We Are Wolves

Hitler is a toad!

Our entire household has gathered in the parlor for this big moment-Mama, Papa, Oma, Opa, Otto, Mia, and me— and Otto has decided to go wild.

‘Hitler is a toad!’ he yells again.

Mama rushes forward and clamps her hand over Otto’s mouth, but Otto pushes it away and shouts even louder. ‘Hitler is a toad! A big fat toad with warts all over!’

Now Mama clamps her hand to her own mouth.

Papa stands in the middle of us all, dressed in his uniform. He is still Papa but now he is also Soldier Erich Wolf. He has been called up to serve in the German Army and it is more than Otto can bear.

It is more than any of us can bear. But Otto is only seven and he doesn’t understand that we must make sacrifices. For Germany. For our beloved leader, Adolf Hitler. And he doesn’t know how to hold the anger, the sadness, and the fear inside.

‘Hitler is a toad!’ he shouts once more.

Papa drops his rucksack. ‘Otto!’ he snaps. ‘You must not curse Hitler. Ever!’

‘It’s dangerous!’ hisses Mama.

“Terribly dangerous,’ whispers Oma.

‘And wrong,’ I add. ‘We love Hitler.’

Papa frowns.

Mama’s hand slips from her mouth to her chest. Opa snorts. Opa seems to be snorting more and more these days. Perhaps he has a cold that just won’t go away. Mia has been silent and staring, but now she pipes up.

‘Boo! Boo!’ She’s only one and a half and it’s her favorite thing to say. She’s trying to say ‘Boom! Boom!’ which is Otto’s favorite thing to say. Otto is always playing war games and blowing things up. All the boys are. Otto loves war and battles and tanks and planes and soldiers. But not at this moment. Not when it’s our own papa who is becoming a soldier and being sent away from home.

Otto puts his hands on his hips and glares at us all. ‘If Hitler is so great, why is his photo turned toward the wall?’

I look over to where Adolf Hitler hangs above the dining table. Otto is right! Our beloved leader is facing the wallpaper. He should be looking into our parlor, shining his goodness and love upon us all, just as he does in every other family’s parlor. But he’s not. He’s facing the wall. Who would do such a thing?

Otto and I both look to Papa. Papa looks to Opa.

Opa shrugs his bony old shoulders and confesses, ‘I turned Hitler’s portrait to the wall.’

‘But why?’ I ask.

‘Because Opa begins. Mama and Oma glare at him.

‘Because… Opa scratches the back of his neck. ‘Because you children have the worst table manners in all of East Prussia!’

Otto screws up his nose.

‘Otto,’ cries Opa, ‘you chew with your mouth wide open so, I can see the food all the way down into your stomach. It is a dreadful sight! I do not want our dear, beloved leader, Adolf Hitler, to see that. It is bad enough that your mama and your oma have to watch it!’ ‘It’s true,’ says Oma. ‘Your papa was the same when he was a little boy.’ Otto blushes, but the corner of his mouth twitches.

‘And Mia,’ sighs Opa. ‘Oh my! I have never seen a baby rub so much porridge and mashed potato into her hair! Adolf Hitler should not have to watch a beautiful little girl turn her self into something that looks like a pile of pig slops!”

Mia looks up at the mention of her name. ‘Mia!’

‘And Liesl,’ Opa growls, rolling his eyes and slapping his Schmidt, who has a glass eye, and Jakob, from three doors down. Jakob’s uniform is too big. It has been made for a man, but Jakob is a skinny sixteen-year-old boy. He looks like a scarecrow with his sleeves flapping down over his fingertips.

‘Four new soldiers,’ I say.

‘No, five!’ shouts Otto. ‘Look! Hitler even wants Herr Beck in his army.’ Otto turns to me, his blue eyes wide. ‘Herr Beck is ancient, Liesl almost as old as Opa. And he’s deaf! As deaf as a post!’

Otto is right. Herr Beck is a clockmaker, and I expect all that ticking and chiming has worn out his eardrums. The other day I called hello as I passed his shop, and he replied, ‘Yes, yes, business is slow these days.’

We watch as Herr Beck huffs and puffs to catch up to Papa. Papa holds the old man’s arm while he gets his breath back. Then, together, Hitler’s new soldiers disappear down the street three old men, a boy, and a limping papa. They will all be heroes soon, when Germany wins the war.

‘Hans and Wolfgang are playing in the street!’ shouts Otto. He flaps through the curtains back into the sitting room. ‘Mama! Mama! Can I go out to play?’ Otto leaps from sadness to joy so easily.

