Christopher Reich - The Runner

Miller saluted. “Absolutely, Major.”

Honey drew Judge to one side. “Begging your pardon, sir, but we don’t have a month. Today’s Wednesday. We got till Sunday midnight. That’s four days.”

Judge bristled at the reminder. His fist clenched reflexively and he wanted to hit something, somebody, and he was thinking Honey’s earnest mug would do just fine. Instead, he slapped his thigh and stalked off to the Jeep.

Four days.

It wasn’t enough time.

Erich Seyss was growing annoyed with the portly American sergeant.

“As you can see, I am from Heidelberg. I am only asking for what every discharged soldier has been promised: a one way ticket home. If you please, just have a look—”

The sergeant waved away the document giving Seyss’s identity as one Erwin Hasselbach. “This is the last time I tell you, Fritz. Your de-Nazification papers aren’t enough anymore. Too many of you boys are giving fake papers and using the trains like they were your own taxicabs. New system as of today. You need an actual ticket, and to get one of those you’ll have to go back to the Center for Discharged Soldiers. Show them your papers and they’ll issue you one pronto. You can be on this train tomorrow. Verstehen-sie? ”

Seyss had too much experience traveling in areas newly liberated by German forces to be entirely surprised. The situation was dynamic, tacticians would say, though “chaotic” was the more appropriate term. Either way, he had been taught to deal with this kind of thing. In battle and its aftermath, change — rapid change — was the only constant.

He certainly couldn’t blame Egon Bach for the development. He’d just have to find another way to board the train.

Seyss smiled obligingly as his mind worked the situation. The last thing he would do was present himself at a discharge center, especially now that Major Judge and his colleagues knew he was in Munich. Besides, not all soldiers received a train ticket home. Many were herded into outdoor holding pens to await transport by truck convoy. The wait often ran to days. Worse, if there was a problem with falsepersilscheins, as the American sergeant had mentioned, there were sure to be a host of intelligence officers checking those corralled at the discharge centers for false papers.

“Come on, Sarge,” said Seyss, his smile stretched to the breaking point. “Let’s be civil. Send me back to the center and I’ll never make it to my sister’s wedding tomorrow.”

An anonymous hand shoved him in the back.

“ Beeilen-sie sich ,” growled a man in a torn mackintosh, teeth black as coal. “Hurry up. We all have our tickets. Do as the sergeant says. Get out of the way.”

Seyss glanced over his shoulder. A restless line of men, women and children snaked across the tracks and disappeared into the shadows of a warehouse. They were a slovenly lot: gaunt, ill-shaven, all of them looking as if they were dressed in someone else’s clothing. Like him, they’d been waiting hours in the morning sun for the right to board the daily train to Heidelberg. With the Munichhauptbahnh of little more than a mangled husk, the Americans had shifted civilian traffic to the freight railway station. The place was not well suited to the task. There were no elevated platforms from which to board the trains, no public water closets, and certainly no bahnhof buffets where one could enjoy a beer while whiling away the minutes. Hundreds of people swarmed over the tracks, their anxious steps raising a curtain of dust and grit. Like stones in a rushing stream, American soldiers stood among them, directing the forlorn travelers this way and that. What a mess!

The sergeant cleared his throat and when Seyss returned his gaze, he saw that two soldiers had come up on either side of him. The sergeant tilted his head and shrugged. One hand fluttered, a closing of the fingers that would normally signal “come here”.

Seyss looked from the beckoning hand to the weathered face and suddenly, he realized he’d been stupid hoping to persuade the bluff American. He’d scarcely have had better luck boarding the train with a valid ticket. With a single practiced motion, he unclasped Dr Hansen’s watch and placed it in the sergeant’s palm. “It’s Swiss. Universal de Genève. Good for a round trip, I should think.”

But the sergeant found no humor in the comment. Grunting, he thrust a thumb over his shoulder. “Private Rosen. Show Herr Fritz to his compartment.”

Directly ahead, two trains sat side by side. The train on the left was reserved for Allied soldiers. Officers, first class. Enlisted, second class. Few men appeared to be boarding and as he passed, Seyss saw that the compartments were deserted. Rosen nudged his shoulder, indicating he should advance toward the other train. The train for Germans.

Seyss threaded his way through the crowd boarding the endless string of cars. Twenty or thirty people waited at each entry. Most cars were already full. Compartments meant for six persons held twelve, not counting the children peering down from the luggage racks. Corridors running the length of each car were packed as tightly as sardine cans. Seyss hurried his pace. He’d be damned if he had gotten this far only to find the train full.

Killing Colonel Janks had, indeed, provoked a serious response. The occupational police hadn’t stopped at sending Major Judge and his partner to Lindenstrasse 21. Signs of heightened security were everywhere. Checkpoints had been established at the Ludwigsbrucke and along the Maximillianstrasse. Teams of military police patrolled the streets, demanding the identity papers of men who matched his description — mostly those under forty with blond hair. Two MPs had boarded a tram Seyss was riding. He’d looked each squarely in the eye as they’d passed down the aisle but neither gave him a second look. Black hair was an excellent diversionary measure, but it did little to change a man’s physiognomy — his hair, his nose, his mouth. Emboldened, he’d offered his papers, but the policemen waved them away. A few more days and the uproar would die down. After that it wouldn’t matter. Where he was going, the Americans couldn’t follow.

Seyss finally spotted a passenger car with a few open places. He rushed toward it, only to be stopped by Private Rosen. “Keep moving,” Rosen said. “You didn’t think you’re riding with the paying customers?”

Seyss had never seen so many jerry cans. The entire freight car was full of them. Twelve high, twenty across, at least fifty rows deep. He didn’t bother calculating. Thousands, at least.

“Go on, then,” said Rosen. “Up you go.”

A ladder had been laid against the wall of metal containers. A man hunched in the space between the green cans and the roof of the car, holding steady the ladder. “ Komm jetzt ,” he called down.

Seyss hesitated to join him. He’d had enough of tight spaces for a while and once the door was shut, he’d have no way out until it was opened in Heidelberg. To back out now, however, would appear suspicious. He’d traded a Swiss watch for this trip; a valuable commodity these days. The sergeant had outsmarted him. Seyss climbed a rung and ran a hand along the inside of the wooden door. An iron latch protruded from the rear of the locking mechanism. He leaned his weight on it and it gave way. Good. The door could be unlocked from within. It might take a while to clear a path through the jerry cans, but at least he wouldn’t be left to starve on some forgotten sliding.

He continued up the ladder, accepting a helping hand to pull him into the car.

“Welcome aboard the petrol express,” said a heavy-set man of thirty, give or take five years. The privations of war made it impossible to tell another’s age with any accuracy. “Name’s Lenz.” He had cropped brown hair and a walrus mustache. A rumbling baritone matched the stern countenance. His accent placed him as a Berliner.