Monika Schröder: The Dog in the Wood

“Start now. Once the blood starts to set, it’s ruined and we can’t use it anymore,” Oma Clara ordered. Irmi gave him an encouraging nod before she walked over to an enamel bowl in which the intestines formed a bloody mass. Her job was to clean them for sausage casings.

Fritz set the pot down in front of a stool and began to turn the wooden spoon slowly in the blood. Someone must have traded the runt to Oma Clara. But what did she have to trade? And who would trade with her since that was illegal as well? No one could get permission for trading or slaughtering since all the pigs were counted regularly by the Russians. If he were still talking to her, he would ask her why she wasn’t worried that the meat might be infested with a parasite. They could all get sick from eating bad meat. But he would not ask.

Fritz sat with his back turned to the women listening to the sounds of their work. Oma Clara would need to burn the carcass once all the meat had been removed. But there would still be evidence. She would make sausages, and she would cook the meat. Those cans and jars would be stored in the pantry.

He stirred the blood faster and stared at the red swirl in the middle of the pot. Then he turned the spoon the opposite direction, forming an eddy.

The plan took shape while he stared into the blood. He imagined how he would go to Mayor Müller’s office and demand an immediate appointment. The mayor would receive him and listen. Fritz would tell him that he had some important information to trade. If Müller would tell him where Mama and Lech were, Fritz would tell him that Oma Clara had slaughtered a pig illegally, boiled the meat, made sausages, and hid it all in her cellar. He would trade Oma Clara for Mama and Lech. The Russians would come and raid the farm. Then they would take Oma Clara and return Mama and Lech.

The next morning Fritz woke up determined to do as he had planned. Oma Clara had gone to the Farmers’ Association office and would not be back before noon. In the washroom he combed his wet hands through his hair, making sure it was carefully parted. He checked himself in the mirror and plucked lint off his jacket. His arms stuck farther out of the sleeves than they used to, but he looked respectable enough.

Winter fog wrapped the low houses along the village street in a gray haze. It blurred the outlines of the roofs and muffled the sounds of his steps on the sidewalk. Fritz inhaled the cold, wet air as he swiftly made his way to the mayor’s office. He took the three stairs in one leap and knocked loudly at the door. No answer. He knocked again, and a woman’s voice called him to enter.

“Good day!” A woman dressed in a thick, black woolen sweater looked up from a desk in front of the window. “Who’s here?”

“Hello! My name is Fritz Friedrich, and I need to speak to Mayor Müller.” Fritz was pleased with the firmness of his voice.

“He’s not in.” The woman’s face was wrinkled, but her hazel eyes shone warm out of the creases.

“When will he be back?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“I will wait.” Fritz had stepped closer toward the desk and was now looking for a place to sit.

“Well, if you have time, you can keep me company while I take a break from this boring paperwork.” She nodded in the direction of a chair. The woman spoke in the accent of the people who had come with the treks.

“Are you from Königsberg?” Fritz asked.

She smiled and nodded. “You must have heard the accent before.” She turned toward Fritz on her swivel chair. She wore a heavy woolen skirt that looked to be made from a blanket. She held out her hand. “I am the mayor’s secretary. My name is Lydia Kolbe. Nice to meet you, Fritz.” Fritz shook her hand and noticed the two wedding bands on her ring finger. Just like Mama, she wore her own and what was most likely the ring of her dead husband.

“What’s so important?”

“I can’t tell anyone but the mayor.”

“You remind me of my boy,” she said. “He would be twenty-five now. But he died in Russia.” She paused for a moment. “He had the same sharp line running straight up from between his eyebrows when he was angry.” Frau Kolbe looked intently at Fritz, studying his face.

“Why are you so angry?” she asked.

“I’m not angry,” Fritz said, grabbing his knees with both hands and swaying back and forth on the chair.

“There are lots of reasons to be angry during these times,” she said softly. “I’m often angry myself.” A crow had landed in the tree outside the window. From where Fritz sat it seemed the bird was sitting on Frau Kolbe’s left shoulder.

“I am angry that I had to leave my beautiful home, the place I lived all my life, my horses, my trees, my parents’ graveyard, my fields, and that I was forced to come here. And of course, I am angry that my husband and my son died because the Nazis thought they could conquer Russia.” Her voice was trailing and she swallowed. “Are your mother and father still alive?” she asked. Fritz strained his ears for the sound of an approaching car.

“My father is dead. My mother is alive. I live with my grandmother.” Maybe he should just leave and come back some other time , he thought.

“Where is your mother?”

“The Russian military police took her.” Fritz pressed the words out.

“And you want to ask the mayor if he can help?”

Fritz didn’t answer. He looked down at the floor, focusing on the grain in the wooden floorboards.

“Let me tell you something, Fritz.” Frau Kolbe leaned forward. “Look at me.” Her face was so close Fritz could see fine blood vessels lacing the whites in her eyes. He squirmed in his chair.

“The mayor is the Russians’ marionette. He dances on their strings. I’m sure your grandmother has come and tried to find out where your mother is. Even if the mayor knew where they take the prisoners, he wouldn’t tell you.”

“I have something to offer him—a trade.” Fritz knew Frau Kolbe would explain why it wouldn’t be right to turn in Oma Clara. She’d tell him what he already knew—that they couldn’t run the farm without her.

“My boy,” she said, touching his arm with her cool hand, “don’t even think of doing that. You cannot trade with the devil.” She nodded her head slightly, as if she knew and understood.

Fritz felt his whole terrible story aching to come out. He wanted to tell Frau Kolbe everything, how much he hurt, how much he longed for Mama, how he wished he could do something. How he was so mad at Oma Clara for not trying harder. How he knew that they would never trade Oma Clara for Mama but that he hoped they would anyway. How the pain was like a missing tooth that his tongue kept caressing. But if he opened the floodgate, he would dissolve for good.

He got up. “I’ll come back some other time,” he said, avoiding Frau Kolbe’s eyes and quickly walking toward the door. He did not hear her parting words. He hurried down the stairs, eager to inhale the cold outside air.

The cow was a good listener. Fritz leaned against her, not worried about the dirt and the smell. He could feel the rhythm of her pulse on his cheek. His body rocked in the same rhythm through the swell of his tears.

The cow was warm and didn’t move when the words broke out of him. She wouldn’t tell anyone how he was ashamed of his plan to turn in Oma Clara. She wouldn’t tell anyone that Fritz just didn’t know what to do now. The pain had burst like a shattered ink pot, leaking black over him. Mama and Lech had been gone for three days now. He pounded his fist against the cow’s side, leaving a dark stain on her coat from his tears. The cow just shifted her weight and whipped him with her tail.