Mama blinks as though she can’t quite remember where she is. ‘Of course,’ she says, her voice flat. ‘Take Mia with you. Her stroller is by the door. A bit of fresh air will do you both good.”

Otto swoops Mia up from the floor and runs into the hallway. Mia squeals with delight and fear as he tosses her into the stroller and rattles her down the steps into the street. I stay at the window and watch as he runs toward Hans and Wolfgang, pushing Mia in her stroller, making tank noises.

‘Chug! Chug! Chug!’ he shouts. ‘Boom! Boom! Boom!’

Mia jiggles and yells, ‘Boo! Boo! Boo!’

I slip out from behind the curtains. Mama and Oma have disappeared into the kitchen to make our supper. Opa has returned to the basement to mend our boots. I am all alone.

I look at the Papa-shaped sag in his armchair. I flop into it, close my eyes, and breathe in. Soap. Schnapps. Nutmeg. ‘Soon,’ I whisper. ‘Papa will be home again soon. ‘Opa,’ I call from the top of the basement stairs. ‘Supper is ready.’

‘Come down here, Liesl,’ Opa calls back. ‘I have a surprise for you.’

I creep down the steps, careful not to fall. It’s so dark, I don’t know how Opa can see a thing. But as I near the work bench, he turns up the oil lamp. ‘Ta-da!’ Opa spreads his hands toward his creation. ‘Brand-new boots for my Lies!!’

I gasp and step back. Opa has taken two pairs of boots that are so old and worn they are no longer any use and made them into one new pair. It’s a clever idea except that one boot is brown while the other is black. The toes and lace holes are a little different too.

“They’re… They’re…, ‘I stutter. ‘Just like the boots in the fairy tale about the elves and the shoemaker,’ says Opa. “The finest in the land!’ That’s not what I was thinking. ‘They’re…’ I bite my lip. ‘Unique!’ cries Opa. ‘And they have no holes and will keep your feet warm and dry when the snow comes!”

I blush. Of course, he is right. I should be grateful. Warm, watertight boots are a treat and more than many folk have nowadays. All of the new boots in East Prussia-and the rest of Germany go to our soldiers. Which is proper because they are fighting to make Germany great. And when the war is over, we will all have shiny new boots whenever we like, I am sure.

“Thank you, Opa,’ I say. “They’re lovely.’

‘And unique, don’t forget,’ says Opa, his eyes twinkling. I laugh. ‘Yes, they are!’

Oma has set the table with our best china and fine linen napkins. We have soup made with potatoes and carrots. I hate carrots. But then we have cake. A real cake with cherries in the middle and cream on top. Mama walked from farm to farm until she managed to buy enough eggs, butter, and cream to bake something truly special.

“To cheer us all up,’ she says.

And for a while it does. Mia grins with the first mouthful of buttery sweetness and soon she has cream rubbed into her hair alongside the pieces of squashed potato.

Opa pretends to be horrified. ‘Disgusting! Disgusting!” he roars, throwing his hands in the air. But his silly faces and mock cries of despair encourage Mia. She grins and gurgles and rubs a half-chewed cherry into her golden curls.

‘When it’s my birthday,’ says Otto, ‘I want a cake just like this…except chocolate… with nuts on top. …and no cherries in the middle… and icing instead of cream.’

‘So a different cake altogether,’ says Mama. ‘Exactly!’ cries Otto, and we all burst out laughing.

‘I remember the first cake I ever made for Opa,’ says Oma. ‘It was three days after our wedding, and I decided it would be romantic to bake something delicious for my new husband.’

‘Was it good, Opa?’ I ask. ‘Did you think it was romantic? Did you kiss Oma to say thank you?’

‘No,’ says Opa. ‘I took one bite and spat it into the sink.” Oma laughs. I used salt instead of sugar, by mistake. Apparently, that matters quite a lot for the success of a cake.”

‘And for the success of a marriage!’ adds Opa. Oma reaches across the table and grabs Opa’s hand. ‘Ah, but we’ve had a long and happy marriage despite my dreadful cooking, haven’t we, Friedrich?’

‘Yes, yes, we have,’ Opa says, and sighs.

I swallow my last mouthful of cake, but it catches in my throat. Something about Opa’s words hurts. He makes it sound as though the long years of happiness have ended.

At bedtime, Mama lays Mia in her cot and we sing her favorite nursery rhyme, ‘All My Ducklings.’ Mia babbles along and makes her hands into beaks for the ducklings, doves, chickens, and goslings. Then we sing her lullabies filled with stars and angels, roses and sheep, until she falls asleep. Mama tucks Otto and me into our big bed and tells us a story. ‘Once upon a time there was a king who had twelve daughters’

‘No! No!’ shouts Otto. “There was a soldier. A German soldier. And his name was Otto.’

