The Runner

by Christopher Reich

  Ingrid bit her lip, wanting to say yes but hesitating and hating herself for it. Here was the chance her wounded conscience had dreamed of, the opportunity to act not as a German but as a woman true only to herself, and she was afraid to say yes. Staring into Judge’s eyes, she drew from him the courage she didn’t have herself.

  “I can’t not do anything,” she said. And as the words escaped her mouth, she understood that responsibility was something one took even when one didn’t want to.

  “So, I convinced you?” he said.

  Ingrid laughed softly. “Yes. But I’ve no idea how we’ll get there.”

  CHAPTER

  42

  NINE RAILWAY CARS TETHERED TO one another sat on a weed-strewn siding bordering a meadow on the eastern outskirts of Frankfurt. The cars were very old, all sleepers whose chalky green paint and immaculate yellow script had been eaten away by rust and neglect. A few letters were still visible: A flowery D; a faded B; the word bahn.

  At first glance, the cars looked abandoned, their place on the rails sacrificed years ago to troop transports, flatbeds, and the unsparing commitment to “total war.” But a closer look testified to their resilience. Wooden stairs and handrails descended from each doorway. An American flag drooped from a makeshift flagpole and a brace of military policemen bustled from one car to the next, climbing the stairs and pulling open the doors.

  The railroad cars constituted one of seven “separation centers” in Frankfurt where members of the German armed forces could turn themselves in to be processed out of the military and returned to civilian life. Each man was promised ten marks, a half loaf of bread, some lard, cigarettes, and a one-way ticket home. Seventy-odd days after the end of hostilities, the flow of soldiers had slowed to a trickle.

  Judge held Ingrid’s hand as they walked across the clearing. If anyone asked, they were husband and wife. A day and a night together and already they wore the easy familiarity of a longtime couple. In dribs and drabs, men approached from all corners of the field, gathering in front of the first car in line. Ingrid tugged his hand and pulled him close. “Stop, Major,” she said. “Look at these men, how they’re walking, how they are carrying themselves. You have to walk like that, too. Slow down a little. Drop your head. Pretend you don’t want to be here.”

  “I don’t,” he said. “Believe me.”

  Ingrid crossed him with a stern look. “You are humiliated.”

  Humiliated. The word sent a jolt of revulsion right down his spine. Judge stopped in midstride, newly aware of his prideful gait. He watched the Germans filing across the field. He wouldn’t have said they looked beaten, just tired, their step hesitant rather than directed. Posture all but forgotten. Humiliated. And he realized he was seeing the physical manifestation of their survivor’s penance.

  Judge let go of Ingrid’s hand and moved off toward the railway cars. Tucking in his chin, he viewed the world from the beneath the protection of a wary brow. He let his back slump and his chest sag, not overdoing it. He kept his stride even but unhurried. After a minute, they reached the sparse assembly gathered near the lead car.

  He was dressed like the men around him, which was to say as a civilian, and poorly. He wore black trousers and a gray plaid workshirt. The garments were threadbare and filthy, and he was beginning to suspect the pants were ridden with lice. He’d bought the outfit from a man living at the guterbahnhof for a dollar and a pack of Lucky’s. Another dollar had convinced the man to throw in his shoes. As for socks and underwear, Judge would keep his own. To hell with the risk!

  A shrill whistle pierced the air. “I want one line starting here,” shouted a private from his perch at the head of the stairs. “Single file, if you please, ladies. We are now open for business.”

  The shabby gathering fell into place reluctantly, like children heading back to school after summer break. A few of the hardier types hustled back and forth among them, barking out commands to straighten the line as if addressing a platoon standing for inspection. Military tradition died hard.

  Judge drew Ingrid aside. “I don’t know how long this will take. Find some shade and get some sleep.”

  “Still remember what unit you served in?”

  He touched a finger to his forehead. “Don’t worry, it’s all up here.”

  Ingrid gave his arm a confident pat. “Then, Feldwebel Dietrich, I suggest you get moving.”

  Judge joined the line and in a matter of minutes was swallowed up in its ranks. No one looked at him oddly. No one questioned his presence. Why should they? Hair unkempt and greasy, beard working past a stubble, he was just another German who wanted to get home.

