Monika Schröder - The Dog in the Wood

When the table was cleared, he ran outside. A stack of firewood waited to be split in the barn. Fritz picked up the ax, set a log onto the block, and swung the ax, letting it crash down, splitting the log into two halves. He picked up the pieces and stacked them along the wall. He placed the next log on the splitting block and lifted the ax. Even though it was cold in the unheated barn, he soon began to sweat. After each swing of the ax he replayed in his mind how the men had grabbed Mama, how Lech had tried to protect her. When his ax came down and the wood cracked in two, Fritz heard again the sound of the man hitting Lech. He remembered the cold fear he felt, waiting for someone to get shot. Then he saw again the last glimpse he had of Mama before the tarpaulin was thrown over the back of the truck. He replayed these images over and over again. They accompanied the rhythm of his work.

The feeling of loss clenched him and would not let go. Another log split into two. Fritz tried to imagine where Mama was now, but he had no picture for the place she could be. Maybe they were close and would come back soon? Oma Clara said they probably had been taken to a military police station by the Russians. But what did she know? She should go back and ask more questions. When would he see them again?

The sound of splitting wood lessened the pressure inside. He didn’t want the pile of logs to grow smaller.

Fritz hated how Oma Clara made helpless attempts to cheer them up. What could help? He felt numb, and all he could think of was the last glimpse of Mama. But the next morning Oma Clara was all business again. She sent Irmi out to milk the cows.

“What are you going to do?” Fritz asked.

“What do you mean?” Oma Clara collected the dishes.

“What are we going to do to get Mama and Lech back?”

“There is nothing else we can do right now.” Oma Clara looked at Fritz. “It has happened to other people, too.” She turned toward him, leaning with her back against the counter.

“What has happened to them?”

“They were taken away by the military police under a false accusation. That’s all we know.”

“And where are they now?”

“The Russians have them.” She looked down on the kitchen floor. “And they might have put them in prison.”

“In prison?” The thought of Mama behind bars cut through him. “But she is innocent,” he said, his own voice sounding thin and helpless.

“It makes no difference.”

“You only asked the mayor.”

“The mayor is the only one we can ask.” She sighed. “No one can battle the Russians.”

“You cannot be sure! We’ve got to try someone else!”

“Fritz!” Oma Clara looked at him sternly. “I know this is painful for you. But we can’t do anything else. We need to wait for the misunderstanding to be cleared up. Then they’ll come back. In the meantime, we have to continue our lives.”

“It’s your fault that they’re not back!” he screamed and jumped up, the chair screeching over the floor. “You could have asked more people or found out where the prison is.”

Oma Clara shook her head. “My boy,” she said, “they don’t want us to know what they do with their prisoners. I wish I could explain this to you.”

“You’re defending them!” He beat the kitchen table with his fist.

“No, I am not defending them. I’m trying to explain to you that this is all we can do.”

“It’s your fault!” he yelled. “You didn’t do enough! You didn’t show them that there were no weapons! You could have gotten them back!” The words shot out of him in a hot stream, his face burning.

Oma Clara looked at him, concerned.

“It’s all your fault!” he screamed, his body melting. “I hate you!”

“Fritz! My poor boy!” She tried to pull him closer, but he backed away.

“I hate you!”

“Fritz!” Her voice was stern now. “Look at me, Fritz!” Her hand reached for his chin, but he shoved her away. Oma Clara clutched his upper arms.

“Fritz!” She shook him.

Wheels of red and black spun before his eyes. He kicked against her shin. She stepped aside, and he kicked the air. She slapped him. “Fritz, come to your senses!”

The hot stream froze. It was quiet in the kitchen. He looked at her. She was crying.

“Come here, boy! I am sorry!” She opened her arms for an embrace.

“Don’t touch me!” He pulled away and stomped into the cold hallway. When he reached his bedroom, he locked the door and crawled under the heavy down cover, and wished Oma Clara would just die.

Ihave to find Mama and Lech. I have to find Mama and Lech. I have to find Mama and Lech . The words spun through his mind all day.

The next day at lunch Oma Clara made another attempt to get him to talk. “Fritz, I know you feel a lot of pain,” she said. “You are aching so badly.” He didn’t need her to tell him how he felt. He remained silent. Fritz listened to Oma Clara but would not speak to her. She asked him to sort the last potatoes. He sorted them mechanically, thinking about Mama and Lech. She asked him to clean the kale. He washed the leaves in ice cold water, his fingers bloodless and numb, thinking about what he could do to find them. He wished it was spring or summer, when there would be many more farm chores. Now, in the darkest, coldest part of winter they only had to tend to the few animals left, but no fieldwork could be done. He longed for the harvesttime, the bundling of hay. Even weeding the beet patch, a once dreaded chore, seemed better than sitting around the house.

Icy hail rattled down all day and forced him to remain inside. The large tile oven that was built into the connecting wall heated only the kitchen and the living room. It was too cold in the unheated bedroom, and he had to be in the same room with Oma Clara and Irmi for most of the day. Now, after a silent dinner, she had told them to dress in boots and warm jackets to help with the slaughter of a pig.

“How dare she do this?” Fritz handed Irmi her boots and sat down on the bench to pull on his own.

“Dare to ask you to help or dare to slaughter a pig illegally?” Irmi steadied herself against the door frame as she put her foot into a boot. “She needs our help since she can’t call the butcher or anyone else. I hope she doesn’t get caught.”

“How will she kill the pig without everyone in the neighborhood hearing that awful squeal?”

“I don’t know.” Irmi shrugged. “But I am sure she has it all planned out. The hail will muffle the sound and help to wash out all the blood.” Irmi held the door open for Fritz. “We need to eat. Meat will help us to get through the winter.”

Oma Clara had emptied one of the back stalls in the stable and piled up several bales of hay. Behind the wall of hay she had collected all the tools she would need and buckets of water.

They had slaughtered pigs in Schwartz every winter. After the first frost, when the meat could be cured and stored in the cold, Grandpa Karl had called the butcher, who would arrive in a pony cart with his tools. He would kill the animal, examine the meat for parasites, and cut the pig expertly into the parts needed for processing. Oma Lou, Mama, and Irmi had boiled some of the meat or made sausage. Fritz had been allowed to watch, and afterward he had helped to scrape the hair off the dead animal skins. That was all Mama would let him do. On such evenings they usually had a feast of meat and sauerkraut and potatoes.

The pig Oma Clara had hidden was small. She had tied its snout with twine to muffle its squeal. But when Oma Clara cut the pig’s throat after placing a large pot under the spot of the wound, it still let out a shrill squeal. The bright arterial blood pumped out, and the pig grew silent. When the red stream turned thin and finally ceased flowing, she handed Fritz the pot. “Stir this so it doesn’t jell!” Fritz stood for a moment with the pot in both hands. He didn’t know if he was nauseous from the smell, the sight of his grandma gutting the pig, or the assignment to stir the blood.