The war has taken over our bedtime stories just as it has Otto’s games. He was only two when the war started-too young to remember any other life.

Mama nods and tries again. ‘Once upon a time there was a soldier called Otto and a beautiful, downtrodden girl called Cinderella

‘No! No! No!’ shouts Otto. ‘The girl is called Liesl.’

It’s the same every night. Mama tells the story and Otto interrupts all the way through. Otto is always the brave German soldier who wins battles against bears, vicious ravens, enchanted fish, wicked witches, the British Air Force, the American Navy, and the Russian Army. Sometimes there is just one enemy, but usually there will be a combination ferocious bears working alongside the Russian Army, eye-pecking ravens flying through the sky with the British Air Force, hungry fish waiting for the American Navy to sink a ship so they can eat all the sailors as they flounder in the water.

Every night, a helpless girl called Liesl is among those in distress, and she is always crying and thanking Otto the soldier for saving her life. It’s annoying, but at least every story ends with Liesl and Otto going home to a cottage where there is a blazing fire and an enormous dinner, and they live happily ever after. All stories need a happily-ever-after.

Mama finishes tonight’s story with roast pork and mashed potatoes she’s careful to avoid carrots for my sake-and tucks the eiderdown duvet beneath our chins. Mia snores softly. How she can sleep through Mama’s stories with Otto’s shouting and sound effects is a mystery.

‘Papa loves Mia’s soft baby snores,’ I whisper.

Mama sits back down on our bed. ‘Yes. And he loves the way Otto sleeps with his toy airplane stuffed beneath the pillow. And he loves the way you are kind to everyone, Liesl. Papa loves everything about you all.’

‘Mama,’ I say. ‘Is it true that the war is almost over?’

She tucks a stray wisp of my hair behind my ear before answering. ‘Yes, Liesl, the war will soon be done.’

I smile, but Mama does not. She leans forward and kisses my forehead, keeping her lips against my skin for a long time. When she pulls away, her eyes are shiny.

Mama leaves the room, but sorrow lingers in the air, and I am confused.

The cold autumn wind whips my cheeks and freezes my fingers. I’ve lost one of my red mittens. My right hand is warm and snuggly, but my left hand is miserable. I think it’s turning blue.

School will be cold too, because there is no coal for the fires. There’s wood, but not enough, and my teacher, Fräulein Hofmann, won’t light the fire until winter arrives.

I look down at my strange new boots-one brown, one black. At least my feet are warm, thanks to Opa. Otto runs circles around me, arms stretched wide. He’s pretending to be a plane and is dropping imaginary bombs along the street. ‘Boom! Boom! Boom!’

Just as we round the corner and arrive at school, I begin to sneeze. I sneeze over and over again. Fräulein Hofmann is standing at the front steps and asks if I am ill. ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ I say. ‘It’s the dust and ash from Königsberg. There’s so much of it in the air when the wind comes from the west.’

‘Liesl Wolf, that’s ridiculous!’ snaps Fräulein Hofmann. “The city of Königsberg is far, far away. Besides, it’s two months since it was bombed, and those silly British pilots missed their targets completely. All they hit were a few derelict warehouses on the edge of the city.’

Otto zooms in and lands between me and my teacher. ‘We watched from Mama and Papa’s bedroom window!’ he shouts. ‘We could feel the explosions and see the glow from the fires. And then the British pilots came back three nights later and bombed it all over again.’

‘Just warehouses!’ snaps Fräulein Hofmann. “The British did us a favor, getting rid of all those rat-infested old shacks.” ‘Rats!’ cries Otto. He flies off across the schoolyard, arms stretched wide. Now he is bombing all the rats in East Prussia. ‘Boom! Boom! Boom!’

I smile at Fräulein Hofmann. I am glad to know that nothing important was bombed in Königsberg and even happier that nobody was hurt. Except for the rats.

I sneeze again. ‘Perhaps it’s a cold after all,’ I say.

Fräulein Hofmann nods and smiles. ‘Of course it’s a cold. Königsberg is fine, Liesl. East Prussia is fine. Germany is strong.’ She puffs out her chest. ‘We are not losing the war.”

I stare at her. Who said anything about Germany losing the war?

Our schoolroom is crowded with sixty-three students: two classes squashed together because the male teachers are off fighting in the war, and Otto’s teacher, Fräulein Rothschild, just disappeared. Teachers are in short supply, like boots and meat and papas.

