The Dog in the Wood Read online

  Copyright © 2017, 2009 by Monika Schröder

  All rights reserved

  Printed in the United States of America

  Designed by Helen Robinson

  First e-book edition

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Schröder, Monika.

  The dog in the wood / Monika Schröder. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: As World War II draws to an end, Russian soldiers occupy Schwartz, Germany, bringing both friendship and hardship to the family of ten-year-old Fritz, whose grandfather was a Nazi sympathizer, eventually forcing them to leave their farm, then arresting Fritz’s mother and her hired hand.

  ISBN 978-1-59078-701-4 (hardcover : alk. paper)

  ISBN 978-1-68437-240-9 (e-book)

  1. Germany—History—1933–1945—Juvenile fiction. 2. World War, 1939–1945—Juvenile fiction. [1. Germany—History—1933–1945—Fiction. 2. World War, 1939–1945—Fiction. 3. Family life—Germany—Fiction. 4. Farm life—Germany—Fiction. 5. Russians—Germany—Fiction. 6. Political prisoners—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.S37955Dog 2009

  [Fic]—dc22 2009004970

  Für meinen Vater

  1

  In the distance Fritz heard again the droning of engines. The front was coming closer, and the east wind blew the noise of cannons, tanks, and gunfire toward their farm. The Russians would be there soon. Fritz set down the tray with the tomato seedlings on the corner post of the garden fence and looked up into the cloudless sky. No sign of the Luftwaffe. The Russians should have come during the winter when the weather was gloomy and everyone had to stay inside. Now, in late April, Fritz enjoyed being outside and the best time for gardening had begun. The garden was at the south end of the farm, behind the barn, overlooking the pond and the family’s forest in the distance. Fritz imagined the Russians coming through the forest. Would they arrive in tanks? Would there be air raids? He had seen a picture of a Russian soldier in a leaflet about Bolshevism on Grandpa’s desk. A man with a shorn head and mean eyes, holding a knife between his teeth, was running after a blond child. Fritz squatted down and began his work. Better not to think about what would happen when the Russians arrived. He loosened the fragile tomato seedlings from their pots and set them one by one into the row of small hollows he had prepared in the soil. By the time the tomatoes were ripe the war would be long over.

  Grandpa still believed in the German victory. But fewer and fewer people seemed to share his conviction. In recent weeks, most villagers had gone back to saying simply “Good Day” when they met Grandfather on the street instead of returning his “Heil Hitler” greeting. Grandpa owned the largest farm in the village. At the main entrance a sign in bold letters under a swastika announced him as the head of the local Nazi Party Farmers’ Association.

  Last weekend, as Fritz had helped Oma Lou pluck feathers off a chicken, Grandpa had come home from a meeting in his uniform and thrown his hat on the coat rack, entering the kitchen with his big ears flaming red.

  “What’s the matter, Karl?” Oma Lou had asked, looking up. “Why are you upset?”

  “People are showing their real colors. The end is near,” Grandfather had answered. “They are beginning to hang their coats in the new wind.”

  Fritz had imagined all the neighbors in colorful new coats, taking them off and letting them blow in the wind. But the worried expression on Oma Lou’s face had told him he had misunderstood his grand­father’s comment, and he had been left wondering what it meant.

  Grandpa thought that gardening was women’s work, but Fritz loved to care for Oma Lou’s large garden. He had germinated these tomatoes and put them into small earthen pots on the windowsill in the hallway. Now that the small plants had each grown at least five leaves, they were ready to be planted in the garden. Tomatoes need sunshine, and here, along the fence at the south end of the garden, they would be fully exposed to the afternoon light.

  “Don’t waste your time with tomatoes, boy!” Grandpa’s voice suddenly boomed from the other side of the fence. “Come with me!”

  Fritz still needed to water the plants, but Grandpa was already striding back to the house. Fritz hurried to follow Grandpa’s orders. He shook the dirt off his pants and left the garden tools at the side of the fence, wondering which chore Grandpa would assign him now. When he entered the yard, Grandpa had taken his seat on the horse cart and was motioning Fritz to climb up next to him.

