi up until he was safely on board. All the while Wolfi had a look of horrified indignity on his face.
Other than repairing the mast and removing the name from the side, there was little to do to make the boat seaworthy. Ideally he would have liked to change the boat’s entire appearance, but it was impractical.
* * *
The following morning Peter and Wolfi arrived with a rucksack full of all the tools they might need. After a long day’s work the boat was seaworthy again. The mast was splinted with the straightest branch Peter could find. The wood was stripped and smoothed. The old sail was replaced by the canvas tent which he did not use any more. He had even created proper eyelets to thread the rope through. Best of all he had scraped off the original name from the side of the boat and carved a new one: Seawolf. The Kaiser Wilhelm had a new name and a different colour sail.
‘Even the owner will not recognise it,’ he said hopefully.
Content with the day’s work they returned to their camp.
In calculating the many advantages that Seawolf would bring, Peter had overlooked one of the most important. They now had a hobby. Although safest to remain hidden in the trees, the middle of Wannsee was almost as good a hiding place as any. Most visitors to the lake would either bathe from the beach or wander around the edge. Some would take pleasure trips on the lake itself, though for the most part their activities were confined to the shore or close to it and Peter knew the routes the commercial pleasure boats used. It was not as a hiding place that Peter and Wolfi relished the Seawolf. For the first time in a year they were simply having fun. They spent many hours on the water, tacking this way then that, always steering away from other boats. He even taught Wolfi to move from one side to the other when he tacked to change direction. Wolfi never quite understood why he had to move so frequently, he was just pleased with the praise each time he did. The tension and fear that had been so prevalent in many waking moments seemed to leave Peter just as soon as he launched the boat.
From time to time there would be a period of brief panic as the infrequent patrol boat came alongside. On these occasions Peter would simply salute and continue sailing. Fortunately, so far, no-one had bothered to question him. He was to their eyes simply a blonde-haired Aryan boy enjoying the water with his faithful dog.
Whilst sailing he would sometimes trail a fishing line behind the boat. He had already proved a successful angler from the shores of the lake. The moving vessel enabled him to catch a broader variety of fish. By fishing in this way, he no longer needed to restrict his hours as casual encounters with others were less likely.
His favourite trips were those that had no purpose to them. He was simply a youth living his childhood as best he could. The claustrophobia of the camp was for them both, a thing of the past. It was even better when there was a bit of bad weather so that often he felt as if they had the whole lake to themselves. On these bad weather trips Wolfi would lie in the shelter of the small cabin, while Peter manned the tiller.
In the early days of his sailing he stayed closer to the shoreline. He had previously sailed just once with his father and uncle when he was quite young. Luckily the design of this boat was so simple that he soon mastered the basics. With the knowledge that he was not heading out to sea, he rapidly became a competent mariner.
* * *
One day in early November, when winter had not properly arrived, Peter and Wolfi set off on another trip. Beforehand Peter had completed his ‘housework’ as he called it. He had cleaned off his cutlery and his pans and dishes. His many traps were set and his lines baited. Anything in his camp that would give away its location or purpose was hidden away. Now he was preparing for what he supposed may be one of his last sails that year, with bad weather approaching.
The winter of 1941 had been harsh yet bearable, unlike 1940. If those conditions arrived, life would be very tough. Winter 1940 had been the worst in Berlin for one hundred years. Lakes and canals had frozen, buses, trams and motorcars were stopped in their tracks. The city had come to a complete standstill, with coal and staples, such as potatoes in very short supply as transport routes had closed. In spite of the danger of frostbite, the authorities had decreed that domestic boilers were only to be lit at weekends, leading to a number of deaths. Some public buildings such as schools and hospitals had even been required to hand back some of their fuel.
‘Let’s hope we don’t have another winter like that,’ Peter hoped.
As possibly one of their last trips that year he wanted to travel further afield than ever. He headed north from Wannsee into Havelsee, passing as he did the field centre for the Hitler Youth at Gatow. He kept as far from the shore as possible because even now the memory of his night time raid made him nervous.
As he neared the centre of Berlin the sides of the lake became more and more built up. Swinging the rudder to one side and telling Wolfi to move, he hauled on the sail and having tacked successfully, the boat was soon speeding in the opposite direction.
As the wind hit his face and the waves lapped along the side of the vessel, his thoughts drifted onto the sombre subject of his parents. How his mother would have enjoyed today. His father would have come along to be sociable. One of the few clear memories of his first sailing adventure, when he was just five years old, was how keen Papa had been to return to dry land. And even more keen to find excuses if Peter ever asked about their next boat trip.