Fräulein Hofmann doesn’t seem to mind. She’s having a wonderful time, running our lessons like a military operation. She shouts like a sergeant major commanding his soldiers.

‘Stand!’

‘Sing “The Song of the Germans”!”

‘Sit!’

‘Take out your books!’

‘Write your nine times table!’ ‘Liesl, tell us the answer to eighty times seventy.”

I love school. I love learning. I love the way Fräulein Hofmann keeps everything running on a tight schedule. And I especially love the lessons about Germany and how we are bringing civilization and joy to more and more countries across the globe. I even love the crowded classroom. More bodies means more heat.

On the way home, Otto is flying about, bombing rats in Königsberg once more, when suddenly he stops. ‘Lies!!” he cries, grabbing my hand so that I, too, must come to a halt. ‘Can you hear that?”

Above the howling wind, I hear boots. Heavy boots, marching along the cobblestones.

Otto drags me back the way we have come, until we are
standing in front of the school watching hundreds and hundreds of soldiers march by. They are young and handsome and hold their heads high. ‘Hooray! Hooray!’ cries Otto. ‘Good luck! Good luck against those rotten Russians and the rats!’

One of the soldiers turns his head and winks. ‘We don’t need luck!’ he shouts. ‘We have might and right and Adolf Hitler on our side!’

We smile, wave, and cheer at the soldiers as they pass. Some ignore us, but others salute and hand us treats three chocolate bars and a can of condensed milk. Treasure!

‘Heil Hitler!’ I shout as the soldiers disappear down the
street. As one, they raise their right arms in the air and reply,

‘Heil Hitler!’

My heart swells with pride and I can feel goose bumps on my arms. This is an exciting time to be German!

We eat the chocolate bars on the way home, silently, letting every square melt slowly on our tongues. We should be sharing them with Mia, Mama, Oma, and Opa, but we can’t help ourselves. It’s so very long since we had real chocolate.

Otto’s grin is wide and gooey at the corners. ‘I love the war!’ he cries. ‘Except for Papa being gone.’

‘If you think this is good,’ I say, handing him the last of the chocolate, ‘just wait until the war is over!’

Open up! Quickly!’ Someone is thumping on our front door, and the church bells are ringing even though it’s not Sunday. We all rush from the kitchen into the parlor. Opa unlocks the door and a German soldier barges in, coughing and wheezing as he brushes snow from his head and shoulders.

He is almost as old as Opa and one of his hands is missing. “The Russians are coming!’ he shouts. “The Red Army has broken through German lines. Their tanks are rolling across East Prussia, and they’ll be here at any moment. You must leave immediately!’

I stare out the parlor window and see other soldiers running along the street through the heavy snow. They are the soldiers with gray hair and limps and uniforms that are too big. They are knocking at doors, pointing, yelling, ordering people to leave. Yesterday, fleeing was forbidden. But now that it’s too late, we’re allowed to run away. Commanded to run away. In the middle of a blizzard. It doesn’t make sense.

The church bells ring on and on.

‘Child!’ The soldier shakes my shoulder with his gloved hand. ‘Did you hear me? You must help your mama now. Get away from here. Save yourselves.’

Save ourselves? As he leaves, I stare at his back in disbelief. Of course the Russians will be mean. They’ll be angry. They might shout at us. They might even smash our windows or kick in our doors. But worse than that? No! We are not soldiers, just children and women and old men like Opa.

But Mama seems to believe him. ‘Oh no! No! No!’ she sobs. Her beautiful face crumples, then turns as white as the snow that is growing deeper and deeper outside our house. ‘We should have fled. We should have disobeyed Hitler and the Nazi leaders and packed our bags and bought a horse and sleigh and left days ago.”

“We should have packed our bags and fled after Liesl was born, when this mess first began!’ snaps Opa.

I was born in 1933, the same year that Adolf Hitler became chancellor. What is Opa saying? Our life has been good. My life has been happy.

I open my mouth to defend our glorious leader, to remind Opa of all Adolf Hitler has done for Germany, making us rich and healthy and the most powerful nation on earth. But Otto speaks first. ‘Hitler is a worm,’ he growls. ‘He has lost our papa, and other people’s papas and big brothers, and now he has left us all alone to fight the Red Army in the middle of a terrible blizzard. He hasn’t even sent anyone to help us. Little Mia is just a baby, and there’s nobody left to protect her from the soldiers and their guns and tanks.’