  “Where are we going?” Fritz asked as Grandpa stirred the horses toward the forest.

  “I want to show you something,” Grandpa replied. The edge of the woods grew closer, and when they reached the low fir trees marking the entrance to the family’s forest, Grandpa stopped the horses and stepped down from the seat of the cart. “We’ll leave the horses here and walk the last part.”

  Fritz jumped off and followed Grandpa into the woods.

  “Come on, boy!” Grandpa called now, and hurried briskly through the underbrush. Fritz had to rush to follow Grandpa’s long stride. Grandpa’s presence seemed to leave less space in his chest to breathe. He was panting when Grandpa finally stopped in front of a large pine tree. Several cut branches were spread out flat under the tree. Grandpa bent down to move one of the branches aside. A large rectangular hole, about five feet deep, came into view. Fresh soil was piled up behind the tree trunk. “Did you dig this hole?” Fritz looked into the dugout. The old man nodded. “What is it for?” A large vein was throbbing on Grandpa’s neck. Fritz had seen the throbbing vein before. It seemed to bulge before Grandpa broke out into a fit of rage. A quick surge of guilt shot through Fritz, but he didn’t have enough time to search his mind for what he might be guilty of.

  “This will be the hideout for your mother, your grandmother, and your sister when the Russians reach our village.” Fritz imagined Mama; his sister, Irmi; and Oma Lou huddled inside the hole while Russian soldiers searched the forest.

  “Now see if there is enough space for three people.” Grandpa took the rope he had brought, tied one end around the tree beside the hole, and passed Fritz the other end. Fritz, still taken by the image of the women hidden in the hole while Russians were shooting from behind trees, just stared. He wanted to ask why space for just three people was all that was needed, but his throat was too tight to speak. Grandpa nudged him to climb down into the hole. Reluctantly, he lowered himself along the rope into the opening.

  “You and I will defend our land against the Bolshevik enemy,” Grandpa declared as if he had read Fritz’s mind. Fritz shuddered in the cool dampness that surrounded him. How could the two of them defend their farm against the approaching Russian army? Fritz had turned ten only last month. He pictured himself with a large rifle standing beside Grandpa, firing against the approaching enemy soldiers. The Russians were supposed to be fierce and cruel fighters. Fritz took hold of the rope, looking up to see if he had permission to climb back up again.

  “I want you to know where to find the women in case something happens to me,” Grandpa called down. “This pine tree will be your landmark. It’s easy to recognize. It’s taller than the others, and its trunk splits into two arms. You see?” Grandpa pointed toward the treetop. “It looks like a fork.” Fritz followed Grandpa’s arm, still trying to make sense of what he had just heard. Down in the hole Fritz felt even smaller and weaker than when he stood beside Grandpa. What did Grandpa mean when he said “if something happens to me …”? Was Grandpa expecting to die in the fight for the village?

  “What about Lech?” Fritz dared to ask, but his voice came out like a croak. If they had to fight, Fritz wanted to be close to Lech.

 
“That Polack will probably run away soon. The two French laborers at the Bartels’ farm ran away last week, taking a horse with them. You don’t need to worry about the Pole once the Russians come.” Grandpa dismissed Fritz’s worry with a quick movement of his hand, throwing a birdlike shadow over the hole.

  “But he has worked for us for a long time. Couldn’t he help us?” The words came out more softly than Fritz had wanted.

  “These forced laborers didn’t come here because they wanted to work for us. We made them come here.” Grandpa stepped close to the hole. The tip of his left boot loomed over the rim.

  “Stomp down the soil for a floor,” Grandpa ordered before Fritz could ask how he was so sure that Lech wanted to run away. Lech was tall and strong, and he could be helpful defending the farm. Small rivulets of sandy soil slid down the sides while Fritz tamped the ground with his shoes. “Tomorrow we’ll bring some boards to hold up the sides and to protect the hole from rain.”

  “How long will they have to stay in here?”

  “We don’t know,” Grandpa said, his voice less audible because he spoke in the direction of the treetops. Then, with a quick gesture, Grandpa signaled Fritz to come back up.

