The Dog in the Wood Page 3

  “Why did they do this?” Fritz asked.

  “Your Grandpa Karl was a very proud man,” Mama began. “He lost his belief in Germany, I guess.” She shook her head and looked at Fritz.

  Fritz kept his eyes straight on Mama to keep the dark spot on Oma Lou’s stocking from coming back into his mind. He needed to hear Mama’s voice now, wanted to understand.

  “Grandpa Karl was worried about what would happen after the war was lost. He was afraid he would lose all he had here in Schwartz. The last weeks have been very difficult for him.” Even though he now closed his eyes, Fritz saw Grandpa hanging stiffly from the beam. He remembered his loud voice when he had told Fritz about the German victory and how he and Fritz would fight the Russians. Now Fritz wouldn’t have to fight with Grandpa against the Russians. But there was no relief, just a pang of guilt.

  “But what about Oma Lou?” Fritz swallowed hard. A salty taste crawled up his throat.

  “The two of them had been married for forty years. I don’t think she would have wanted to live without him.”

  “You are living without Papa for many years,” Fritz replied.

  “Yes, but your father was killed in the war and left me with two small children. It is a different situation. I have to take care of you and your sister.” Mama gave a faint smile and squeezed his shoulder. “We’ll stick together and get through this.” She bent over and placed a kiss on his forehead. “Things will get better.” He squeezed her hand harder.

  7

  Lech was nailing together a casket when Fritz entered the barn. Mama had left to find Irmi who was delivering cream to the neighbors. Lech put down his hammer and walked over to the other side of the workbench, sat down, and patted the space beside him.

  “Is this for Oma?” Fritz asked and imagined Oma Lou lying on the bottom of the large casket, stiff as a doll in a drawer.

  “No, this is the casket for your grandpa. We’ll bury your grandma in her old dowry chest.” Lech put his arm around Fritz’s shoulder and pulled him closer. Fritz leaned his cheek against the leathery back of Lech’s hand.

  “Your Oma Louise was a good woman,” Lech said. “But she is probably better off where she is now.” Fritz was not sure about that, but he wanted Lech to keep talking. Hearing Lech’s voice and feeling the weight of his arm around his shoulders helped slow down the spinning images in his head. Fritz imagined how the caskets would be buried side by side in the village cemetery.

  “Were they so afraid of the Russians? Is that why they did this?” Fritz asked. Lech took a deep breath before he answered.

  “Well, your grandpa wore the uniform with the swastika. He was worried about what would happen to him after the Russians came.”

  Fritz, once again, saw Grandpa Karl under that pine tree, showing him the hole. “I want you to know where it is in case something happens to me,” Grandpa had said. Had Grandpa known that he wouldn’t be there when the Russians came? Fritz wanted to tell Lech about the hole. Was there a point in keeping a dead person’s secret?

  Lech leaned forward and turned to look at Fritz’s face.

  “Hey,” Lech said, shaking Fritz gently. “It’s going to be all right.”

  Fritz nodded. But there was one more thing he wanted to ask. “Will you go back home now that the war is over?” Fritz held his breath for a moment, afraid of the answer.

  “No, I think I’ll stick around for a while,” he said, turning to Fritz with a big smile. “I like it here, and before I had to leave my village my brother and I had a big fight. We used to run a farm together, but then he wanted me out. Even if I went back to Poland, there wouldn’t be anything to go back to.” He paused. “I think your mother can use some help, and I still need to teach you how to carve.”

  Fritz turned to give Lech a hug. Lech embraced Fritz with his strong arms, and as he pressed his face against Lech’s shoulder, Fritz felt less frightened of what was to come.

