Monika Schröder: The Dog in the Wood

Konrad delivered the bicycle to the meeting spot behind the church the following Friday. It was still dark outside, and the clear night had chilled the air close to the freezing point. A sliver of the moon gave off yellow light. “I’ll make sure nothing will happen to the bike,” Fritz said, wrapping his scarf tighter around his neck. Even with two sweaters under his jacket he was cold. He would need to pedal fast to keep warm.

Fritz entered the city limits at dawn. It looked as if little progress had been made since the end of the war. Most buildings stood in ruins, with their fronts bombed away. Groups of women, wrapped in what looked like several layers of clothes, stood on piles of rubble hammering stones or throwing each other pieces of debris. White clouds of breath billowed from their mouths. Their colored headscarves dotted the gray surroundings. Fritz stopped to ask one of them for directions to the Russian headquarters.

“Oh, the Ivan stays in the old residence,” she said. “You need to cross the town square and turn right behind the city hall—or what’s left of it.”

The residence was a castlelike structure built in the last century by one of the county’s dukes. Bullet holes speckled the walls, one wing of the building was burnt out, the roof had caved in, and scorched beams stuck out like pointy, rotten teeth. Fritz took a deep breath and got off his bike to push it closer to the entrance. I can do it , I can do it , he told himself. He had come this far. Now he would get inside.

“ Stoj !” a Russian guard stepped into his way. The man asked him something in Russian. Fritz shook his head to signal that he didn’t understand. He smiled and pointed to the building. “I need to speak to the commander.” The man laughed, but not in a friendly way. It was more like the kind of laugh Mama would give when someone offered her a very low price for milk. The man walked once around the bicycle before he let out an approving sound with his tongue, pointing his weapon to the bicycle. Fritz’s heart sank. If the guard took away the bicycle, it would cause great trouble for Konrad. It also would be very difficult to get home on time. Fritz couldn’t let the plan fail already. He pulled the bike closer and said with as much confidence as he could muster, “I need to see the commander!” Fritz held the man’s gaze, forcing himself to stand straight. The guard broke into deep, loud laughter, this time showing amusement. He nodded at Fritz, patted him on the shoulder, and motioned him to go.

With a sigh of relief Fritz pushed the bicycle onward. He leaned the bicycle against a chestnut tree in the yard and entered the building. Inside, he stepped into a large vestibule. The tile floor was broken, and several picture frames enclosed empty spaces on the wall. Fritz walked up the lavish staircase. On the first floor a man stepped out of a door and asked him in heavily accented German where he was going.

“I’m looking for the commander,” Fritz said.

“What do you want from the commander?” the man inquired. His brows pulled together into a hostile frown.

“I need to ask him something important.” Once again Fritz tried to look more confident than he felt. On the man’s shoulder pads twinkled two golden stars. A silver medal attached to a short striped band of ribbon was fastened to his shirt and swayed on his chest with every word. “Out!” The Russian reached for Fritz’s shoulders, turned him around, and pushed him in the direction of the staircase, adding a stream of angry Russian words. Fritz stiffened his body and stood his ground as the Russian’s fingers pressed into his shoulders.

“No!” he screamed. “I need to see the commander! Please!” The words came out louder than he intended, and the high ceilings gave them even more volume.

Suddenly a door opened, and another soldier stepped into the hallway. He looked at the scene and shot a disapproving gaze at the man who had pushed Fritz. Fritz recognized him immediately. “Mikhail!” Fritz called. The man took a moment to focus his eyes on him. “Fritz?” he said. Then he asked in German with his heavy Russian accent, “What are you doing here?”

It was Mikhail, the Russian who had lived with them in the house in Schwartz, the man who had protected Irmi from the assault of his drunken colleague. Mikhail came closer and turned to the other Russian, uttering some stern words in Russian. The man left. Fritz felt the fear drop from his back.

“Come inside.” Mikhail motioned him to enter. The room was a huge octagon, topped with a high ceiling decorated with stucco ornaments. A dark red velvet sofa stood in front of an ornamented balcony door. Fritz wondered where the duke and his family, who used to live on this estate, were now. Mikhail motioned him to take a seat.

“So what’s the matter?” Mikhail made himself comfortable in the wing-back chair across from Fritz. His German had improved since he had lived in Schwartz. “Why were you screaming outside in the hall? Do you live in Nirow now?”

Fritz looked into the Russian’s open face and began to tell how they had to leave Schwartz and about the day they took Mama and Lech.

“…and the military police officer said they were in their custody,” Fritz finished and took a deep breath. “Can you help me find my mother?”

Mikhail fished a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. “I’m sorry to hear about your mother. If she had no gun, she will be free soon. If this was a misunderstanding, it will be cleared up quickly. The Russian system is just,” he said tartly. The tone in his voice had changed. Suddenly, he seemed uncomfortable. He lit a cigarette, and they both followed the smoke with their eyes.

“You are the commander,” Fritz said, his voice thin. “You must know where they bring prisoners.”

“Yes, but I have nothing to do with criminal cases.”

“But it’s not a criminal case ! It’s a misunderstanding, and I need your help to clear it up!”

“No, Fritz. I can’t help!”

“But you have to!” Fritz had leaned forward. On the desk he saw the photograph of Mikhail’s children he had shown him the day Mikhail had moved in with them in Schwartz. “What if it was your children who didn’t know where their mother was? Wouldn’t you help them?”

A shadow moved over Mikhail’s handsome face. He looked down at his cigarette. Fritz saw his Adam’s apple slowly bob up and down as he swallowed. Fritz waited for an answer, but Mikhail only checked his watch. “I have to go. There’s a car waiting to take me to a meeting in town.” He stood to leave. “You need to wait. If they haven’t done anything wrong, there won’t be any reason to hold them. Just wait, and it will resolve itself.”

“No, don’t tell me ‘just wait’! I don’t want to wait any longer. I waited for a long time, and things got worse. You are the only person I know who could help us!” Fritz didn’t like the sound of his voice. “You lived with us! You know Mama and Lech! We haven’t done anything wrong! Why are you doing this to us?” His last words came out sounding as if his voice needed oil.

Mikhail bit his lower lip. “We do collect some prisoners in the basement of the next building. But they never stay long before they are transported to real prisons,” Mikhail said in a somber tone. He walked over to the phone, picked up the receiver, and dialed. Fritz touched his cheek with the back of his hand. It felt hot. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

“No,” Mikhail said after her finished the phone call. “They’re not here. That’s all I can do.”

Fritz got up to leave. He had a new plan.