  He was the enemy.

  “Name!”

  “Karl Dietrich.”

  “Pay book?”

  “I’m sorry, I haven’t got it. It’s lost.”

  The sergeant looked up at Judge from behind a broad walnut desk, his lantern jaw and low brow twisted into a frustrated knot. Shaking his head, he plucked a form from an overstuffed tray, wrote the name Karl Dietrich upon it, then stamped it twice. “Another one ain’t got his papers. Jesus H. Christ. Betcha he doesn’t know who Hitler was either. Der Führer, huh? Ring a bell?”

  Judge was standing inside the cabin of the first railroad car. The original furnishings had been ripped out—compartments, banquettes, the works—and replaced with a line of identical desks, cabinets, and unsmiling clerks. The place had all the charm of an induction center on Staten Island.

  “Hemd auf,” ordered the sergeant. Shirt off.

  Judge unbuttoned the plaid shirt and placed it on the table, only to have it flung back in his face a second later. “Get that piece of garbage off my desk!” the sergeant screamed. “Friggin’ kraut. Just ’cause he’s got fleas, wants to give ’em to everybody else. All right, Fritz, raise that left arm up high, let Uncle Sam see if you’ve been a naughty boy.”

  Raising his arm, Judge followed the sergeant’s gaze to the flank of his bicep. He was being checked for the blood-group tattoo given to members of the SS. All down the cabin, Germans stood in similar poses, an unintentional parody of the Hitler gruss.

  He was the enemy.

  “You’re clear.” The sergeant stamped the form again, then handed it to Judge. “Take this to the next car. Give it to the doc. Schnell! Schnell!”

  Judge picked up his shirt and made his way to the second railway car. A sign above the transom read Medical Examinations. Please Remove Your Clothing. Some wiseacre had drawn a line through the word Examination and written Experiments below it. Judge scooted down the passageway, taking his place at the end of a line ten deep. He removed his trousers, shirt, and undergarments, rolled them into a tight bundle, and tucked them under his arm. A quarter of an hour passed and the line didn’t budge. More and more men filled the passageway. The space grew cramped, the smell rank and overwhelming. Momentarily, there was a commotion at the rear of the car. A voice yelled from behind him, “Move it! Coming through! Doc’s here.” A paunchy corporal snapping a leather riding quirt to his thigh passed by. He walked slowly, prodding the naked men in their genitals with the tip of the quirt, gifting each with a rude remark. “I seen bigger balls on a Chihuahua. That bratwurst or a knockwurst? Can’t tell the difference myself. Would you look at that cannon cleaner? Heil Hitler indeed!” Spotting the disgust darkening Judge’s face, he flicked the quirt at his rear, raising a florid welt. “Probably like that, don’t you?”

  Judge felt his every muscle tense as a prelude to snatching the quirt and shoving it down the obnoxious corporal’s throat. Yet even as his neck flushed and he rolled forward on the balls of his feet, another emotion queered his rage—tempering it as a dash of bitters softens gin—and he realized he wasn’t angry at all, but ashamed.

  A firm hand squeezed his shoulder. “Calm down,” whispered the soldier behind him. “Your persilschein will do you a lot more good than beating up that prick.”

  Judge turned, saying only “Ja. Danke.”

  He was the enemy.r />
  Just then, the doctor arrived. He was a German, like Hansen from Camp 8. A local recruited to do the Americans’ work. Soon after, the line began to move.

  The examination took less than two minutes. A peek at his throat and ears. A stethoscope to his chest. “Breathe deeply. Again.” And a few questions. “History of tuberculosis? Gonorrhea? Syphilis?”

  Judge answered no to all of the above.

  “Fine, then,” the doctor said, giving him a wink to go along with the red stamp on his papers. “Off to the front with you.”

  “SIT DOWN, DIETRICH. MY NAME is Schumacher. You look surprised to see a countryman in an American uniform. Don’t be, there are a lot of us.”

  Judge was in car number three. An interview, he’d been told. Nothing more. Schumacher carried the easy authority of an officer born to the caste. Forty with black eyes, black hair, and a face that looked as if it had been stamped from pig iron. A colonel in the Signal Corps, if you believed his rank and insignia. Judge knew better. Counterintelligence was more like it. A Nazi hunter.