‘Oh hell!’ With the picture of his father clinging to the side of the boat still in his imagination, he had failed to notice the obstruction in the water ahead. The bow struck the unknown object and he fell to one side, jerking the tiller from his hand. As he hit the deck, Wolfi sprang to his feet and was sniffing to satisfy himself that everything was as it should be.
His instant fear was that he may have damaged the bow. He tied the tiller in position, loosened the sail, and fastening it around the mast, edged towards the front of the boat. As best as he could tell the bow of the boat appeared intact. Leaning over the side, he tried to see what had caused the collision.
A metal tail fin was just sticking out of the water by no more than thirty centimetres. Below the surface of the water he could see the black cross emblem of the Luftwaffe and a serial number.
‘It’s a plane!’ Peter was unusually excited. He and Papa were very interested in aviation.
He moored the boat to the piece of the tail fin visible above the water and tried to get a closer look. It was a smaller aircraft, not a bomber, not a fighter either. It appeared similar to the aircraft he had seen on newsreels in the days when he could freely go to the cinema. It was the type of plane that high ranking officials or dignitaries, or even film stars were seen climbing from at private airstrips.
The main body of the craft was angled into the water at about forty five degrees with the metal fuselage still attached. The wings were missing with only short stubs of plywood covering indicating where they had once been.
Usually planes that crash landed into the lake were retrieved by the authorities, keen to reuse instruments and materials and repatriate the dead war heroes. Or if it was an enemy plane it might give them vital secrets for future use in the war. Wannsee, in particular, despite its size, was not especially deep, dropping down to about nine metres at the deepest point. As a result most crashed planes could be salvaged quite easily. The day after heavy aerial battles in the area Peter would avoid the lake for that very reason. The previous night had been very peaceful and so, he concluded, this plane must be from an earlier battle. For some reason it had been missed by the salvagers.
He stripped off his outer clothing. ‘Stay there Wolfi,’ he ordered, and dived into the clear water. It was cold and took his breath away.
By following the line of the fuselage he began to dive deeper into the lake. With each extra metre, the pressure on his ears intensified until he wondered whether he should give up his search. By pinching his nose and blowing gently the pressure was relieved. Once he had become accustomed to the extreme cold, he looked around for clues.
‘Siebel FH104 Hallore,’ he read. The name was in small lettering on the side of the fuselage. The last word was written in Gothic script. This was not a standard war plane. His first thoughts as to its usage were correct. He had seen this type of plane in a newsreel. In 1938 it had won a long-distance flying competition and in 1939 had flown 40,000 km around Africa. In spite of its heritage, few had been manufactured and so he surmised that this one had belonged to someone quite wealthy or important. He recalled how excited he and his father had been when they had heard of its achievements and had discussed the possibilities for future air travel. Now here it lay, broken and unwanted in Wannsee.
Peter came to the surface, his lungs screaming for air. He knew this type of plane was normally used to carry passengers. If that were the case he was anxious as to what he might find. The war had brought death to Berlin on an almost daily basis. The prospect of confronting it in the water was something he did not relish.
Bracing himself, he dived under the surface once more. Whatever his fears, he had to insure that there was nothing of practical use on board. Secretly he hoped he might find a radio set or a pair of binoculars. He was almost disappointed when he reached the cockpit. The single pilot’s seat was empty.
‘He must have bailed out,’ he thought. There was no sign of any fire. He wondered whether he had been shot down or crashed for other reasons. Many planes crashed without help from the air defences.
Coming back up for air, he passed the mid-section where the five passengers would normally sit. Instead of two rows of seats there was a number of wooden crates, all stamped with a black swastika, about twenty centimetres tall. He broke the surface, took one more deep breath and descended again, the last thing he saw being Wolfi’s large face, peering anxiously into the water.
The door to the rear of the aircraft was ajar, where the hinges had been damaged. The pressure of the water was such that Peter had great difficulty in opening it. The door finally moved to one side and he swam deftly through the opening. Tugging at one of the crates, he managed to dislodge it by a few centimetres. There were loops of string on each end and by pulling on one he managed to drag the crate through the open door and then followed as it bobbed to the surface. Treading water, he passed the string handle on one end through a mooring ring and fastened it with a knot. He hoisted himself onto the side of the boat in a continuous athletic movement, then exhausted, wriggled over the side and onto the deck where Wolfi greeted him with excited licks to the face. Peter quickly put on his vest for warmth and then, untying the knot, he hauled the crate into the boat.
