memories that haunted him. Each time he woke Wolfiâs deep breathing calmed him and he would lie down once more.
When he crawled out of the tent he was pleased to find that no more snow had fallen in the night. He whistled to Wolfi and both of them disappeared into the trees to answer natureâs call. After feeding Wolfi on a smaller portion of dog food than usual, Peter quickly munched on a few paltry crackers and an even more paltry portion of cheese. He knew that with careful rationing he might eke out his supplies for three, maybe even four weeks, perhaps longer if the snares he planned to make were successful. After that he had no idea what he would do.
He took off his upper layers of clothing, scooped a handful of the looser snow and gave himself a snow bath. It was more important than ever that he did not attract attention. This he would do if he were smelly and dirty, like a vagrant living rough. Ignoring the unpleasant cold, he even gave his hair a type of wash with the snow, brushing it afterwards with a pine cone.
âTime to sort out your paws, Wolfi.â Wolfi looked on, disinterested. Peter sat down and set to work. It took him some time. Four pieces of cloth were threaded around the top with string that could be pulled tight. Wolfi was in his customary place next to Peter, lying on top of the map of Berlin. He held out one hand and on cue Wolfi held up his front right paw as Peter tied the first snow shoe to it. Looking very unimpressed, Wolfi stood up and walked around the tent, with his snow shoe making a padding noise.
After a little experimentation he pierced four holes at the front to allow Wolfiâs claws to poke through. This was more to Wolfiâs liking and he stopped trying to remove the boot with his mouth. All the while a basic stew was simmering above the oil burner and, as Peter finished the last boot, the stew was ready.
Whilst Peter ate a new problem occurred to him. His current camp was too close to the path. When the better weather arrived more people would venture further into the woods. He needed to find a more remote site. He had already decided on a location from the map. It was on the western side of Wannsee in the woods. He would scout the area soon.
Even though not particularly optimistic about catching anything, he made a number of snares from the wire he had taken from the shed. This skill his father had taught him in the summer of 1932 when he was just six. They were due to camp out in the mountains later that year and Papa had insisted, much to everyoneâs amusement, that they âpractiseâ in the woods around Schlachtensee. Hence, only a short walk from their comfortable suburban home they had snared rabbits, trapped wood pigeon and water fowl and caught fish. They had been so successful they ended up taking some of their haul home to Mama.
As each trap was set, Wolfi offered his assistance by sniffing the ground and showing his approval in the usual dog fashion. Making his way from their original hideaway, he laid traps as he went, until he was on the shores of Wannsee.
âNot much fishing here,â he thought and returned to his camp. The edges of the lake were frozen solid.
* * *
The following day Peter breakfasted, finishing a cold meal with his first cup of coffee in days. He had remembered to bring coffee beans. Unfortunately the coffee percolator remained forgotten and missed back at his house. Instead he created a coffee pot out of two old cans that he washed, then squeezed one inside the other. Folding the rim inwards, he pierced the bottom of the inner can to form a filter. Apart from granules in the liquid this worked very well. Taking a sip, he toasted the American relations who had supplied the coffee.
He disciplined himself that each time he left the campsite he must hide all traces of his existence. With this in mind he cut more branches with the axe, taking care to minimise the noise. These he used to completely hide the
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