Monika Schröder - The Dog in the Wood

“Irmi, they will stay downstairs. We’ll keep our rooms upstairs. They seem friendly. And we don’t have a choice anyway,” Mama said.

“We should go to Oma Clara’s! We should have left before,” Irmi said.

“We have the biggest house in the village. So I’m not surprised they want to move in here. If that’s the only sacrifice we have to make, we are lucky,” Mama answered calmly.

Mikhail Petrov was taking an olive-green canvas bag out of the back of their jeep when Fritz crossed the yard. He motioned Fritz to come closer. He squatted down, reached into the bag, and pulled out a photograph of a boy and a girl, both about Fritz’s age, with their father’s golden-blond hair. “ Meine Kinder ,” he said, pronouncing the K like a Kh . “Aljosha and Katja,” he said, smiling at Fritz.

“Aljosha and Katja,” Fritz tried to pronounce the names, pointing at them.

“Are they twins? They look the same,” he asked.

“Yes, yes!” Mikhail Petrov laughed. “They are same.” He circled his face with his hand. “Yes, same.” He said a Russian word that Fritz didn’t understand. It was probably the word for twins .

Fritz smiled and said slowly, “Twi-ins.”

Mikhail Petrov repeated the word, and Fritz nodded. They shook hands, laughing.

The next morning, Fritz went to Paul’s house. He wanted to tell him about the two Russians. Paul’s little brother, Willi, let Fritz in. “Fitz is here! Fitz is here!” he shouted as Fritz closed the door behind him and followed Willi into the kitchen.

Paul’s mother was sitting at the table with a man Fritz did not know. “Good morning, Fritz,” said Paul’s mother.

“Werner, this is Paul’s friend, Fritz. Gertrude Friedrich’s son. Fritz, this is Paul’s father, my husband.”

His cheekbones pressed through his skin. A small cut left a red line on his chin, and Fritz wondered if the man had just shaved his beard. He wore an undershirt, and his collarbones stuck out.

“Nice to meet you!” Fritz said and shook the man’s bony hand.

“So you are Karl Friedrich’s grandson.”

“Yes.… He is dead,” Fritz said, expecting a word of condolence.

“I heard he got away before he could get what he deserved,” Paul’s father said instead, piercing his eyes into Fritz, who wondered what he could have done to make Paul’s father angry.

An awkward silence filled the room. Then Fritz remembered what Paul had said about Grandpa Karl and the Nazis. He turned to Paul, who focused on the kitchen floor.

“I have to go back home right away,” Fritz said without looking up.

“What did you do with the sign?” Fritz asked Mama, who was working in the garden.

“Which sign?”

“The sign we used to have in front of the house that said that Grandpa Karl was the head of the Nazi farmers in town.”

“I put it in the attic. It’s wrapped in an old potato sack, together with all the swastika pins and Irmi’s Young Maiden uniform.”

“Why didn’t you burn it?”

“We didn’t have time. And metal wouldn’t burn anyway,” Mama said. “I put it under the hood of the old sewing machine, the one that Oma Lou never got repaired.”

“What if they find out that we were Nazis?”

“Everyone in the village knows that Grandpa Karl was the local Nazi farmers’ representative. And your grandpa Karl wasn’t the only one who wore the swastika,” Mama said.

“But what about the Communists? Are they going to do something bad to us because we were Nazis?”

“Fritz,” Mama sighed and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, “we weren’t Nazis.”

“But Irmi…,” Fritz started to say.

“Irmi had to join the Young Maidens. You would have had to join the Hitler Youth as well. No one had a choice. You just turned ten at a time when it was all falling apart,” Mama said, motioning him to come closer. “Don’t worry. They have to rebuild Germany. They need people to farm. And that’s all we do.”

Fritz ran into the house and hurried upstairs. Mama’s answer had not dissolved his worries. The wooden floorboard in the corner of the attic gave a dry complaint when he ripped the sack from under the hood of the sewing machine. He dashed downstairs and took the main entrance to avoid Mama’s questions. In long strides Fritz hurried along the village road. When he reached the sandy path that led to the forest, he fell into a trot.

He found the fork-shaped pine tree right away. The rain had flattened the pile of dirt, but the hole was still there. Fritz threw the sack down, remembering his last visit with Grandpa Karl. Now he wished he had brought a shovel. With his feet he kicked soil into the hole, feeling calmer as he saw the evidence buried under layers of dirt.

Soon after, on a warm evening at the beginning of June, Sergei brought a crate of vodka and placed it under the stairs to the backyard. He also carried out two chairs from the kitchen. At first Fritz thought they would invite Lech to drink with them, but then three other Russians came, one of them with an accordion. The man with the accordion sat down and propped his instrument on his thighs. He began first to pull and then to push with both hands, and the accordion released its elongated sounds. The player’s right foot tapped to the rhythm, and his upper body swayed with each pull. Another man with a harmonica accompanied the accordion’s melody.

“Fritz, come and help dry the dishes,” Irmi called.

“The Russians will get drunk tonight,” Mama commented. “We’ll have a noisy night.”

“They’re celebrating our defeat,” Irmi said, shaking her head. ”I don’t like them.”

“They won’t stay long. And if we manage to get along with them, they won’t harm us.” Mama had remained firm in her decision not to leave the farm. Fritz did not mind the Russians as much as Irmi, who was constantly complaining about Mama doing “slave work” for the Russian soldiers.

Lech entered the kitchen. “That was a great dinner,” he said to Mama and joked, “The Russians are good for something after all, but it looks like we’re in for a long night. They want to celebrate their victory and the end of the war.”

“Yes, we were just talking about that,” Mama answered. “We should go to bed early.”

The music grew louder, and one man began singing. His deep voice vibrated with a sad song.

“Why are they singing such a sad song if they are celebrating?” Fritz wondered aloud.

“The Russians have deep, sad souls,” Lech answered, smiling.

Mikhail entered and said something to Lech, who translated, “He wants you to come outside and join them.”

“Oh no, thank you,” Mama answered, but the Russian stepped in front of her, swinging his legs straight together, let his heels clap, and bowed down toward her.

“ Bitte , Frau Friedrich,” he said in his Russian accent, drawing the last syllable longer than the first and pronouncing the ch way back in his throat. He offered his right arm to their mother. Fritz was surprised to see Mama smile as she put her hand on the Russian’s arm and followed him outside.

“I’m not going!” Irmi called out, after the door was closed behind them. Lech hesitated for a moment, then stepped outside as well. “Come. Let’s finish the dishes,” Irmi said to Fritz. “I can’t believe they are celebrating our defeat right here under our noses.” Fritz focused on drying the plate in his hands. “It’s so humiliating,” she continued as Fritz tried to catch a glimpse of what was going on outside. “I wish Mama would not go there.”

“Lech is with her,” Fritz said, working faster.