Christopher Reich - The Runner

The man we’re after is a gambler, he thought. Brave, daring, and more than a little reckless. But then Judge had learned that firsthand that morning.

Turning, he tossed the ball to Miller. “I’m ready to interview the prisoners now.”

Judge’s first impression of Sergeant Willy Fischer was that he looked the way a tank driver should: short and wiry, with a shock of black hair and a pack mule’s stubborn glare. Fischer had spent the war attached to the First SS Panzer Division. From December 1944 through May of that year, he had served under Erich Seyss. He was being detained at the camp for his participation in the Malmedy massacre, though on a lesser charge than his commanding officer. On Judge’s orders, he’d been removed from the camp population the previous afternoon and confined to an empty larder in the supply shack what passed for the” cooler” at POW Camp 8. Since then he’d been fed a warm dinner and an American breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon. No explanation had been given for his confinement. Judge wanted him confused.

“ Guten Morgen ,” Judge said loudly, doing his best impression of a German officer. “I’m sorry we couldn’t find a bed for you, but at least you had something to eat.”

“Good morning to you.” Brushing the dust from his uniform, Fischer took a step toward Judge. His dark eyes raced over the uniform, trying to ascertain who exactly this man was. Judge saved him the trouble, introducing himself as an inspector with the military police and saying he needed his assistance with an important case. “It concerns your former commanding officer.”

“I’m sorry but he’s not here any longer,” Fischer said wryly. “I believe he checked out a few days ago.”

“Know where he went?”

“Baden Baden, if I’m not mistaken. He usually goes this time of year to take the cure.”

Despite himself, Judge laughed. He hadn’t expected a man who’d spent three years trapped in an iron sarcophagus to have a sense of humor. A clerk shuffled into the room with a school chair in each hand. When he’d left, Judge shut the door and gestured for the prisoner to take a seat. “Cigarette?”

“ Ja. Danke .” Judge tossed him a pack of Lucky Strikes, then handed him his Zippo lighter. He wasn’t sure how exactly to handle Fischer. What point was there in threatening a man who’d survived the war only to face the gallows? The man would cooperate only if he felt it would benefit him. “Where’s your family?”

Fischer remained silent for a long while, smoking his cigarette and staring at his inquisitor. Judge imagined he was asking himself how far to go, examining his conscience for signs he’d suffered enough as it was. Finally, he said, “Frankfurt.”

“Does your wife know you’re here?” “I’ve written to her.” Fischer shrugged as if to say he didn’t have much faith that the letters were being delivered.

“Give me her address. I’ll make sure they have enough ration stamps, someplace warm to sleep.” “What? No Hershey bars and stockings?”

Judge played the jolly good fellow. “How could I forget? I’ll throw them in, too.”

“You’re a generous man. A pack of cigarettes, a couple of decent meals and the word of an American officer that he will look after my family. “Fischer pursed his lips as if appraising the offer, while a bemused expression tightened his features. He stood and tossed the lighter to Judge. “Seyss is gone. Leave him.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

Fischer pointed an accusing finger at his interrogator. “Do you know what the Ivans do to members of the SS when they catch them? They take a bayonet and insert it…” He left off. “Forget it. I don’t talk about the man who saved my life.”

And you, Judge wanted to say.What did you do to the Russians when you caught them? Shoot them, starve them, send them to a factory to work until they dropped dead of exhaustion. Three million Russian soldiers had perished under German captivity. But if Judge was seething, he did not let his anger show.

“You didn’t fight the war to end up in prison for the rest of your life. Help me find Seyss and I’ll see the courts go easy on you.”

Fischer scoffed and retreated to a dark corner of the room.

“Tell me how you helped him get out of the camp.”

“Helped him?” Fischer laughed to himself. “No one helps the major.”

“The time for heroes if over,” Judge said crossly. “It’ s time to think about yourself. Your family. Tell me where Erich Seyss is.”

Fischer ambled back to his chair and sat down. After a last drag, he threw his cigarette on the floor, then ran a filthy hand over his mouth. “I am a German soldier,” he said, answering a question only he had heard.

Judge met his hard gaze. “The war is over.”

Fischer shook his head, then dropped his eyes to the floor. “Too bad, eh?”

Judge stood outside the larder, his back to the wall, willing himself to maintain his composure. An hour of questioning and cajoling hadn’t gotten him anywhere. What upset him was not Fischer’s flippant cynicism but his own misreading of the prisoner. His years in law enforcement had taught him that there was no honor among thieves. His mistake had been to assume a defeated soldier would act in the same manner as a captured criminal. He had not reckoned on the inculcated loyalty of the German military. Unless he could convince the second POW that Seyss had wronged him, he’d have no chance in securing the man’s cooperation.

Honey stood next to him, arms crossed, eyes too insistent by half. “There’s another way to make Fritz talk.”

Judge shook his head and walked toward the second larder. “I know.”

Corporal Peter Dietsch sat crouched in the corner of the barren room, clasped hands protecting his mouth as if at any moment it might betray him of its own volition. Like Fischer, Dietsch had served under Seyss’s command in the Ardennes and later in Russia and Austria. Like Fischer, he had been member of a tank squad; his occupational specialty that of gunner. But Dietsch had not volunteered for the Waffen SS. He’d been transferred into the First SS Panzer division from a Wehrmacht replacement battalion in November 1944. A conscript. Judge could only pray that Dietsch’s loyalties didn’t run as deep as Fischer’s.

“ Good morning ,” he began, speaking German, of course, but casually this time. No more baying like a Prussian bloodhound. “Enjoy your breakfast?”

Dietsch eyed him warily before standing up and saying thank you very much, he had indeed. He was a tall, gangly boy, nineteen according to hissoldbuch. His blond hair was shorn to the scalp, his nose too big for his face, and his chin too small. He was the runt who took his beatings and didn’t complain.

Judge explained why he was there. He wanted to know if Dietsch could shed some light on Seyss’s escape or if he knew where Seyss had gone. Dietsch vehemently denied any knowledge of the escape or of his whereabouts, then launched himself into an impassioned defense of the heroic soldier. It was the same crap that Fischer had spewed, but Judge let him have his say. He wanted to give Dietsch plenty of chances to convince himself of his loyalty.

“I have a hard time listening to you speak so highly of the man who got you into this trouble,” said Judge, when the boy finally stopped speaking. “If it weren’t for Seyss ordering you to open fire on one hundred unarmed American soldiers, you wouldn’t be sitting here looking at a hangman’s rope.”

“When attacking there is no time to take prisoners,” answered Dietsch. “The Fuhrer himself issued the orders.”

“So Hitler was with you in Malmedy? Because if he wasn’t, I’m afraid it’s your commanding officer who is responsible for giving you that order.”