The Dog in the Wood Page 4

  Suddenly Fritz heard voices. Through the window slits he saw two soldiers. Both men had rifles hanging over their shoulders. He panicked and quickly dropped the package. Through the two window slits he saw Paul running up the hill. Fritz jumped to the opening, pulling himself up, his fingers clinging to the rim, but when he stuck his head out, he looked right into the face of a Russian.

  12

  The soldier asked him something in Russian. When Fritz didn’t move, the man grabbed him by the arm, pulling him out in one swing. Fritz landed on the treads. He had to hold onto the tank to steady himself. Below stood the second man, who stretched his arm out, seeming to offer help to climb down. Without thinking, Fritz took the hand of the stranger, who swung him to the ground. By then both men were smiling, and Fritz allowed himself to relax. The soldier who had climbed up first now let himself slowly down into the tank. The second man clapped Fritz on the shoulder and said something in Russian. He was still smiling, and Fritz could see that he was missing a tooth on his right upper jaw. His head was shaved, and a thick scar shimmered through the bristles.

  The other soldier reappeared from the inside of the tank, throwing down the package with the German label. His colleague pulled a knife from his pocket and opened it. Inside were several smaller packages. Fritz recognized a brand of cookies. On the side were four small rectangular bars wrapped in foil. The soldier with the scar took one of the bars and passed it to Fritz. He took it, and with a nod from the soldier he opened the wrapping. Inside was a dark brown solid. The soldier also opened one of the bars and took a bite from it. Fritz lifted the strange bar to his lips and licked carefully. If the soldier was eating it, the bar could not be poisoned. Fritz took a small bite. “Shokolatte,” the soldier said. This was chocolate? He had heard of it but had never tried any. The solid melted in his mouth into a sweet liquid, exploding a wonderful taste. He smiled back at the man.

  The soldier finished his chocolate bar and gave Fritz another. Fritz looked up. Was this for him to keep? He wondered if Paul was watching them from behind the hedge near the barn. The soldier patted Fritz’s shoulder, nodded approvingly, again showing the missing tooth with a big smile. The other Russian now climbed down from the tank with a wooden box. He lifted the lid and took out two metal egg-shaped objects with a grid-relief on the outside. Both men stuffed three of the metal eggs into their jackets and turned toward the pond. “Come! Come!” the man with the scar motioned. Fritz did not want to go with them. By now Mama might be worried, possibly already on her way to look for him in the garden.

  “No, thank you!” he answered, returning the men’s friendly smiles. “I have to go home now!” Fritz pointed toward the barn up on the hill. “This is where I live. I have to go back to my mother.”

  “Mother?”

  “Yes!” Fritz answered, relieved that they understood him. He nodded to emphasize the meaning of the word. The blond man addressed his fellow soldier in Russian. The second man nodded and repeated, “Maama!” turning to Fritz.

  “Dawai! Dawai!” the Russians said, laughing and pushing him toward the hill, pointing up to the farm.

  Paul was waiting for him behind the hedge at the barn.

  “What did they give you?”

  “Chocolate bars,” Fritz said.

  “Show me!” Paul demanded.

  “Here.” Fritz pulled out the bar.

  “You have to give it to me.”

  Fritz hesitated.

  “You wouldn’t have it if I hadn’t sent you into the tank,” Paul said, grabbing the bar. Fritz wanted to protest, but Paul had already unwrapped the chocolate and taken a bite with a wide grin.

  “I have to go home,” Fritz said and turned away.

  13

  Until the fences were repaired, Fritz’s main job was to herd the cows. It was a warm, humid afternoon when he had set out with his family’s cows to the green pasture behind the pond. Dark clouds gathered in the west announcing rain. As the first drops fell, Fritz sought shelter under a big oak tree. The ten cows had spread out on the grass, some lying down to chew their cud. The wind rose from the west, and the clouds moved fast. Fritz leaned against the tree, wondering if the rain would last, when two Russian jeeps drove onto the pasture. Four soldiers jumped out of the vehicles and ran toward the cows, clapping their hands, and herding them toward the road. Fritz wanted to scream, but the sound stuck in his throat. Instead he turned and ran. It was only a short distance uphill toward the house. “Mama! Mama!” he yelled, “Where are you?”

