Monika Schröder - The Dog in the Wood

“My grandpa is dead. Why do you keep bringing him up? You never even said you were sorry when he died.”

“They put my father in prison.”

“My grandpa had nothing to do with your dad having to go to prison.” Fritz picked up a nail and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger before he aimed at the can.

“Your grandpa organized the Volkssturm , and he wore the uniform on holidays,” Paul said, his voice triumphant now.

“But he didn’t hurt anybody,” Fritz said.

Just then they heard steps outside the barn.

A Russian soldier came walking into the barn. He was alone, his green cap cocked to the right side of his shaved head. The man was whistling, and when he came closer, Fritz noticed his swaying gait. A bottle was sticking out of his left pocket.

“ Dosvidanya ,” the man roared.

The soldier looked around the barn, appearing to search for something. He walked slowly toward the old motorcycle that stood in the corner. It had belonged to Fritz’s father, but nobody had used it for years. The soldier wheeled it from the corner and threw his leg over the bike, trying to start the machine. Once he realized that the motorcycle was not starting, he got off and motioned to Fritz and Paul, calling something in Russian. They didn’t understand him, but it was obvious that he wanted them to come closer. The soldier pulled a small revolver out of his pocket and screamed something at them. Paul turned pale. Reluctantly, Fritz moved toward the soldier. His heart raced, and there was a sudden shiver in the pit of his stomach. What did the man want? The soldier kept motioning and called out to Paul. Fritz reached the motorcycle, and the soldier forced his hands on the handlebars.

“Go, go,” the man screamed in broken German

“He wants us to push it!” Fritz called out.

Fritz pushed the motorcycle out of the barn. The Russian pressed his revolver into Fritz’s back. Paul pushed against the back fender. Outside, sunshine painted the yard golden. The farmhouse threw a long, sharp shadow, and the sky was dark blue in a late afternoon glow.

They pushed the motorcycle out through the main gate and turned right. No one was on the street. The three of them moved slowly, the soldier taking an occasional swig from his bottle. When they reached the edge of the village, the soldier motioned toward the hill on the south side of the cemetery. They crossed the cemetery, and Fritz thought, I f he shoots us now, we’re right here .

Streams of sweat dripped down from Fritz’s forehead. His eyes stung, and he tried to wipe his face but couldn’t reach it without letting go of the handlebars. Finally, they arrived at the bottom of Lord’s Hill, as it was known to the villagers.

“Up, up,” the Russian yelled.

They pushed the motorcycle up the hill, the Russian stumbling behind them. When they reached the top, he shoved Fritz aside and swung onto the seat. With a scream of joy he let himself roll downhill. The Russian bumped up and down, stretching out his legs on both sides of the motorcycle, like a boisterous child. Once the machine had rolled out onto the grassy flat, he turned around and waved his revolver in their direction.

“He wants us to come down,” Fritz said.

“I know. He’s crazy.”

“Come, come!” they heard the drunken soldier scream, and a shot from his revolver split the air.

“Let’s go!” Fritz called to Paul, and they ran downhill.

Fritz picked up the motorcycle and began to push it uphill again. Paul again helped from the back. The Russian walked beside them, waving his revolver. Once up on top, the Russian again let himself roll down, screaming and laughing. This time Paul ran down the hill while the motorcycle was still rolling. Fritz followed. How much longer would they have to do this? He was thirsty now.

The Russian soldier took a swig from his bottle. As he motioned the boys to push the motorcycle back up, he stumbled. The revolver dropped into the grass. Paul threw the motorcycle into the grass and tried to run away. But the Russian reached for his weapon and pointed it directly at Paul. The man let out a deep growl, like a large animal. Fritz couldn’t move, his eyes glued on the Russian, who kept the revolver directed at Paul. Suddenly, Fritz felt a jerk at his sleeve as Paul pulled Fritz between himself and the revolver. He felt Paul’s fingers holding onto his arms from behind. Fritz stared at the Russian, who frowned, his eyebrows crawling toward each other like two black hairy caterpillars. They were standing like this for what seemed a long time. He couldn’t feel his legs. Then the man bent his head backward and laughed. He lowered the revolver and stepped back. With his left hand he motioned toward the road. “ Dawai! Dawai! ” he called. Fritz felt his legs filling with life again, and he tried a step forward. The Russian stumbled away. Fritz turned around. Tears glistened on Paul’s cheeks. “I’m s-sorry!” he stuttered.

Fritz just stared at him.

“I know I shouldn’t have done that. I was just…,” Paul pleaded.

“You don’t really care about me. You’re not my friend,” Fritz said. “Leave me alone!” Fritz picked up the motorcycle and pushed it back toward the road.

Paul had not shrunk. There was no bang. But it was like a balloon had burst and nothing was left but air. The horizon quivered in the glistening sun. The cobblestones lost their contour to the heat. The road lay empty. Fritz put the motorcycle back into the barn and walked down to the pond. Better not to see anyone right now. He passed the garden and his ripe tomatoes. Later, he would harvest them. They would not disappoint him. He took off his shirt, pants, and shoes and stepped into the water. It grew colder the farther he moved from the shore. He walked out until he lost the muddy ground under his feet and sank down, holding his breath. When it hurt, he exploded to the surface and let himself float on his back. The emptiness stretched out inside of him, helping him to stay afloat.

Summer was a good time to be lonely. July had turned into August, and the harvest had begun. Fritz helped making hay. He ran between the fields and the house, transporting water and food. Most days they all stayed out until dark and went to bed exhausted. Fritz volunteered for any chores they would let him do. He even asked if he could help with the laundry on Fridays, a chore Irmi happily passed on to Fritz.

It was early September now, but the days were still warm. Mama made a fire in the low stove under a big aluminum pot in a small room adjacent to the pigsty, called the pig kitchen. The pig kitchen had a low ceiling, and the walls exuded the smell of washing detergent and boiled potato skins, an aroma that Fritz liked and inhaled with a deep breath. He took turns with Mama, first stirring the laundry in the hot water before pulling it out. When they twisted the wet sheets around the handle of their long spoons, milky water ran toward the drain in small rivulets. Their faces grew hot, and sweat dripped down their necks. Just as the last piece was fished out of the pot, they heard steps on the gravel outside. A man’s voice called, “Frau Friedrich?”

“I’m in the stall kitchen,” Mama answered through the open door.

When the three men came closer to the door, the bright parallelogram the sun threw on the floor filled with their shadows.

“Could we talk to you for a minute?” the oldest of the three asked. Fritz recognized only one of the men. It was Paul’s father.

Mama stepped toward the door, wiping strands of hair from her forehead. “Fritz, go down to the lawn and hang up the laundry,” she said. The three men followed her up the stairs into the house. Fritz turned toward the laundry basket and bent down to pick it up, but when he heard the back door close behind the visitors, he stood up again, leaving the basket untouched. The smaller of the two kitchen windows was open, and he could hear the scratching of chairs on the linoleum floor. He walked to the window, staying close to the wall, bending over a little bit to make sure Mama would not see him.