  8

  No one had thought of the asparagus. The night before, Fritz had peeked under the cloth that covered the mounds of sand in which the asparagus grew. It was ready to harvest. Fritz shivered in the morning cold. He had brought with him a basket, a dishcloth, and a knife. Asparagus had to be cut at dawn to prevent the stalks from turning dark. He gently moved the soil from the tips, dug the knife deep along the stem, and cut the tender stalks. Fritz collected the spears in his basket and covered them with a kitchen towel to block out light. Fritz liked the cracking sound of his knife cutting the stalks, and he was looking forward to the prepared asparagus he would eat later. Oma used to call asparagus the “king of vegetables.” He cut two rows, filling the basket to its rim. When he returned to the kitchen, Mama and Irmi were having breakfast. He put the basket on the table, beaming at Mama. Mama lifted the dishcloth and burst out, “Oh no. The asparagus!” Fritz didn’t understand. Her tone of voice didn’t match the reaction he had expected. He stared at her. Mama swallowed, then with a softer voice said, “Fritz, we don’t have time to prepare it. They say that the Russians will be here today. We need to get ready.”

  “I’ll peel it,” Fritz said, looking down. “Then you just have to steam it.”

  “All right.” Mama sighed, and mussed his hair.

  After lunch Mama opened the sideboard and took out Grandfather Karl’s watch and all his Nazi lapel pins. “We should have burned these together with his uniforms,” she mumbled, placing all the items into a small box.

  Irmi sat on the sofa, cutting the chevrons off her Young Maiden uniform.

  “What if they nail us to the wall? That’s what I heard from one of the refugees.” Irmi’s voice took on the hysterical note Fritz hated. “Or take us to Siberia? We cannot just stay here and wait.”

  “We don’t have any other option,” Mama said. “What could they possibly want from us?”

  Fritz wondered if he should mention the hole to Mama now. They still had enough time to reach it.

  “I don’t want to just sit here and wait!” Irmi said in a voice shrill with fear.

  “Well, if we had wanted to join the refugee treks, we should have done it much earlier. Now we’ll stay here and await whatever happens.” Mama picked up the box and walked toward the living room door. “I’ll take this box up to the attic. Fritz, can you open the door, please?”

  Irmi screamed after them, “Don’t you understand? They won—we lost! The Bolsheviks are coming! The Nazis did horrible things to the people in Russia, and they will now do horrible things to us.” Irmi ran to her bedroom.

  Fritz felt a tremor of panic. How bad was it going to be? They could pack a crate with food, take blankets, and run to the hole. Fritz knew he could find it. Knowing they could all stay there safely might make Mama feel better. He decided to tell her.

  Mama came down from the attic with a bedsheet from the chest of drawers.

  “What are you doing now?” Fritz asked.

  “We’ll hoist this on the flagpole to show that we surrender,” she said. Fritz looked at her face and knew that she had been crying.

  “Grandpa Karl dug a hole in the forest. I know where it is. We can go there and hide until the Russians have passed,” he told Mama hastily, imagining himself leading the family toward the hole under the forked tree. Mama looked at him, her eyes widened. She took several short breaths. The pause grew longer, and he saw exactly the moment she made the decision.

  “No. We’re going to stay here. Lech will stay with us. We’ll show a white flag and hope for the best.”

  9

  The sound of hooves on the cobblestone echoed from the street. From the back of the house the roar of a tank drew closer. Mama sat down between Irmi and Fritz on the sofa. Then Fritz heard shouts, and Mama grasped his hand.

  Lech moved the curtains to look out the window. Fritz saw the white sheet flapping from above. He was glad that Lech was with them in the house.

  “Just keep
breathing, everyone!” Lech said and sat down in the chair by the window. “They will be wild and scary-looking. Do what they say.”

  Heavy footsteps sounded on the tiles in the hallway. Then three soldiers entered the living room. They all wore torn green jackets with small red flags sewn onto their sleeves. They shouted in Russian. Fritz held Mama’s hand and tried to stay as close to her as possible on the sofa. One of the soldiers broke the glass of the sideboard with the butt of his rifle, took out the bottle of brandy, drank from it, and passed it to the others. They rummaged through the china cabinet, throwing the plates on the floor. Fritz saw the white china bowl break and little pieces of white porcelain with blue flowers spread over the carpet. Mama held his hand with a firm grip. Suddenly, one soldier pointed his rifle at them. “No!” Mama screamed. Fritz held his breath.

