Monika Schröder: The Dog in the Wood

Mikhail had said that they kept prisoners in the basement. Fritz walked along the side of the building, keeping his back close to the wall. He peeked around the corner. He could see the back entrance, but a guard stood leaning against the wall beside it. Fritz pulled his head back quickly. He waited for his heart to settle down before he took another look. It didn’t matter now how late Fritz would return home. He had come this far. Now he had to continue.

The next time he peeked around the corner he saw the soldier walking over to the flat building on the other side of the yard. This was his chance. Fritz quickly ran to the back entrance and opened the door. Just as he stepped inside, he felt a pull at his shoulder. Fritz turned around. The guard had returned! The man lifted Fritz up with a swift movement and held him under his arm the way Oma Clara had held the pig halves. The man’s turnip-thick fingers squeezed Fritz’s side. Fritz squirmed and punched his fists into the man’s padded jacket. He cried for help, but the guard’s paw sealed his mouth.

The man carried Fritz inside and opened the door to a staircase that led down to the basement. With each tramp of the man’s boot on the stairs, Fritz’s heart sank lower. Would they lock him in the basement? Fritz tried to wriggle himself out of the man’s grip. The stronger he resisted, the firmer was the man’s clench. The Russian opened a wooden door and dropped Fritz down. Fritz staggered, and before he found his balance, the man nudged him deeper into the dark room. Fritz stumbled and fell, catching himself with his right hand. A sharp pain jagged through his right arm. Before he could turn around, he heard the door slam shut, leaving only a slim bar of light at the bottom of the door. He heard the Russian stomp back upstairs. Then there was no light at all.

The room smelled like mold and damp potatoes. Fritz sat up and waited until his eyes got used to the darkness. He closed and opened his eyes, but there was not much difference. He patted the wall around the doorframe, searching for a light switch, but could feel nothing, and the room remained dark. His right arm and hand throbbed. He sat down, his back against the wall, hugging his knees with both arms. What would they do with him? How long would he have to stay here? It must be dinnertime by now. If he didn’t return the bike in time, Konrad would be worried. Oma Clara would be furious when she found out what he had done. But that didn’t matter.

Fritz tried to steady his breath, but his body kept shivering. He didn’t know if the shiver came from fear or the cold. The whole trip had been in vain. Even Mikhail couldn’t help—or didn’t want to. There was no more hope that he would find Mama and Lech. And now he was caught like a rat. Tears began to swell at the back of his throat. He swallowed hard. No, they wouldn’t make him cry.

The door opened with a bang, and light shot into his cell. Fritz didn’t know how much time had passed or if he had fallen asleep. He sheltered his eyes with his hand, but a shadow fell toward him and someone grabbed his shoulder and pulled him up. The man yelled a one-syllable word. Fritz tried to steady himself against the wall before he was dragged out onto the staircase where he looked up into the grinning face of the soldier who was tugging him up the stairs.

Upstairs, a group of seven men in uniforms were sitting around a dining room table. Long-stemmed candles dripped wax on a lace tablecloth. Bottles stuck out between white soup tureens and platters of potatoes and vegetables. Two men held their glasses in Fritz’s direction and cheered as the soldier pushed him onto an empty chair. The men’s flushed faces glimmered in the candlelight. One of them filled a plate with a thick piece of meat and set it in front of Fritz. He stared at the feast. Jars of pickles and marinated cauliflower stood together with plates of cabbage rolls. In one bowl Fritz saw chanterelles, his favorite mushrooms, which both of his grandmothers had kept in their pantry “for special occasions.” The soldier who had taken him out of the cellar sat down next to him, added two potatoes to Fritz’s plate, and nudged him to eat. Fritz picked up the fork. The meat was delicious. He had not eaten roast in a long time, and he chewed carefully, keeping his eyes on the scene around him. What would they do with him after they had finished eating and drinking? Drunken Russians were unpredictable. He remembered what had happened after the dancing in Schwartz. Would he have to spend the night in the dark cellar? Would they let him go? The soldier next to him spooned some melted butter onto his potato and smiled.

Suddenly, loud voices came from outside. The door jumped open, and the soldiers scrambled for their revolvers. Mikhail stood in the doorway. The soldiers straightened themselves. The room suddenly grew quiet.

“Come.” Mikhail motioned Fritz to get up. Mikhail said something in Russian to the soldier next to him. He looked angry. “What are you doing here? I thought you went back home.”

“I need to find my mother,” Fritz said. “You said that you held prisoners in the basement.”

“But I told you she was not here.”

“I wanted to meet other prisoners to pass them a message.” Fritz looked straight at Mikhail. “I need at least to get in touch with Mama and Lech.”

Mikhail shook his head. “It is very dangerous. They could have taken you to prison as well,” he said.

“Maybe I could have found them there.” Fritz breathed calmly. He was not afraid.

“Let’s go to the jeep,” Mikhail said. The stern tone had left his voice. A soldier brought the bicycle, and Mikhail loaded it into the back of the jeep. “Get in. I’ll take you home.”

Oma Clara jumped up when Fritz entered the living room. Irmi screamed, “Fritz, where have you been?”

“I went to Nirow to the Russians’ headquarters.”

“No,” Irmi blurted out. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Yes, he did dare.” Mikhail stood in the doorway. He walked over to Oma Clara and shook her hand. “Fritz is very brave!” Hearing Mikhail using that word to describe him gave Fritz a pleasant shudder. No one had ever called him that before.

“Mikhail is the Russian commander in Nirow now,” Fritz explained. “He is the Russian who lived with us in Schwartz for a short while.”

“Fritz is a very determined young man,” Mikhail began. “I can understand why he is so upset, and I am sorry for his…, your loss. Unfortunately, it is not in my power to get his mother back. But I will see to it that your daughter sends you a letter so that you at least will know they are well.”

Irmi sat down on the chair. “I can’t believe you did this, Fritz.”

“When will the letter come?” Fritz asked.

“I don’t know, Fritz. But I promise that you will get a letter,” Mikhail said. “You know where to find me if it doesn’t come.” He held out his hand, and Fritz shook it.

“Thank you!” Fritz said.

“Thank you for bringing the boy back.” Oma Clara shook Mikhail’s hand again.

Irmi stepped forward. “I can walk him out,” she said.

“I am so glad you’re back, boy,” Oma Clara said after the door to the hallway had closed behind Irmi and Mikhail. Her voice sounded soft, not angry. Oma Clara took one step toward him but stopped when he didn’t move. “I want you to know that I love you, and your sister, and your mother. I miss her as much as you do.”

Fritz looked at Oma Clara. She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. He could tell that she was worried what he would do next. Oma Clara stepped closer, opening her arms. He embraced her.