He pauses and jumps to his feet. ‘Except me! I will keep Mia safe!’ He scoops Mia into his arms and runs out of the parlor and upstairs.

‘Otto is right,’ says Opa. ‘We are on our own. We can’t expect that anyone is coming to help us. We must pack. Quickly.’ He turns to Mama. ‘Anna, you and Liesl must get all the warm clothes and bedding that you can fit into our trunk. Then fill the suitcases with anything else important.’ He grabs Oma’s hand. ‘And you, my dear, must pack food. Everything we have. We’ll need enough for weeks, maybe longer.’

Oma squeezes Opa’s hand and disappears into the kitchen. Opa pulls on his coat, scarf, and hat. ‘I’m going out. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve found transport.’

Mama and I lug our trunk and two suitcases from the basement up to the parlor. I dash upstairs to gather blankets, quilts, and eiderdowns. When I return with the first load, Mama is packing her finest dinner plates and pretty a silver sugar bowl. After the eiderdowns go in, she pops the mantel clock, a crystal vase, two brass candlesticks, and the family photo album on top. When the trunk is full, we dash upstairs, and Mama fills the suitcases with her clothes-a fox stole, a pretty pleated skirt, two silk blouses, and her best dress. It’s a green party dress, with a skirt made full and fluffy from layers and layers of black tulle.

‘Mama,’ I say, ‘what about the diapers? Mia will need diapers.’

‘But there’s no room,’ says Mama. “The suitcases are full!’

Her eyes are bulging with panic.

I reach into the suitcase, pull out her party dress, and hang it back in the wardrobe.

‘Oh, Liesl. You are right.’ Mama shakes her head. ‘Why did I pack a party dress? It’s just so hard to know what we will need. What we should leave behind…’ She reaches out and presses the palm of her hand against my cheek. ‘You are such a good, sensible girl, Liesl. I know I can always depend on you.’

I feel proud and smile at Mama. ‘Anyway, it will all be here when we return,’ I say.

Mama frowns, opens her mouth as though to speak, then closes it again. She makes herself busy filling the suitcase with Mia’s diapers. I gather the things I want from my bedroom-my school books, a clean handkerchief, a spare pair of socks and under clothes for both Otto and me. Otto will be too busy packing his toy airplane and cursing Adolf Hitler to think about clean underclothes.

When I return to Mama’s room, she is emptying her jewelry box onto her bed. For a moment I think she is packing for fine parties again, but she isn’t. She divides the earrings, rings, brooches, and bracelets into four small piles, then sews one of the piles into the lining of my coat, and another into the waistband of her skirt.

‘For safekeeping,’ she says. “This way, the jewels will be secure and hidden from thieves.’

We will be all right, I think. We are well prepared. Opa will soon return with a sleigh lined with comfortable cushions and thick rugs. And Oma will make us one last hot, hearty meal before we leave so our tummies are full. Everything will be all right.

Mama dresses me, Otto, and Mia in all our winter clothes, one layer over the top of another so we can hardly bend our arms and legs. It is minus four degrees Fahrenheit outside, and we will need all the protection we can get. I am wearing two dresses, a cardigan, three pairs of tights, a scarf, a woolen hat, mittens, my mismatched boots, and my coat with the jewels sewn inside.

Mia’s arms stick out sideways. She waves them about awkwardly, shouting, ‘Tuck! Tuck!’ She means she is stuck.

Mama takes one last look at her beautiful fur coat hanging in the wardrobe, then shrugs into Papa’s coat-an old gray woolen thing that is far too big.

Opa clumps up the stairs and into the room. ‘I bought a horse and cart from the Wagners. It’s outside. Let’s go.”

He and Otto take the suitcases. Oma shuffles in, awkward under her many layers of clothing, and takes Mia’s hand. I am about to follow them downstairs when Mama grabs me.

‘Liesl, you must promise me something.’ ‘Of course, Mama.’

‘Promise that if anything happens to me, you will keep Otto and Mia safe. No matter what, you must keep your brother and sister by your side. Don’t let anything or anyone separate you.’

I step back as though I’ve been struck. ‘Mama,’ I whisper. Why are you asking such a thing?’

Mama seizes my hands. ‘Promise me, Liesl.’ She squeezes my fingers until they hurt. ‘Promise!’

‘Yes! Yes!’ I shout. I want to say that it’s a pointless promise. But I can’t. The fear in Mama’s eyes spreads to my heart, and I cannot speak another word.

Mama wraps her arm around shoulders, and together my we walk downstairs, along the hallway, through the door, and out. Out into the blizzard.