Monika Schröder - The Dog in the Wood

Lech had begun to unpack the cart. They carried blankets and clothes to his new quarters, a small room adjacent to the stable.

“This is better than Schwartz,” said Lech. “There’s a little stove, so I can make a fire in the winter, and I’ll have electric light.” Lech pointed to the light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Fritz nodded, trying to put together a list of good things about Sempow. Lech squatted in front of him and grabbed Fritz’s sleeve.

“Listen,” Lech said, focusing his light blue eyes on Fritz. “We will make this work. Here we don’t have to live with Russians. We won’t be evicted.”

“She has no garden.”

“There is a lot of work waiting for us here. I’ll need your help, young man,” Lech said.

Fritz looked down. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I just miss Oma Lou.”

“I know,” Lech pulled him closer. “But your Oma Clara isn’t such a bad woman. You know what they say: ‘soft nut in a hard shell’?”

“I’m not sure that’s the way the saying goes.” Fritz looked up.

“Yeah, yeah, excuse my German.” Lech laughed. “But you know what I mean.”

When Fritz entered the kitchen, Oma Clara thrust a handful of silverware at him. “Here, Fritz, make yourself useful and set the table.”

She asked him to put a small rectangular wooden board for everyone on the table and then stacked several slices of rye bread in a pile in the middle of the table. Oma Clara unpacked a dried-out block of cheese and a small earthen pot that contained a white shiny substance. Goose lard—Fritz shuddered at the thought of his least favorite bread spread. “You don’t like this, do you?” Oma Clara handed him the lard. “In times of famine the devil eats flies.” She laughed.

“I had some refugees from the East staying with me just until last weekend. The Sielmanns wanted to go to the American zone,” Oma Clara said while they were eating dinner. “They came from Königsberg with an accent so thick you could cut a knife through it.”

“Where did they go?” Mama asked.

“Once they learned that the Americans kept Western Germany, they moved on. I’m not sure that it’s possible to cross over into the American zone, but I wish them luck. They were so fed up with the Russians that they didn’t want to stay. I guess in Königsberg they had seen a lot of grief.”

“Are there any Russians in Sempow?” Fritz asked.

“Oh yes. They’re everywhere,” Oma Clara answered. “They’re taking the railroad tracks apart behind the eastern forest to transport them to Russia. Sometimes they enter houses and help themselves to food and water. I heard from Beth Littman that they were drinking out of her toilet.” Oma Clara laughed. “Erna Schmittke told us that they fried potatoes in her bedpan! They are like children!”

“Children with weapons and vodka,” Mama said, giving Oma Clara a look that made it clear she wished to end this conversation.

But Oma Clara continued, “Their headquarters are now in Nirow. Johann Müller is their man here in Sempow. He is now the leader of the local Communists. Remember him, Gertrude?” Mama nodded.

“He went to grade school with me,” Oma Clara continued. “His family used to own the mill, but he got all political and moved to Berlin. After 1933 he relocated to Russia. He is a true believer in the new system, speaks Russian and all.” Oma Clara shook her head.

“I will have to talk to him tomorrow,” Mama said. “We need to register and apply for land. I hope they will give it to people like us.”

Mama’s last words hurt Fritz. What kind of people were they? Refugees? People whose farm had been taken away by their neighbors?

“You know my opinion.” Oma Clara smeared another slice of the bread with the goose lard. “But you are so hardheaded that you had to stay with your husband’s parents. If you had moved in with me after your husband’s death, you could have spared yourself and your kids a lot of grief.”

Mama’s eyes begged Oma Clara to stop talking about this. Fritz wanted Mama to defend herself. He looked at Irmi, who focused on her bread.

Fritz was trying to compose a sentence to support Mama when Oma Clara said, “But like I said before: You can stay here as long as you want. We’ll make do!” Fritz wondered if she really she meant it.

Fritz didn’t want to spend time alone with Oma Clara. But in the morning of the next day she asked him to help her while Lech worked in the potato fields. They led the horse the short distance down to the creek where a neighbor had left fence posts for Oma Clara’s new fence. Fritz didn’t like the horse. For a draft horse he was too nervous. Every time the singletree bar jumped over a stone the horse’s ears twitched with fear. He chewed his bit nervously, white foam frothed from his mouth, and sweat glistened on both his flanks.

“I got him new just last week,” Oma Clara said. “The Communists gave him to me, probably took him away from some rich estate. He needs to get used to his new home, just like you.” They reached the creek, and Fritz fastened the reins around a tree trunk. “Don’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth, you know,” Oma Clara said as she expertly fastened the ropes around the posts and tied them to the singletree. “You’re a real chatterbox this morning,” Oma Clara said, looking up. “What’s the matter, silent one?”

Fritz shrugged. “Nothing,” he mumbled, hoping she wouldn’t try to prod a conversation out of him.

“I think the logs are tightly tied now,” Oma Clara said. “All righty, let him haul.” Fritz took the reins and led the horse forward. With his pull, the lines between the harness and the posts tightened. The horse threw his head back and took one step forward.

“That’s it,” Oma Clara called. “Make him go on.”

Fritz grabbed the reins tighter and pulled, walking slowly forward. But the horse didn’t move. “We should calm him down first and then show him how to pull. I think he doesn’t know what we want him to do,” Fritz said.

But Oma Clara was in a hurry. “The only thing we need to show him is who is in charge. He’s a draft horse.” The horse’s ears twitched nervously. Oma Clara stepped forward and snapped a switch over the horse’s rear. With a quick movement the horse stepped sideways, and several of the posts slid out from the looped rope.

“I need your help with these loose posts. Just tie the reins around that tree trunk and come back here,” Oma Clara called. Fritz could see the white of the horse’s eye as it tried to follow his movements. “Here, hold this end,” Oma Clara commanded, pointing to a post that had rolled aside. But just as Fritz bent down, he felt the strong kick on his backside, and he flew forward, landing on his face in the mud near the creek. For a moment he didn’t know what had happened. When he lifted his head, his left buttock burned with pain.

Oma Clara came running. “Are you all right?” She bent over him.

“I think so,” he said and sat up. But he couldn’t put much weight on his left side. The pain stabbed through him as he stood up.

“My boy,” Oma Clara said, “he gave you a real kickin’.”

Tears stung in Fritz’s eyes from the pain. But he would not cry.

“Can you walk?” she asked. He nodded. “Then you can work.” Fritz walked back to take the reins. The horse pulled calmly now.

“I guess he just had to get it out of his system,” Oma Clara said.

In the evening Mama came with a jar of cream as Fritz was going to bed. “That will be a big bruise,” she said. “Does it hurt?” Mama sat down on the bed and applied cream to his bottom.

“Not anymore,” Fritz said.

“That’s a mean horse,” Mama said, closing the jar. He was still lying on his chest.