  “You state here that you served in the Wehrmacht for six years, first with the Third Panzer Corps, General von Seydlitz commanding, then the Sixth Army under von Paulus.”

  “Seventy-sixth Infantry Division.” Judge shifted in his seat, a witness giving false testimony. His war record mirrored that of Ingrid’s oldest brother, Heinz, killed at Kharkov in ’43. She’d told him all she knew, then grilled him on the facts for an hour. If any questions arose about what he’d done after Kharkov, he was prepared to say he had deserted.

  “I take it then you spent some time in Stalingrad.”

  Judge said yes, and explained that he’d been wounded and airlifted to the rear before the encirclement. It was a safe enough lie. Few men had made it out of Stalingrad alive.

  Schumacher looked impressed. “Lucky sod.”

  Judge nodded, then asked, “May I be so bold, Colonel, to inquire where you served?” He wanted Schumacher to do the talking.

  “With Rommel in Africa. I was picked up at El Alamein. It was a short war, I’m afraid. I’ve been in the States for the last three years. Kansas. A marvelous place. Wide open spaces.”

  “Ah, America,” Judge replied. “The Yankees. Mickey Mouse. Perhaps one day I shall go.”

  “Perhaps.” Schumacher picked up Judge’s personnel sheet and studied it. “We’ve checked your name, Dietrich, against our books for those wanted for automatic arrest or intelligence interest. A lot of Karl Dietrichs on the list, but none listed with the Sixth Army. We’re looking for SS primarily. Frankly, you look the type. Sly. Too smart for your own good. Sure you weren’t one of Himmler’s bootlickers?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Sind Sie Kamerade?”

  “No, sir.”

  Schumacher sighed and gave a begrudging smile. “I’ve been told to accept you at your word. Prisons too full as it is, you understand.” He picked up a rubber stamp and held it poised above the sheet. A B stamp meant automatic discharge and a persilschein. Anything else meant transfer to a detention facility until more evidence could be dug up, either for or against. It was the risk Judge had to take to procure a ticket to Berlin. Suddenly, Schumacher dropped the stamp on the desk. “One question, Dietrich: your accent. I can’t quite place it.”

  Judge had his answer ready. “Berlin, sir.”

  “Ah, Berlin.” Schumacher said it with satisfaction, as if his dilemma were solved. But then he inquired further, “Where exactly?”

  “Weissensee.” The district where Judge’s mother had grown up.

  “Wannsee?”

  Maybe Schumacher had lost part of his hearing. Or maybe he knew better. Judge sat up straighter, speaking louder to drive the anxiety from his voice. “No, sir. Weissensee. In the northern part of town.”

  Schumacher leaned across the desk, his black eyes boring down on Judge. “You mean eastern, Dietrich.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “These days Weissensee is in the eastern sector of Berlin. Naturally, you’re aware that residents returning to the Soviet zone are subject to internment and interview before being granted a return visa? I hear it’s a long wait. Two months or so.”

  “Wannsee,” Judge blurted. “Near the lake. It’s very beautiful.”

  “Ah, Wannsee. I thought that’s what you said.”

  Schumacher picked up the stamp and with a mighty fist, pummeled the sheet. Judge dared a glance. A red B graced the bottom of the page.

  HE HAD FILLED OUT HIS P-4 form, listing his name, his relatives, and his home address—all wonderfully fictitious. He had sat through a lecture on the proper manner for Germans to address American soldiers—it could be summarized in one word, “don’t”—and a film narrated by Jimmy Stewart extolling the virtues of democracy. He’d sworn that he had never been a member of the Nazi party. He’d been handed a freshly typed document proclaiming him free of all ties to the German Army and the National Socialist Workers’ party and eligible for any and all types of employment. His very own persilschein. He could use the same document to apply for a passport, a birth certificate, even a driver’s license. He’d been given ten marks, a new pair of shoes (Florsheims!), and a paper bag crammed with tinned meats, bread, chocolate, and cigarettes. Most important, though, he’d received a ticket authorizing him to travel to Berlin on the next available transport.

  Three hours after stepping inside the first railway car of Voluntary Separation Center 3, Frankfurt, Karl Dietrich was free to go.