  “Does Grandma have to climb in and out with this rope?” Fritz asked as he scrambled out.

  “No. I will bring a small ladder.” Grandpa rolled up the rope and swung it over his shoulder. “Let’s go back.”

  When they reached the horse cart at the forest’s edge, Grandpa threw the rope into the cart and climbed back onto the seat. The horses’ ears twitched attentively, and their large eyes followed the old man’s movements. Fritz saw himself running through the forest frantically trying to find the tall forked pine tree while Russians were jumping from behind the bushes. His heartbeat quickened as he turned around to see if he could make out the tree from a distance.

  “Come on, boy. I’m already late for my meeting with the other farmers. Tomorrow is the führer’s birthday, and we are planning a small celebration. I also have to talk to the men about our plan to defend the village,” Grandpa said.

  Fritz pulled himself up and took his seat beside Grandpa on the horse cart. “How much longer will it be until the front reaches us, Grandpa?”

  “The last time a German army jeep came through we were told that the front was now about thirty kilometers away. That means it could be less than a week before they’ll reach us here in Schwartz. We have to get ready for the last battle for our homeland.” Grandpa’s voice sounded as if he were giving a speech to a larger audience. “No worries, boy. The German spirit will prevail!” Grandpa boomed. Fritz nodded but wondered if Grandpa himself believed his own words as he clutched the reins so hard that white crescents appeared under the tops of his fingernails. Fritz knew there was reason to worry.

  Grandpa stopped the horses in front of their gate. “You go inside, Fritz. I’ll be home for dinner soon. Don’t forget! The dugout has to remain a secret between the two of us. I don’t want to tell the women about it yet.”

  2

  As Fritz entered the house, his worries about the hole dissolved in the sweet aroma wafting from the oven. It was Friday, Fritz’s favorite day, when Oma Lou baked bread and sheet cake. He loved it so much that sometimes in the evening when he went to bed, before he put his clothes over the back of the chair, he would hold his shirt close to his nose to take in a last whiff of cake.

  “Well, you came too late to lick the bowl,” Oma Lou said. “But maybe I’ll let you try some of the warm cake.” She ruffled his hair in passing before continuing to dry a wooden spoon.

  His sister, Irmi, walked in. “Where were you all afternoon?” she asked. “I thought you where supposed to help us with the wash.” Irmi was four years older than Fritz and acted as if she were a second mother to him. Her pigtails whipped as she turned to Fritz, expecting an answer.

  “Grandpa asked me to help him,” Fritz said, hoping she would not press him to lie by asking for more details.

  Mama entered the kitchen with a small dried sausage from the pantry. She looked exhausted, and her hair was flat and dull. She hadn’t taken the time to part and comb it neatly into the style he liked. Fritz waited for Mama to comment on the row of tomato seedlings he had planted in the garden, but instead she said, “Fritz, go get the butter from the cellar.” He was disappointed that she hadn’t noticed, but these were hard times for Mama. She was arguing with Grandpa most evenings. Fritz wished he could tell her about the hole, but he wouldn’t disobey Grandpa’s order to keep it a secret.

  Fritz walked to the mudroom connecting the hallway with the covered porch that led to the backyard. Here they stored their boots, overcoats, brooms, and the aluminum bathtub. Large enamel bowls hung from hooks on the wall, and the back wall was covered with shelves of jars containing canned fruits and pickled vegetables. Fritz bent down to open the wooden door to the cellar stairs. A musty odor wafted up. As he carefully stepped down into the darkness, the smell reminded him of the secret hole Grandpa had shown him that afternoon. Would they have enough time to take food? Should he take some food to the dugout now in preparation? Grandma would worry about the farm animals. He imagined Irmi crying. If Mama let him stay back to fight with Grandpa, he needed to learn how to shoot. He had gone hunting with Grandpa but without ever killing anything. On a side shelf he found the butter wrapped in moist waxed paper and carried it upstairs.

