The first snow fell on a Tuesday. By Wednesday, it was meters deep.

Nobody had expected it. The winters of recent years had been mild. Snowplows had been sold. Winter tires had been stored away and forgotten. Meteorologists had talked about climate change and smiled, as if eternal spring were a promise.

Now the country lay under a blanket of white. The cities disappeared. The streets vanished. The cars disappeared under snowdrifts that reached the rooftops. It continued to snow.

The power went out on the first night.

Heinrich Bergmann stood at the window of his fourth-floor apartment and looked down at the white desert that had once been a street. He was sixty-seven years old. He lived alone. His wife had died three years ago. His children lived in other cities.

The heating no longer worked. He was wearing two sweaters and his winter jacket. He had lit candles. In the refrigerator, which no longer cooled, there was still bread, cheese, and half an apple pie. He would manage with that. For a while.

News came from the radio, which was running on batteries. A state of emergency had been declared. The German army was deployed. Helicopters were supplying cut-off villages. Emergency generators were running in the hospitals. Citizens were urged to stay indoors.

Then came the news about the wolves.

They had returned in recent years. It had been welcomed. Conservationists had spoken of a success. Farmers had complained. Politicians had reassured everyone. The wolves were shy. They avoided people. There was no danger.

Now, in the snow, they were starving.

The first sighting was on the outskirts of Leipzig. A pack of six animals. They had knocked over garbage cans. They had killed a dog. They hadn't shown any fear.

Then came the reports from Dresden. From Erfurt. From Magdeburg. The wolves were following the food. The food was in the cities.

Heinrich heard the howling on the second night. It came from far away, but it was distinct. He was standing at the window again. The moon had risen. The snow shone silver. At the end of the street, where the supermarket used to be, shadows moved.

He counted seven.

The next morning, there was a knock at his door. It was his neighbor from the third floor, a young man named Krause. He was pale. He was holding a baseball bat.

"Have you seen them?"

Heinrich nodded.

"We have to stick together," Krause said. "Those on the ground floor are already gone. Fled. I don't know where. The wolves tried to break into the basement last night."

They decided to barricade themselves on the third floor. Heinrich brought his food. Krause had a gas stove. Mrs. Lehmann from the fifth floor, a retired teacher, joined them. She brought blankets and an old hunting rifle that had belonged to her late husband.

"I have five more rounds," she said.

On the third night, the wolves came closer. Heinrich heard them at the front door. He heard the scraping of claws on the metal. He heard the howling. It didn't sound like hunger. It sounded like planning.

Mrs. Lehmann from the fifth floor, a retired teacher, joined them. She brought blankets and an old hunting rifle that had belonged to her late husband.

"I have five more rounds," she said.

On the third night, the wolves came closer. Heinrich heard them at the front door. He heard the scraping of claws on the metal. He heard the howling. It didn't sound like hunger. It sounded like planning.
... The neighbors organized themselves. People from every house on the street gathered. They armed themselves with whatever they could find: kitchen knives, axes, iron bars. An old, retired blacksmith forged spears from steel pipes.

They built barricades of snow and furniture. They took turns keeping watch. They lit fires in metal barrels to keep the animals away.

On the fourth day, the largest pack attacked.

There were over twenty animals. They came at dawn. Mrs. Lehmann fired twice. Two wolves fell. The others retreated.

But they came again. And again.

On the fifth day, they lost a man. His name was Günther. He had gone out to gather firewood. They found only his cap.

Heinrich felt something awaken within him that he hadn't felt since the war. He had been five years old when the Russians came. He remembered the hunger. He remembered the fear. He remembered how the people had stuck together.

Now they were sticking together again.

On the sixth day, they made their breakthrough. A neighboring district had had the same idea. Together, they formed a convoy and reached the gymnasium of the local school, where the German army had set up an emergency camp. They hauled their supplies through the snow. They carried the elderly. They protected the children. The wolves followed them, but they didn't dare attack the group.

In the gymnasium, heaters were burning. There was warm soup. Doctors were treating the wounded. Soldiers stood guard.

Heinrich lay down on a cot mattress and closed his eyes. He was tired. He was exhausted. But he was also proud.

They had done it.

On the seventh day, the snow stopped. On the eighth day, the sun came out. On the ninth day, the temperatures began to rise.

The thaw set in.

The German army advanced. The roads were cleared. The power came back on. The wolves retreated into the forests. They were declared dead or had escaped.

People returned to their homes.

Heinrich stood at his window again. The street was slushy and brown. The wrecked cars emerged from the melting snow. Life was returning to normal.

Krause had come by. He had wanted to return Heinrich's share of the meal they had shared.

"Keep it," Heinrich had said. "We're neighbors, after all."

"Yes," Krause had said. "Of course."

Then he had left. They hadn't shaken hands. They had barely looked at each other.

A week later, Heinrich met Mrs. Lehmann in the stairwell. She was carrying shopping bags. He wanted to help her.

"That's not necessary," she said. Her voice was cold. "I can manage on my own."

Heinrich remembered how she had held the shotgun that night. How her eyes had shone. How she had smiled at him when he brought her a cup of tea.

Now she was once again the retired teacher from the fifth floor. A stranger.

Spring came. Summer. Autumn. People no longer talked about the snow chaos. The wolves continued to be hunted. The conservationists protested. The farmers complained. The politicians tried to appease them.

In December, Heinrich died of a heart attack.

He lay in his apartment for three days before anyone found him. It was the postman. He had noticed the newspapers piling up in the mailbox.

Krause, from the third floor, was questioned. He said he had hardly known the old man. Mrs. Lehmann, from the fifth floor, said the same.

The funeral was small.

The following winter, it snowed again. But only a little. People complained about the slush. They cursed the cold. They longed for spring.

No one remembered how they had stood together.

But the wolves did remember. They waited in the woods. They multiplied. They learned.

They were more patient than the people.

And the people were never as united as they had been that week when the wolves came.

S.

Your support keeps ideas alive — and stories in motion. 👉 https://www.paypal.com/donate/?hosted_button_id=5NGG6XB67BZ4N 🙏

🇩🇪 My lyrical thoughts between two book covers: blau pause zimmerlautstärke - lyrik über die zeit - zurzeit

BoD Bookshop: https://buchshop.bod.de/blau-pause-zimmerlautstaerke-stefan-noir-9783695118779

Amazon-Shop: https://amzn.eu/d/1TvOBUO

🇺🇸 / 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁥󠁮󠁧󠁿 / 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿 My lyrical thoughts between two book covers: blue pause room volume: poetry about time – currently

Amazon (English edition): https://amzn.eu/d/3b3GUF4