  “Stojat!” Lech stepped toward the middle of the room, holding his arms up. The soldier turned to Lech, who spoke in what sounded like their language and motioned toward the pantry. The Russians seemed to understand. One soldier waved the tip of his rifle toward the door and motioned them to move. Fritz got up, holding onto a chair, his legs shaking. Following Mama and Lech closely, he walked into the hallway.

  When they reached the pantry, two of the Russians grabbed sausages hanging from a hook. Others pried open jars of canned fruit. One jar broke on the floor, and Fritz watched four big gooseberries roll onto the black and white tiles, the translucent syrup magnifying the tile pattern. One of the soldiers ate pickles out of a jar; another slurped canned fruit. If they only wanted food, it might not be so bad. Lech handed them a sack and helped them fill it with jars, meats, and the dried sausage Oma Lou had saved for a special occasion. The soldiers stuffed it all into the sack and their uniform pockets, then, shoving Fritz aside, made their way to the door. Their boots echoed on the tile floor, and suddenly the house was quiet.

  Mama let go of his hand, leaving a small pain where her fingers had clenched his.

  “Irmi?” Mama screamed. “Irmi? Where are you?”

  Where was Irmi? A minute ago she had been sitting with Mama and Fritz in the living room. The fear was still all over him, and another wave of panic crept down his shoulders. Had they taken his sister? Fritz ran back into the living room, his shoes crunching on the broken china. “Irmi?” She was not there.

  “Irmi?” He heard Mama call from the yard. Fritz ran back to the kitchen. It also had been looted by the Russians. He scanned the room. The bread box was empty, and the intruders had left all the cupboard doors open. One drawer was removed from the sideboard, and cutlery was spread out on the table. The wooden boards they used for breakfast plates were scattered on the floor. Fritz hurried to the bedroom. He squatted to look under the bed, and there was Irmi, lying facedown, her arms covering her head.

  10

  When Fritz woke up the next morning, the house was quiet. Now it had finally happened. The Russians had come and left. The worst was over. He and Irmi had slept in Mama’s bedroom. Mama still lay sleeping on her back, fully dressed, Irmi still clinging to her in her sleep. With a shudder he remembered the cold fear he had felt when the soldier had pointed his gun at him.

  Fritz pulled his shirt off the chair and tiptoed into the hallway. The door to the living room was open. Illuminated by the morning light, the disheveled room looked less alarming.

  They had cleaned up the kitchen last night before they went to bed. The drawers were back in the cupboard, and chairs stood arranged at the table. Fritz looked out the kitchen window. No Russians in sight. The only sound was the chatter of the chickens huddled together in the corner of the yard. What had the soldiers done to the farm? The door to the pigsty was open. His heart sank when he saw the empty pen. He went outside and walked swiftly to the horse stable, hoping to find Max’s and Moritz’s big heads nodding over their doors, but Grandpa Karl’s two Holsteiner horses were also gone. Only Carino, the pony, remained. He nudged his lip at Fritz’s shoulder. Fritz quickly rubbed the white patch on the pony’s forehead and moved on to the cow stalls. With relief Fritz heard the sounds of mooing and chains rattling as he went closer to count the swishing tails. All ten cows were still in their places.

  The garden fence was broken, and truck tires had torn through the garden. They had mowed down the gooseberry bushes, the rhubarb, and most of Oma Lou’s lettuce and onions. With a sting Fritz imagined Oma Lou shaking her head and scolding the Russians for the destruction of her well-tended garden. At least the tomatoes were unharmed, and the rows of strawberries Fritz had planted stood untouched.

  As Fritz walked back to the house. Lech came out of the barn.

  “They took Max and Moritz and the pigs!”

  “I saw that last night,” Lech said.

  “What are they going to do with all our animals?”

  “Some they will use here. Others they will send to Russia,” Lech said.

  “Will the soldiers come back?” Fritz had not dared to ask Mama last night.

