Monika Schröder: The Dog in the Wood

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“I don’t like it here. I want to go back home,” Fritz said, his voice quivering into the pillow.

“This is our home now. I miss the farm in Schwartz, too, but we all have to make an effort to get along,” Mama said.

“Is Oma Clara making an effort?”

“She has taken us all in,” Mama said.

“But I don’t want to live here.” Fritz turned to face her. “I don’t…” He wanted to tell her how much he missed Oma Lou and the garden. How he wanted to be happy. How he wanted to not feel hurt all the time. But the pained look on Mama’s face again made him stop.

“You’ll have to get to know Oma Clara,” Mama said.

“When is it going to get better?” Fritz asked.

“The bruise will take a little while,” Mama said.

“No, I mean everything,” Fritz said. “You said that things would get better after the war is over. But everything is just getting worse.” He was fighting a salty taste in the back of his throat.

“Oh, Fritz!” Mama squeezed his arm. “The worst is over. From now on it will get better. We will make it work. Just give it a little time.” Her eyes were teary now. She had told him that the worst was over after Oma Lou and Grandpa Karl had killed themselves. Now she promised again that everything would get better. He wanted to believe her.

“Don’t you want to go out and find other kids? You should find a friend,” Mama said.

“Not yet,” Fritz replied, and turned toward the wall.

Maybe Mama had talked to Oma Clara because she didn’t ask Fritz to work with her. The following weekend Oma Clara sent Lech and Fritz to get firewood. On Saturday, Fritz was up early and looking forward to spending the day working with Lech. A night rain had glossed the cobblestones a glistening gray. The horse was pulling their cart calmly and stepped carefully on the slippery surface. They followed the main road to the village’s outer edge, and from there they went along the country road that connected Sempow to the city of Nirow. The road was lined with pollarded willow trees that seemed to reflect the somber mood of the dreary fall morning.

When they reached the outskirts of the woods, Lech turned to the left and directed the horse onto a sandy path. After another turn they continued on a narrow trail into the denser parts of the forest. Finally, Lech stopped the pony, tied the reins to a tree, and pulled the tool sack out of the cart. “Here, take this,” he said, and passed Fritz the bundle.

With a two-man saw they began to cut through the trunk of a pine tree. Fritz wanted to do well and focused all his strength into the back-and-forth movement of the saw. After the pine fell with a loud crack, the hard labor began. First they cut and broke off the upper branches. Then they stood on either side of the trunk and sawed the trunk into stove-length pieces for firewood. His upper arms quivered from the strain on his muscles, but Fritz did not want to show any weakness. The work made Fritz sweat, and he took off his cardigan. The sun was up now but couldn’t burn its way through the thick cloud cover, even though the fog trapped in the trees’ crowns had begun to thin out. The two finally finished sawing and began loading the logs into the cart when suddenly they both heard the sharp sound of metal ringing against metal.

“What was that?” Fritz asked.

“I don’t know,” Lech replied, letting his eyes gaze around the woods. They walked toward the source of the sound, which was now repeating rhythmically. The forest thinned out soon, and through the brush they could see men in uniforms directing a group of civilians who were loading what looked like long heavy rods onto a truck.

“What are they doing?” Fritz asked.

Lech put his finger onto his lips and held Fritz back. He nudged him behind a tree. “We should be careful. Looks like Russians.”

Through the branches Fritz could see that people were trying to lift something from the ground.

“They’re taking apart the railroad tracks,” Lech whispered.

Now Fritz could also identify the work the men and women were doing. They lifted the tracks from the wooden ties and labored to place them onto a large truck.

“Who is doing the work?” Fritz asked.

“I think these are people from the village,” Lech explained. “But we should not be here. It is better they don’t see us.”

Lech pulled Fritz by the sleeve, and the two of them headed back to their cart, but as soon as they had turned their backs, they heard a sharp voice: “Hands up!” Fritz froze in his steps, then slowly moved his arms up in the air. “Turn around!” the voice ordered. When Fritz turned around, he saw a Russian soldier holding his rifle in their direction. “You come!” He pointed at Lech. “Help with railroad.”

“No!” Fritz screamed.

“Don’t worry! He just wants me to help with the work,” Lech said calmly. “You go home. Lead the horse carefully.” He turned to the Russian and said something in his language. The man lowered his rifle and motioned Lech to come with him.

“I’ll be back later,” Lech called and walked toward the railroad tracks with the soldier.

“They just took him away, threatening him at gunpoint?” Mama was livid when she heard Fritz’s account. “I am going to complain to Müller.”

“Be careful, Gertrude,” Oma Clara cautioned, but Mama had already taken her jacket off the hook. “They have been taking people from the fields, and some of them didn’t come back. Be very careful!”

“Fritz!” Mama called. “I want you to come with me.”

They walked briskly over to the village pub. Instead of entering the main room where the men gathered to drink beer, they knocked on the door to the right. After a distant “Come in!” they entered a large room where the villagers had once celebrated weddings and holidays. Now it was used as an office for the representative of the Russian military administration and Johann Müller, the village’s appointed mayor. Mama approached a thin, bald man sitting behind the desk. “ Guten Tag, Johann! ”

The man looked up from his papers and got up to shake hands with Fritz’s mother. “Hello, Gertrude! What brings you here? I’d heard that you were back in Sempow. How are you?”

“I’m here to complain!” Mama said. “A Polish worker who lives and works with us on Clara’s farm has just been forced to help the Russians demolish the railroad lines.” She took a deep breath. “We need him on the farm. He was getting wood from the forest when a Russian soldier snatched him away.”

“Gertrude, I’m sorry that you are so upset. But the Russians need all the help they can get, and so they ask for help from the able men and women in our village.”

“But we need the man to help us. He was cutting firewood. If the Russians need to take our railroad tracks, why don’t they do it themselves?” Mama’s face was flushed with anger.

“He’ll be back tonight, and once the work is finished, he’ll be able to help on your farm again.” The mayor’s voice grew more officious.

Fritz wanted to pull Mama’s sleeve. She shouldn’t say any more. But before he could move, Mama continued. “What is this? Have we not been punished enough?” Mama’s voice reached a high pitch. “I lost my farm in Schwartz. Now I am trying to make ends meet with my mother. We are trying hard to do everything right. Isn’t that enough? Haven’t you socialists taken enough from me?” She gasped as if with her last words she had surprised herself. Fritz saw the mayor’s lips tighten into a straight line.

“Gertrude, you had better watch what you say!”