  “What’s the matter?” Mama asked, coming out of the barn. “Why aren’t you out in the field?”

  “The Russians are taking the cows! They’re driving them away!”

  Mama walked with long strides across the yard. When she reached the brow of the hill, she began to run. Fritz sped to follow her. By the time they arrived at the pastureland, the cows were moving slowly down the road. “No! No!” Mama screamed, running toward the soldiers. One man turned around, yelled in Russian, and laughed. Fritz saw Mama passing the animals, spreading her hands in an attempt to stop them. But the other soldier pushed her away, patting the cows’ rears to encourage the animals to walk faster. Fritz did not move. He saw Mama stumble from the man’s shove, her face frozen in terror.

  “Rieke!” the name of the lead cow darted out of Fritz’s mouth. “Rieke!” he called, stepping closer. “Rieke!”

  The cow named Rieke turned around and trotted toward him. Two of the Russians reached their arms out to stand in her way, but Rieke continued on her path. One man yelled in Russian, but the soldiers couldn’t stop her. The other cows stayed with the soldiers, and they ushered them down the road. The Russians turned around, laughing, amused.

  With rain dripping from Fritz’s hair, Rieke nudged him with her warm nose. Mama had collapsed under the tree, burying her face in her hands. Fritz walked over to her, followed by the faithful Rieke, and put his hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay,” he muttered, his heart aching at seeing Mama hurting like this. She looked up at him, but her attempt at smiling showed her distress even more. She swallowed hard, shook her head, got up, and wiped off her clothing.

  “Thank you, Fritz!” she said. “I wish the others had followed her.” Mama sighed and took his hand and led the cow back to the barn. “Looks as if even the sky is sad that we lost our cows,” she said, tugging his hand to emphasize the joke, but Fritz knew that she could not make light of the loss.

  Back at the house, Mama told Irmi and Lech what had happened. Fritz didn’t want to be there, especially when Irmi clasped her hands over her mouth and made it worse for Mama by crying. They still had Rieke, who could supply milk for the family, but there wouldn’t be any extra to sell. He washed his hands and looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. What a coward he was. He should have stepped in earlier. He had rescued only one cow. He should have run between the men and the herd. He should have tried to call them all back.

  In the hallway he met Lech. “It’s not your fault,” he said, as if he could read Fritz’s mind. “The Russians are taking all the livestock, from everyone.”

  “I wish I had done more,” Fritz said quietly.

  “You did what you could,” Lech said. “I’m going to the barn. Would you like to come with me to work on your dog?”

  “No,” Fritz said.

  14

  The following Saturday, when Fritz returned from milking Rieke, a jeep was parked in front of the house. Lech and Mama were standing in the kitchen with two Russians. Mama motioned Fritz to come closer. These men wore real uniforms instead of the ragged bulky green shirts he had seen on the soldiers he had met at the tank. The taller Russian stepped toward Mama, stretched out his hand, and said: “Mikhail Petrov.” His head was not shaved like all the other Russians’ Fritz had seen so far. Mikhail Petrov had a full shock of golden-blond hair and a square jaw. He looked like the handsome Aryans the Nazis had printed on their po
sters. How strange to know a Russian by name. “And this is Sergei Babiuk.” The second man, short with thinning dark hair, nodded in Mama’s direction but did not shake her hand.

  Mama turned to Fritz. “This is my son, Fritz.” Fritz didn’t know if he should greet the men with a handshake. How polite would he need to be to Russians? Fritz couldn’t take his eyes off Mikhail Petrov’s chiseled face. The handsome Russian smiled at Fritz and said that he spoke only a little German: “Ich spreche nur wenig Deutsch.” The words came out in a soft melody. He pronounced the ch-sound in the back of his throat. Mama nudged Fritz and said in a hushed tone, “Don’t stare.”

  Later, Lech explained that the two men were the commanders of the Russian army unit that had taken and secured the village and that they planned to set up their headquarters in the house for a while. “Headquarters? What does that mean?” Fritz looked at Lech.