‘Let’s see what we’ve got here,’ he said aloud. Wolfi was sniffing the wooden box. With some difficulty Peter prised open the crate with his pen knife. There was straw inside. Rummaging around, his hand felt the familiar touch of cold glass.
‘Cheers!’ he shouted, as he pulled out a bottle of champagne and held it up for Wolfi to admire. He pulled out another, then yet another and another. There were six bottles in total in the crate. Wolfi was unimpressed.
Peter took off his damp vest, and slid from the side of the boat into the water. It felt much colder this time. Diving again and again, he retrieved another nine crates. There were at least another six crates and he was now completely exhausted, cold and hungry. This was a valuable cargo and if the pilot had survived he was bound to search for it. He could not stay here for too long.
In spite of this concern, he forced himself to dive just one last time. Wolfi looked somewhat uncertain as Peter rose out of the water wearing a life jacket and with a gas mask held aloft in his hand. With the life jacket he would resemble an amateur sailor even more; the gas mask would be the final touch in his Hitler Youth disguise. Peter was thrilled.
He stowed as many of the crates in the small cabin as possible and covered the rest with the original canvas sail he had taken off the rigging. He dressed without drying himself off, and only when he had put on his hat and gloves did any warmth flow back into his body. Without stopping or detouring he sailed back to his regular mooring on the side of the lake.
Instead of carrying his haul straight back to camp, Peter decided to open each crate. ‘More champagne,’ he said disappointed as he opened the first of the crates.
The next two crates were similarly disappointing. They contained cognac. He had sampled the odd glass of wine or champagne on special holidays, and like most children had wondered why adults were so keen on the taste. ‘Ah well, we can always cook with it,’ he thought.
The other crates were more interesting. In one there were small tins of something labelled ‘caviar’, forty all told. Peter had heard of it, though never tried it. He knew from the movies that it was something that was eaten with toast and champagne. Another crate had jars of preserved fruits in brandy and Armagnac. Gradually he began to fear that all the crates contained alcohol of some kind, or caviar. Then they struck gold.
‘Look Wolfi, meat!’ Peter held aloft tins of paté and cured meats. Wolfi barked. Most things he liked came from tins. Peter was pleased to find that there were another three crates that contained meats of some sort, either dried or tinned.
As he began prising open the last of the wooden boxes he tried guessing what this one might hold.
‘Probably more wine,’ he thought. As the last of the nails lifted out of the wood he looked inside hopefully. As with all the others there was a layer of straw on top. He pushed the straw to one side and felt around the box with his hands.
‘Coffee! It’s Coffee!’ he shrieked. It had been many months since he had tasted even the horrendous ersatz coffee. ‘And chocolates!’ Wolfi looked at him, wondering what all the fuss was about.
It was not just slabs of ordinary chocolate. These were handmade chocolates from Bruges just like those Papa had brought back from a business trip. Eight boxes of chocolates and four large sacks of coffee beans. He filled his rucksack with the most valuable of the commodities and took them back to camp. The remainder, the bottles of champagne, the cognac and most of the caviar he replaced in the boxes, and nailing down the lids, hid them near the boat. No chocolates or coffee were left behind. One of the bottles of champagne he suspended in the water from the side of the boat, something he had seen done in a film.
That evening they dined like kings. Instead of their usual diet of fish or meat stew, man and dog enjoyed several courses. The first course was the caviar. They had no toast to accompany it and as the tins seemed very small Peter had selected two. With a spoon he scooped out a generous portion and placed it in his mouth. The caviar burst on his tongue releasing an overwhelmingly salty flavour and not much else.
‘Yuck!’ The look on his face instantly told Wolfi that something was wrong. This was confirmed when Peter spat out the tiny black eggs. ‘Disgusting!’ he exclaimed, looking at the tin for signs that it had been damaged. ‘Perhaps it needs the champagne and toast, Wolfi,’ he joked.
For once Wolfi was oblivious to Peter. He had gobbled down the caviar on the ground and was leaning over with his tongue licking out the small tin.
‘Well, well. At least one of us likes it.’ Peter took the tin away from Wolfi and scraped the remainder of the contents into his bowl. Within seconds it had disappeared and Wolfi sat down, eyeing up the other tin.