  Judge found Ingrid lying in the grass drinking a pint of orange juice given her by a smitten GI. He helped her to her feet and explained that a bus was leaving for Berlin in an hour from a transit center a kilometer away. The two jogged the entire distance, presenting themselves to a buck private manning the gate.

  “I have a ticket for Berlin,” Judge said, coating his English with a viscous German accent.

  “Bus is full. We’ll put you down for day after tomorrow. Name?”

  Judge looked to his right and left. Seeing no troops nearby, he reached into his pocket and took out a twenty-dollar bill. “I need two seats on the bus. Today.”

  The private clipped the bill from his hand, took his ticket, and returned his eyes to his clipboard. “Well? What’re you waiting for? Bus leaves in thirty minutes.”

  CHAPTER

  43

  “WELCOME TO ANDREWS BARRACKS,”shouteda bulky figure moving along the column of idling trucks. “Officers gather to the right and stay put. We’ll get you inside, assign you a billet pronto, so you can get to bed before midnight. You Bettys who work for a living, grab your gear and come with me. We’ve got a few of our finest tents set up and awaiting your inspection.”

  Seyss slung his duffel bag over a shoulder and jumped from the rear of the transport. He followed the officer in front of him, moving to the right as instructed, crossing the pavement to a fringe of grass and waiting there. He was curious to discover exactly where in Berlin Andrews Barracks was located. A canopy covered the truck’s rear bay, and as night fell, he’d been robbed of the chance to spot familiar landmarks. About thirty minutes ago, he thought he’d glimpsed some water, but that was no help. Lakes and canals crisscrossed the entire city. All he knew was that he was somewhere in the American sector, that is, in the southwest part of town. The lack of large buildings and the few clusters of trees still standing made him guess a residential district, either Steglitz or Zehlendorf.

  Dropping his duffel, Seyss walked in a small circle. The corroded silhouettes of bomb-fractured buildings and burnt homes hovered in the distance like ghosts beyond the pale. The air stank of smoke and sewage and rang with the frenetic rattle of soldiers on the move. Behind him a mountain of rubble shimmered in the moonlight like a medieval cairn. To the south, he caught the flicker of an open fire, then another. He felt as if he were in Carthage after it had been sacked. But instead of sadness, he felt pride.

  “We lost,” he whispered, “but dammit, we gave them a fight.”
>
  Up and down the road, men continued to pour from the transports, a khaki stream disappearing into the darkening sapphire sky. The convoy of thirty-odd trucks, jeeps, and armored personnel carriers had left Frankfurt at eleven that morning, their cargo an E detachment of soldiers-cum-administrators sent to implement the rudiments of civic government in the crushed German capital. Seyss had bullied his way into their ranks, posing as an errant public affairs officer attached to Secretary of War Henry Stimson’s party who’d missed his ride to Berlin two days earlier. The secretary promised leniency so long as he arrived before the commencement of the second plenary session, set for 10:00 A.M. tomorrow at the Cecilienhof in Potsdam. No one questioned his story. Nor did they ask for his papers. If he wanted to go to Berlin, they were glad to have him. There were too few Americans there as it was.

  A few minutes later, the same loudmouthed soldier reemerged from the dusk, requesting the officers to pick up their campaign bags and follow him. Seyss complied, happy to be on the move. His legs were stiff from the long ride. Twelve hours to cover three hundred miles. The small group walked down a dirt path lined with whitewashed stones, then cut through the range of rubble mountains. A large placard set to the right of the path proclaimed Andrews Barracks. Gross Lichterfelde, Berlin. Established July 6, 1945. Second Armored Division. First Airborne Army. Beyond it loomed a campus of imperious gray buildings arrayed on three sides of a parade ground. He recognized them as surely as he would his home. Fifty meters ahead rose the proud halls of the Lichterfelde Kaserne, home to the SS Leibstandardte Adolf Hitler. Sight of his first posting as an officer nine years before.

  A squad of military policemen stood in a semicircle next to the sign, and as Seyss passed, one shone his flashlight directly in his face. Seyss squinted his eyes, waving away the light. “Watch that, will you?”

  “Mind taking off your cap, sir?”