  “They’ll stay with us,” Lech said. “They’ll sleep in your grandparents’ old bedroom, and they’ll use the living room as their office.” Fritz looked at Mama to see what she thought of the Russians moving in. But just then Irmi entered the kitchen, and when she saw the two Russians, she threw her hands in front of her face and let out a scream. Mama put her arm around Irmi’s shoulder and pulled her closer.“It’s okay,” she told her. Fritz was not sure what to think. They seemed less frightening than the first soldiers who had come into their house, but Fritz made himself remember all the things he had been told about Russians by his grandparents, his teachers, and speakers on the radio. But then again, the two soldiers he had met at the tank had even given him chocolate. He argued with himself back and forth, trying to figure out what he thought of them. He certainly didn’t like them sleeping in Oma Lou’s bed. Irmi was more definite in her opinion. As soon as the two left to bring in their gear, she shrieked, “You want us to stay in the house with Russians?”

  “Irmi, they will stay downstairs. We’ll keep our rooms upstairs. They seem friendly. And we don’t have a choice anyway,” Mama said.

  “We should go to Oma Clara’s! We should have left before,” Irmi said.

  “We have the biggest house in the village. So I’m not surprised they want to move in here. If that’s the only sacrifice we have to make, we are lucky,” Mama answered calmly.

  Mikhail Petrov was taking an olive-green canvas bag out of the back of their jeep when Fritz crossed the yard. He motioned Fritz to come closer. He squatted down, reached into the bag, and pulled out a photograph of a boy and a girl, both about Fritz’s age, with their father’s golden-blond hair. “Meine Kinder,” he said, pronouncing the K like a Kh. “Aljosha and Katja,” he said, smiling at Fritz.

  “Aljosha and Katja,” Fritz tried to pronounce the names, pointing at them.

  “Are they twins? They look the same,” he asked.

  “Yes, yes!” Mikhail Petrov laughed. “They are same.” He circled his face with his hand. “Yes, same.” He said a Russian word that Fritz didn’t understand. It was probably the word for twins.

  Fritz smiled and said slowly, “Twi-ins.”

  Mikhail Petrov repeated the word, and Fritz nodded. They shook hands, laughing.

  15

  The next morning, Fritz went to Paul’s house. He wanted to tell him about the two Russians. Paul’s little brother, Willi, let Fritz in. “Fitz is here! Fitz is here!” he shouted as Fritz closed the door behind him and followed Willi into the kitchen.

  Paul’s mother was sitting at the table with a man Fritz did not know. “Good morning, Fritz,” said Paul’s mother.

  “Werner, this is Paul’s friend, Fritz. Gertrude Friedrich’s son. Fritz, this is Paul’s father, my husband.”

  His cheekbones pressed through his skin. A small cut left a red line on his chin, and Fritz wondered if the man had just shaved his beard. He wore an undershirt, and his collarbones stuck out.

  “Nice to meet you!” Fritz said and shook the man’s bony hand.

  “So you are Karl Friedrich’s grandson.”

  “Yes. … He is dead,” Fritz said, expecting a word of condolence.

  “I heard he got away before he could get what he deserved,” Paul’s father said instead, piercing his eyes into Fritz, who wondered what he could have done to make Paul’s father angry.

  An awkward silence filled the room. Then Fritz remembered what Paul had said about Grandpa Karl and the Nazis. He turned to Paul, who focused on the kitchen floor.

  “I have to go back home right away,” Fritz said without looking up.

  “What did you do with the sign?” Fritz asked Mama, who was working in the garden.

  “Which sign?”

  “The sign we used to have in front of the house that said that Grandpa Karl was the head of the Nazi farmers in town.”

  “I put it in the attic. It’s wrapped in an old potato sack, together with all the swastika pins and Irmi’s Young Maiden uniform.”

  “Why didn’t you burn it?”

  “We didn’t have time. And metal wouldn’t burn anyway,” Mama said. “I put it under the hood of the old sewing machine, the one that Oma Lou never got repaired.”

  “What if they find out that we were Nazis?”

  “Everyone in the village knows that Grandpa Karl was the local Nazi farmers’ representative. And your grandpa Karl wasn’t the only one who wore the swastika,” Mama said.