  “Yes. They’ll come back. Some of them might even set up camp nearby and stay for a while. We are now under Russian occupation,” Lech said.

  “How long will they stay?” Fritz asked.

  “That’s hard to say.” Lech shrugged. “Once the Allies have taken Berlin, they will talk about what to do with Germany. But no one got hurt here. That’s the most important thing.” Lech looked around. “Is there any food left for breakfast, or do we have to eat milk soup from now on?”

  “The chickens are still here.”

  “Why don’t you close the front gate while I get some eggs?” Lech turned back toward the chicken house.

  Before he pulled the heavy wooden gate shut, Fritz looked down the village road. Old Frau Bartel was sweeping broken glass from the sidewalk in front of her house. A military truck had parked in front of the pub. White flags—sheets, linen, and tablecloths—were hanging from the windows on both sides of the street. Just one house had chosen a different color. On the flagpole outside of Paul’s family’s house a red flag fluttered in the wind.

  11

  Irmi had already finished milking her five cows when Fritz put his stool down to the right of Bertha’s rear end and placed the bucket under it. He massaged the cow’s udder, took hold of two teats, and applied gentle pressure with his thumb and index finger, just as Oma Lou had showed him, letting the other three fingers follow one by one with a slight downward tug. The milk splashed down into the bucket. It was comforting to fall into the familiar rhythm of this chore. At least one thing remained the same—cows needed milking twice a day. Bertha turned her head, chewing her cud. When the bucket was full, Fritz poured the milk into the churn through a strainer.

  “Here you are.” Paul entered the stable, ducking away from Bertha’s tail.

  “I’m almost done. Irmi will work the centrifuge,” Fritz said. “Did the Russians come into your house as well?”

  “Yes,” Paul nodded. “They came and broke stuff. They took my mother’s brooch. I told her to hide it, but she was sure they wouldn’t touch anything because of the red flag. She showed them my dad’s Party book, but they didn’t care. They shot one of the pigs right there in the middle of the yard. Then they took the rest, our goats, and Willi’s rabbit. He cried all morning.”

  Fritz remembered their last conversation, when Paul had said that his family was looking forward to the arrival of the Russians. But he decided not to say anything. He didn’t want to start another argument.

  “Let’s go and see what else happened in the village,” Paul said as Fritz hung up his apron and washed out the bucket.

  They walked down to the end of the yard and turned the corner, passing the barn. From there they could see down to the pond.

  “Wow! Look at that!” Paul said. Next to the pond sat a tank.

  “It looks like it’s stuck in the sand,” Fritz said.

  They looked around, but the tank seemed to be des
erted.

  “Let’s go and look at it,” Paul said.

  The tank was the color of kale. The treads were crusted with a paste of pebbles and mud. When they moved closer, Fritz could see that a lid, like a round door, on top of the tank was open. From between two small slitlike windows a cannon barrel protruded, pointing directly to the back of their barn on top of the hill.

  “We shouldn’t go too close. What if someone shoots at us?” Fritz said. “What if a Russian is still inside?”

  Paul took no notice of Fritz’s concern. He even walked a little faster and stopped right in front of the tank.

  “Hello?” Paul called. But no one answered.

  “What if there’s a dead soldier inside? Or someone who is just waiting for us to get close enough?” Fritz caught up with Paul.

  “We should climb inside, see what it looks like in there.” Paul motioned to Fritz. “You first!” Fritz wanted to protest, but he was too afraid that Paul would tease him. With a pounding heart he pulled himself up from the top of the treads to the opening and slid carefully inside the tank. It was dark and cold. It had looked so big from the outside, but it felt small on the inside.

  “Can you see anything?” Paul called.

  “There isn’t much space in here,” Fritz answered. Strange letters were printed on a sign pasted on the side. Lots of black buttons and red levers stuck out of a metal board under the window slit. Beside the metal seat and behind the steering levers he saw a package. Its German label read “Additional food rations for tank crews.” He picked it up, wondering if the food package had been taken from a conquered German tank. “Are you coming?” Fritz asked.