‘Okay, okay!’ Peter proceeded to open the second tin. That disappeared more rapidly than the first.
The second course was savoured by both Wolfi and Peter, consisting of a tin of compressed meat with a wild berry jam. This was followed by some apricots in brandy. The final course comprised four of the delicious chocolates accompanied by fresh coffee. The simple task of grinding the beans on a stone and then brewing the coffee in his homemade percolator, brought immense pleasure. It was not that he had drunk much coffee in the past. It was the association with his family, particularly Papa who had often declared that ‘dinner without good coffee is a meal not a feast.’
‘Mama and Papa,’ he toasted, as he drained the last mouthful of coffee from his cup and washed it down with a swig of the cognac as he had so often seen his father do.
* * *
The following day Peter returned to the wreck of the Siebel aircraft, this time early in the morning. He had worn his Hitler Youth outfit, just in case he was disturbed. He was not, and after twenty minutes of diving he had retrieved another four cases. Two he had been unable to budge as they were wedged in a damaged part of the plane. He resolved to try one last time.
‘Last two cases Wolfi,’ Peter cried and dived into the icy cold water. His eyes were now accustomed to the light under the water and he soon found his way to the rear of the cockpit. He tugged as hard as he could on the rope handles. They did not budge. A combination of tiredness and cold had weakened him.
‘Better leave it,’ he thought and started the swim to the surface. He was now almost completely out of breath as a result of his exertions. He pulled himself through the open door of the cockpit, kicking his legs at the same time. He was half way through the opening when he could move no more.
‘I’m stuck! I’m stuck!’ Panic began to take hold. He knew he could not hold his breath much longer. He wriggled as hard as he could, aware of Wolfi staring into the water above him.
Desperately he reached behind to find the cause of his distress. His underpants were snagged on the door handle. A few more seconds passed and his wriggling ceased. His eyes began to close. His mouthful of air had gone and he knew he could not keep his lips closed any longer as the instinct to breathe would overcome him. His mind returned to the terrible day when he had almost drowned rescuing Wolfi from the River Spree. The traitorous Captain’s face appeared and seemed to be laughing at him until the even more terrible vision of his parents swept the image away.
Though terrible, the sight of his parents was somehow comforting and he held on to the image as a permanent sleep began to overwhelm him.
`Uhhh!’ he groaned, exhaling the last remnants of air from his lungs, as suddenly he lurched forward. He was freed! He shot out of the water, gasping for breath. His underpants were half-ripped and still on the door handle. Wolfi paced up and down the boat whining. Peter hung onto the side of the boat for several minutes. His breathing was heavy and noisy. He was glad to be alive, even if cold and naked.
Back at his mooring point he forced open the crates, one after the other. The day had not been completely wasted for, apart from the disappointment of two cases containing more cognac and champagne, the remaining two had a mixture of the finest sugar, flour, herbs, spices, condiments and dried pasta. The pasta was particularly welcome as for the last few months they had survived on fish, meat and fruit. The straw from the crates was not wasted as he used it to stuff a pillow for himself and a bed for Wolfi. The wooden crates were used either for storage or fashioned into a small table. Some were broken up for kindling. The string handles he tied together into a small net. The collection of tins he had accumulated were used as additional pots, or tied to a string and stretched across the front of the camp as an intruder alarm.
* * *
As he sat in his hideaway that evening, the moon illuminating the clearing and reflecting in Wolfi’s blue-grey eyes, Peter reviewed his current situation. It was the 4th November 1942. That day he had almost drowned. On the other hand his countryside larder was bulging with a variety of delicious foods, both those he had salvaged and those he had foraged. There was enough caviar to feed Wolfi for a month. Their den was warm and dry and well-hidden. They had a boat to sail and fish from and as yet the winter was still fairly mild. With any luck the war would be over in the New Year and he could begin the hunt for his parents and go home.
That night he had eaten his best meal for many weeks. He had allowed himself an extra portion of meat and double the quantity of coffee and chocolates.
‘Happy Birthday to me Wolfi,’ he said, raising his cup. As a final celebration of his sixteenth birthday, he popped the cork on a bottle of champagne and drank it straight from the neck of the bottle. It was better than the cognac, but he still preferred coffee.
Having emptied the bottle, he crawled into his bed, his movement a little clumsier and uncertain than normal. He pulled the covers over him. Wolfi lumbered slowly alongside and flopped to the ground in his special place, next to Peter’s head. Within minutes both were snoring contentedly