  “But what about the Communists? Are they going to do something bad to us because we were Nazis?”

  “Fritz,” Mama sighed and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, “we weren’t Nazis.”

  “But Irmi …,” Fritz started to say.

  “Irmi had to join the Young Maidens. You would have had to join the Hitler Youth as well. No one had a choice. You just turned ten at a time when it was all falling apart,” Mama said, motioning him to come closer. “Don’t worry. They have to rebuild Germany. They need people to farm. And that’s all we do.”

  Fritz ran into the house and hurried upstairs. Mama’s answer had not dissolved his worries. The wooden floorboard in the corner of the attic gave a dry complaint when he ripped the sack from under the hood of the sewing machine. He dashed downstairs and took the main entrance to avoid Mama’s questions. In long strides Fritz hurried along the village road. When he reached the sandy path that led to the forest, he fell into a trot.

  He found the fork-shaped pine tree right away. The rain had flattened the pile of dirt, but the hole was still there. Fritz threw the sack down, remembering his last visit with Grandpa Karl. Now he wished he had brought a shovel. With his feet he kicked soil into the hole, feeling calmer as he saw the evidence buried under layers of dirt.

  16

  Soon after, on a warm evening at the beginning of June, Sergei brought a crate of vodka and placed it under the stairs to the backyard. He also carried out two chairs from the kitchen. At first Fritz thought they would invite Lech to drink with them, but then three other Russians came, one of them with an accordion. The man with the accordion sat down and propped his instrument on his thighs. He began first to pull and then to push with both hands, and the accordion released its elongated sounds. The player’s right foot tapped to the rhythm, and his upper body swayed with each pull. Another man with a harmonica accompanied the accordion’s melody.

  “Fritz, come and help dry the dishes,” Irmi called.

  “The Russians will get drunk tonight,” Mama commented. “We’ll have a noisy night.”

  “They’re celebrating our defeat,” Irmi said, shaking her head. ”I don’t like them.”

  “They won’t stay long. And if we manage to get along with them, they won’t harm us.” Mama had remained firm in her decision not to leave the farm. Fritz did not mind the Russians as much as Irmi, who was constantly complaining about Mama doing “slave work” for the Russian soldiers.

  Lech entered the kitchen. “That was a great dinner,” he said to M
ama and joked, “The Russians are good for something after all, but it looks like we’re in for a long night. They want to celebrate their victory and the end of the war.”

  “Yes, we were just talking about that,” Mama answered. “We should go to bed early.”

  The music grew louder, and one man began singing. His deep voice vibrated with a sad song.

  “Why are they singing such a sad song if they are celebrating?” Fritz wondered aloud.

  “The Russians have deep, sad souls,” Lech answered, smiling.

  Mikhail entered and said something to Lech, who translated, “He wants you to come outside and join them.”

  “Oh no, thank you,” Mama answered, but the Russian stepped in front of her, swinging his legs straight together, let his heels clap, and bowed down toward her.

  “Bitte, Frau Friedrich,” he said in his Russian accent, drawing the last syllable longer than the first and pronouncing the ch way back in his throat. He offered his right arm to their mother. Fritz was surprised to see Mama smile as she put her hand on the Russian’s arm and followed him outside.

  “I’m not going!” Irmi called out, after the door was closed behind them. Lech hesitated for a moment, then stepped outside as well. “Come. Let’s finish the dishes,” Irmi said to Fritz. “I can’t believe they are celebrating our defeat right here under our noses.” Fritz focused on drying the plate in his hands. “It’s so humiliating,” she continued as Fritz tried to catch a glimpse of what was going on outside. “I wish Mama would not go there.”

  “Lech is with her,” Fritz said, working faster.

  “That doesn’t make it better,” Irmi said.

  “What’s wrong with one dance?” Fritz asked.

  “She is dancing with a Russian!” Irmi said.

  “What do you have against them?” Fritz had enough of Irmi’s constant bickering about the Russians. “They are treating us well. They share food with us. Mama says that they probably protect us from burglars and looters. So what’s wrong with them?”