  In the kitchen Fritz again inhaled the smell of the cake, which had now been placed under the window to cool. He handed Mama the butter, and in return she passed him two buckets, which he knew contained food scraps mixed with boiled potato skins for the pigs. It was Irmi’s turn to feed the pigs, but Fritz wouldn’t complain. Mama didn’t like it when they argued.

  In the pigsty he watched the pigs pushing and shoving with their pink snouts as they each tried to reach the food first, accompanied by excited squeals and grunts. They didn’t feel any tension about the approaching Russians. Soon the squealing gave way to a chorus of contented smacking. He washed out the buckets and cleaned his hands at the water pump in the yard before returning to the house.

  As usual they had a cold dinner. As on other days, the warm meal of the day had been eaten at noon. On the table was bread with butter, salami, and cheese. Grandfather entered the room with a solemn expression on his face. “How was your meeting, Karl?” Oma Lou asked, passing the bread basket to him.

  “We need to plan for the defense of the village. The Russians have broken through the lines at Fürstenberg. Now it can only be a matter of days until they reach us. I talked to the village elders today, but many don’t want to defend the village.” Grandpa spoke hastily, as if out of breath.

  “What do they want?” Mama looked up while placing a slice of bread on her plate.

  “They want us to surrender!” Grandpa responded, cutting a thick slice of the salami. “Werner Güntzel thinks it is best to hang out white flags.” The sentence hovered over the dinner table. A fly was caught in the curtain; its sizzling filled the silence. Fritz remembered the drawing of the fierce-looking man with the mean eyes. He pictured a battalion of them holding their rifles and marching down the village road.

  “We need to build obstacles to hinder the tanks from entering the village.” Grandpa Karl was talking louder than necessary. “Everyone should be out digging trenches to fight the tanks. We need to put logs on the roads to slow them down. People should dig hideouts in the forest to shelter women and children.”

  The vein was pulsing on Grandpa Karl’s neck. Fritz looked away. Now they would begin their argument again.

  “What good does that do?” Mama spoke up. “I’m not going to hide in the woods. How can you defend the village when the German army has been forced to retreat before the Russians? How many more people have to die?” She took a deep breath. “The war is over. The Americans have crossed the Elbe River, and the Russians are in Berlin. It’ll be only days until they re
ach us. We are protected by the forest and the lakes, but they will soon be here as well.” Oma Lou shot a pleading glance at Mama, wishing to avoid the looming argument, but Mama continued. “Even our own soldiers are fleeing from the front. Gerda Schreiber saw a group of German deserters the other day on her way to the mill.” Mama’s face was flushed, and she rubbed her thumb over her fingertips the way she did when she was nervous. If Papa were here, he might be able to help Mama to convince Grandpa. But his father had died in the first year of the war. Fritz was only four years old then, and he barely remembered his father’s face.

  “We owe it to the nation to defend ourselves!” Grandpa declared resolutely. “We cannot surrender to the Bolsheviks!” Small pearls of sweat collected on his forehead. The old man used the back of his huge hand to swipe it off. “We cannot just give up!” he blustered, pushing his chair back and leaving the kitchen, taking his plate with him.

  “Let him be!” Oma Lou pleaded.

  “Let him be. He doesn’t let us be! That’s the problem!” Mama shook her head and took another bite from her bread. Fritz looked at his sister. Irmi began to cry. He forced himself to take another bite from his half-eaten sandwich. Mama, still chewing, bent across the table and squeezed Irmi’s hand.

  “I’m so afraid. What are they going to do to us?” Irmi sobbed. Fritz wished she would stop right now.

  “It’ll be all right. Don’t worry,” Mama said, swallowing. “We don’t have anything they want.”

  “But I heard Erna Seiler talk about what they are doing to women and girls. She heard it from a woman who fled from the East. They put a girl in a …” Irmi was now dissolving in tears. Fritz wanted to run outside. Why couldn’t she keep quiet? It was hard to breathe in the kitchen, but he was not allowed to leave the dinner table before everyone was finished.

  “It will be all right,” Oma Lou said, wringing her hands helplessly. “The Almighty will protect us!” Oma Lou hardly ever mentioned God, and the family seldom attended church. Hearing her mention God now was more alarming than comforting.