Monika Schröder - The Dog in the Wood

“How long will they have to stay in here?”

“We don’t know,” Grandpa said, his voice less audible because he spoke in the direction of the treetops. Then, with a quick gesture, Grandpa signaled Fritz to come back up.

“Does Grandma have to climb in and out with this rope?” Fritz asked as he scrambled out.

“No. I will bring a small ladder.” Grandpa rolled up the rope and swung it over his shoulder. “Let’s go back.”

When they reached the horse cart at the forest’s edge, Grandpa threw the rope into the cart and climbed back onto the seat. The horses’ ears twitched attentively, and their large eyes followed the old man’s movements. Fritz saw himself running through the forest frantically trying to find the tall forked pine tree while Russians were jumping from behind the bushes. His heartbeat quickened as he turned around to see if he could make out the tree from a distance.

“Come on, boy. I’m already late for my meeting with the other farmers. Tomorrow is the führer’s birthday, and we are planning a small celebration. I also have to talk to the men about our plan to defend the village,” Grandpa said.

Fritz pulled himself up and took his seat beside Grandpa on the horse cart. “How much longer will it be until the front reaches us, Grandpa?”

“The last time a German army jeep came through we were told that the front was now about thirty kilometers away. That means it could be less than a week before they’ll reach us here in Schwartz. We have to get ready for the last battle for our homeland.” Grandpa’s voice sounded as if he were giving a speech to a larger audience. “No worries, boy. The German spirit will prevail!” Grandpa boomed. Fritz nodded but wondered if Grandpa himself believed his own words as he clutched the reins so hard that white crescents appeared under the tops of his fingernails. Fritz knew there was reason to worry.

Grandpa stopped the horses in front of their gate. “You go inside, Fritz. I’ll be home for dinner soon. Don’t forget! The dugout has to remain a secret between the two of us. I don’t want to tell the women about it yet.”

As Fritz entered the house, his worries about the hole dissolved in the sweet aroma wafting from the oven. It was Friday, Fritz’s favorite day, when Oma Lou baked bread and sheet cake. He loved it so much that sometimes in the evening when he went to bed, before he put his clothes over the back of the chair, he would hold his shirt close to his nose to take in a last whiff of cake.

“Well, you came too late to lick the bowl,” Oma Lou said. “But maybe I’ll let you try some of the warm cake.” She ruffled his hair in passing before continuing to dry a wooden spoon.

His sister, Irmi, walked in. “Where were you all afternoon?” she asked. “I thought you where supposed to help us with the wash.” Irmi was four years older than Fritz and acted as if she were a second mother to him. Her pigtails whipped as she turned to Fritz, expecting an answer.

“Grandpa asked me to help him,” Fritz said, hoping she would not press him to lie by asking for more details.

Mama entered the kitchen with a small dried sausage from the pantry. She looked exhausted, and her hair was flat and dull. She hadn’t taken the time to part and comb it neatly into the style he liked. Fritz waited for Mama to comment on the row of tomato seedlings he had planted in the garden, but instead she said, “Fritz, go get the butter from the cellar.” He was disappointed that she hadn’t noticed, but these were hard times for Mama. She was arguing with Grandpa most evenings. Fritz wished he could tell her about the hole, but he wouldn’t disobey Grandpa’s order to keep it a secret.

Fritz walked to the mudroom connecting the hallway with the covered porch that led to the backyard. Here they stored their boots, overcoats, brooms, and the aluminum bathtub. Large enamel bowls hung from hooks on the wall, and the back wall was covered with shelves of jars containing canned fruits and pickled vegetables. Fritz bent down to open the wooden door to the cellar stairs. A musty odor wafted up. As he carefully stepped down into the darkness, the smell reminded him of the secret hole Grandpa had shown him that afternoon. Would they have enough time to take food? Should he take some food to the dugout now in preparation? Grandma would worry about the farm animals. He imagined Irmi crying. If Mama let him stay back to fight with Grandpa, he needed to learn how to shoot. He had gone hunting with Grandpa but without ever killing anything. On a side shelf he found the butter wrapped in moist waxed paper and carried it upstairs.

In the kitchen Fritz again inhaled the smell of the cake, which had now been placed under the window to cool. He handed Mama the butter, and in return she passed him two buckets, which he knew contained food scraps mixed with boiled potato skins for the pigs. It was Irmi’s turn to feed the pigs, but Fritz wouldn’t complain. Mama didn’t like it when they argued.

In the pigsty he watched the pigs pushing and shoving with their pink snouts as they each tried to reach the food first, accompanied by excited squeals and grunts. They didn’t feel any tension about the approaching Russians. Soon the squealing gave way to a chorus of contented smacking. He washed out the buckets and cleaned his hands at the water pump in the yard before returning to the house.

As usual they had a cold dinner. As on other days, the warm meal of the day had been eaten at noon. On the table was bread with butter, salami, and cheese. Grandfather entered the room with a solemn expression on his face. “How was your meeting, Karl?” Oma Lou asked, passing the bread basket to him.

“We need to plan for the defense of the village. The Russians have broken through the lines at Fürstenberg. Now it can only be a matter of days until they reach us. I talked to the village elders today, but many don’t want to defend the village.” Grandpa spoke hastily, as if out of breath.

“What do they want?” Mama looked up while placing a slice of bread on her plate.

“They want us to surrender!” Grandpa responded, cutting a thick slice of the salami. “Werner Güntzel thinks it is best to hang out white flags.” The sentence hovered over the dinner table. A fly was caught in the curtain; its sizzling filled the silence. Fritz remembered the drawing of the fierce-looking man with the mean eyes. He pictured a battalion of them holding their rifles and marching down the village road.

“We need to build obstacles to hinder the tanks from entering the village.” Grandpa Karl was talking louder than necessary. “Everyone should be out digging trenches to fight the tanks. We need to put logs on the roads to slow them down. People should dig hideouts in the forest to shelter women and children.”

The vein was pulsing on Grandpa Karl’s neck. Fritz looked away. Now they would begin their argument again.

“What good does that do?” Mama spoke up. “I’m not going to hide in the woods. How can you defend the village when the German army has been forced to retreat before the Russians? How many more people have to die?” She took a deep breath. “The war is over. The Americans have crossed the Elbe River, and the Russians are in Berlin. It’ll be only days until they reach us. We are protected by the forest and the lakes, but they will soon be here as well.” Oma Lou shot a pleading glance at Mama, wishing to avoid the looming argument, but Mama continued. “Even our own soldiers are fleeing from the front. Gerda Schreiber saw a group of German deserters the other day on her way to the mill.” Mama’s face was flushed, and she rubbed her thumb over her fingertips the way she did when she was nervous. If Papa were here, he might be able to help Mama to convince Grandpa. But his father had died in the first year of the war. Fritz was only four years old then, and he barely remembered his father’s face.