Christopher Reich - The Runner

“Of course Hitler wasn’t there,” retorted Dietsch.

“That’s right. It was Seyss who ordered you to pull the trigger. It was Seyss who turned you from an honorable soldier into a cold blooded murderer.”

Dietsch lowered his eyes. “Yes. Fine. It was Seyss. So what? What do you want anyway?”

Judge leaned forward and put a comforting hand on the boy’s knee. “For you to talk to me. Help me learn how Seyss got out of here. Tell me where he went.”

Dietsch glanced up. His blue eyes had gone glassy, shedding the defiance they’d harbored only a moment before. Judge could see that not only did he know something but that he was going to talk. The tension in the room vanished, as noticeable as an abrupt drop in atmospheric pressure. Instead of pressing, though, he sat back and let the boy come to him. He wouldn’t repeat his mistake with Fischer. He took out another pack of cigarettes and put it on the floor between them. After a moment, Dietsch bent over and picked it up. “You mind?”

“Help yourself.”

Dietsch fumbled with the pack, taking an eternity to get the cigarette into his mouth. He smoked like the schoolboy he should have been, puffing earnestly, staring at the skeins of smoke rising in front of his big nose as if he were contemplating Kant’sCritique of Pure Reason. And just when Judge’s patience was deserting him, he spoke. “I want out,” he said. “My wife is eight months pregnant. I must see her. At least a visit.”

Judge almost felt sorry for him. The kid would talk himself into a phone call if he let him go on. “Forty-eight hours,” he said. “A two day pass to visit your wife and you’ll be accompanied by a guard at all times — if you have information that can help me.”

Dietsch laughed. “I didn’t know he’d made it until yesterday evening. I asked myself why else they would throw me in the cooler?”

“Tell me everything.”

“Forty-eight hours?” Judge nodded.

Dietsch shot him a glance that asked if he could trust him, then sighed and began speaking. “We thought he was crazy at first. I mean the Major was so proud about how he was going to face the Americans and admit to his actions. He used to quote von Luck: ‘Victory forgives all, defeat nothing.’ The next day, he said he was getting out; that the Fatherland needed him. Kameraden , he said. One last race for Germany and all that.”

“He said that? ‘One last race’?”

“Yes.” Dietsch brightened. “He was very famous when I was a child, you know? Hitler, himself, nicknamed him ‘the White Lion’ before his race against the Negro Americans in Berlin.”

“He lost,” Judge cut in. He wasn’t interested in the glorification of his brother’s murderer. “You were saying?”

“The Major told us he needed the baize from a billiard table,” said Dietsch. “Fischer and I work some days at the Post Hotel. He knew they had a game room. It was easy to remove, actually. Some of the men made a ruckus in the kitchen while we stripped the table.”

Judge drew small satisfaction from the validation of his suspicions. “And you sewed it to the inside of his uniform so that when he turned it inside out he looked like a GI?” “We had to work on the fabric a little. Darken it with oil, draw on the unit insignia.”

And the helmet? Where did you get the paint for that?” Dietsch laughed, encouraged by Judge’s knowing the tale, “The helmet was easier. We cut the camp ball in half and covered it with paint from the tool shed. Von Luck said, ‘Imitation is the bravest form of deception’.”

That was the second time he’d heard the name mentioned. “Who’s von Luck?”

“General von Luck, of course. The Major’s trainer for the Olympic Games. A founder of the Brandenburg regiment. Seyss spoke of him like a father.”

Judge made a mental note to check if this von Luck character had made it through the war. “And Vlassov? How did Seyss know about him and Janks?”

Dietsch shrugged unconvincingly. “No idea.”

Judge lurched forward and grabbed Dietsch by his jacket. “Now is not the time to start lying to me.”

“I imagine Dr Hansen told him. How else?”

How the hell did Hansen know? Judge wondered. According to Miller he left the camp at seven each night and didn’t work at all on Sundays. Something still wasn’t right. “And the knife?”

“Hansen. He could bring anything into the camp that would fit inside his medical bag. He brought the Major extra rations to help build him up. Wurst, bread, even some fruit. The Major often shared it with us.”

Judge released the thin boy, giving him an easy shove toward the corner. “Where did Seyss go?”

Dietsch bent to pick up his cigarette. “He never told us. Just that he had to meet Kameraden . Other SS men, people loyal to the Fatherland. I don’t know who.”

“Where was he meeting them?”

“I don’t know.”

“Munich?”

“I don’t know.” Dietsch insisted.

Discerning a deceitful glint in Dietsch’s eyes, Judge rose from his chair and advanced on the soldier. “Dammit, tell me!”

Dietsch cowered, fighting back tears. “I don’t know!” Judge spun and kicked his chair to the ground. It was time for the strong-arm stuff. Time to call in Spanner Mullins. He imagined Mullins’s voice, the Irish brogue whispering in his ear, “Either you get him to talk or I will”. He thought of Seyss walking the streets of Munich a free man. He could still feel the bastard’s hand in the lee of his back, giving him a shove that was meant to end his life. Judge circled the room, tensing the muscles in his arms and shoulders as he walked, clenching his fists. In the end, it always came to this. Knock out a man’s front teeth and he’ll confess like a drunk on the steps of St Patrick’s. Like Mullins said, “Sorry, lad, there’s just no other way to make sure he’s telling the truth.”

Looking over his shoulder, he caught sight of Honey peeking through the door. The young Texan was nodding his head, telling him it was okay to unleash a couple good ones on this feckless kid.

Suddenly, Judge rushed at the prisoner, latching his hands on his shoulders and shaking him forcefully. The urge to hit Dietsch blossomed inside him like a physical desire. He didn’t know if it was the frustrations of the day or just a return to his inglorious self but, God help him, he wanted to punch this kid in the face with everything he had. This schoolboy punk who’d leveled his machine guns at men his own age, American men, and pulled the trigger.

“Dammit, Dietsch!” he yelled. “Tell me the truth.”

Dietsch flinched, raising both hands to protect his face. “He wasn’t stupid, you know. He knew you’d come looking for him. He wouldn’t tell us anything which might jeopardize his mission. I’ve told you what I know. I want to see my wife. You promised.”

And then he broke. Tears poured from his eyes and he sobbed, all the while sure to keep his arms about his head. “My wife. You promised.” Judge broke off, his anger ebbing as he backed away. Dietsch was scared witless and fright often made a person honest. Moreover, his words had the ring of truth. A man like Seyss would never reveal his destination to his accomplices. But Judge would never truly know if he’d gotten everything out of Dietsch until he braced him. And that he wouldn’t do.

Colonel Miller followed him outside the supply shack. “You didn’t mean what you said about a forty-eight hour pass?”

Judge stopped in his tracks and faced the paunchy camp commander. “No, Colonel, I didn’t. Keep Dietsch locked up for a month. He can leave as soon as he tells you where Seyss is. If he does, get on the horn to Sergeant Honey or myself at Bad Toelz. Are we clear on that?”