Christopher Reich - The Runner

Seyss introduced himself as Erwin Hasselbach, and threw in a Wehrmacht unit and the name of a dead Heer colonel who’d commanded it. “I suppose we should count ourselves lucky we’re not on the manure express,” he said.

It was a long-standing tradition to award every route its own name, usually something to do with its cargo. The run from Berlin to Hamburg was known as “the silk stocking” express; Kiel to Cologne, “the cod express”; Munich to Ruhr, “the potato express”. The fumes wafting from the mountain of empty five-gallon gasoline cans left no question as to how this particular train had earned its name.

“Ah, the manure express,” said Lenz. “I know it well. That one steered a southerly course from Berlin to Berchtesgaden. But it wasn’t manure they transported. It was bullshit.”

Seyss wasn’t sure if Lenz was baiting him or not, so he kept quiet. Too many of their countrymen were quick to declare themselves betrayed by their Fuhrer.We never wanted war, they said.Who dared speak against Hitler? Yet, the same men and women had presented themselves in droves to cheer the invasion of Poland and France and Russia. Hitler had coined an expression for such good weather supporters: March violets.

Seyss raised his head enough to find he could not bring himself to a sitting position. The space on top of the cans was tighter than he’d feared. He closed his eyes for a moment, ordering himself to be strong. Then leaning on an elbow, he made himself as comfortable as possible and tried to restrict his breathing. The trip to Heidelberg would take eight or nine hours, depending on the condition of the tracks. It was not going to be easy. His only consolation was that he’d arrive by midnight, twelve hours ahead of schedule.

A few minutes later, Rosen returned and took away the ladder. “ Bon voyage ,” he called, then slammed the door closed.

The train lumbered out of the station, creaking and moaning with every rotation of the locomotive’s wheels. A cool breeze cleansed the car of the noxious fumes and Seyss pressed his face against the wooden slats, grateful for some fresh air. He was glad to be moving. The familiar pitch and roll of train travel eased his discomfort, both real and imagined.

“So, you’re from Heidelberg?” he asked Lenz, when his light-headedness had faded.

Lenz crawled across the unsteady metal carpet. “Yes. And you?”

Seyss shared his deceit. “Born and raised.”

Lenz broke out laughing. “You’re a fucking liar, you Swabian bootlicker.”

“Say that to all the boys you pick up on the Ku’damm?”

Lenz laughed louder, but all the while Seyss could feel his eyes sizing him up. No doubt he was wondering what this other fool had done to find himself stuck on top of a few thousand stinking cans of gas. Lenz clambered toward him and Seyss could see his eyes. They were dark and pouchy, dragged down by doleful black circles.

“ Sind-sie Kamerade ?” Lenz asked with a grunt.

Seyss obeyed his gut instinct. “First SS Panzer Division.”

“Ah, one of Sepp Dietrich’s boys. I served in the Leibstandarte under him before I transferred to Das Reich . Unterscharfführer Hans-Christian Lenz at your service.”

Seyss extended his arm to shake Lenz’s hand. He wanted to say that he’d also served in the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler, but he’d revealed too much as it was. He certainly could not tell Lenz his real name. “Why Heidelberg?”

“Darmstadt, actually. My brother has set up a little business for himself. He asked me if I might come and join him for a while. I said ‘why not?’”

“A business of his own? Is that right?” Seyss could smell larceny a mile away and Lenz’s flashing eyes did little to rob him of the notion. Still, he played along as his part demanded. “A baker, is he? We had a baker named Lenz in our company. Matter of fact he came from Berlin, too.”

“Sorry, old man. My brother was in the Kriegsmarine. A submariner, if you can believe it. And still alive.”

“He’s a lucky one.”

“And enterprising. Freddy keeps his fingers in a number of pies. A little of this, a little of that. It’s not a bad time for a man who keeps his eyes open.”

“Ah.” Seyss thought Lenz a little too proud of his brother’s role as a black marketeer. He’d never approved of the middlemen who made a living, and sometimes a fortune, trading on the miseries of others. As a rule, they were no different from carrion fowl, feeding off the bones of the sick and dying. Still, Lenz seemed a decent enough sort. Maybe his brother was the exception.

“And you?” asked Lenz. “What takes you to Heidelberg? Friends? Family?”

“Friends,” said Seyss. When he didn’t elaborate, Lenz gave an unpleasant guffaw. “A woman, then?”

“No.” Seyss looked away, despising the man’s assumption of familiarity. It had been foolish to engage a complete stranger in conversation. Just because Lenz had served in the same branch did not mean they had something in common. Hundreds of thousands had worn the uniform of the SS. Those that he had counted as friends were long dead. From now on, he really must learn to keep his mouth shut.

Lenz asked what was wrong, but Seyss did not reply. After a while, the Berliner scooted to the far side of the car and was quiet.

The train rolled west, passing through Augsburg, then Ulm. The cities appeared relatively undamaged. The spire of the cathedral in Friedrich Square rose majestically in the afternoon sky. Twice, the train stopped for an hour as cars behind him were shunted to a siding and others added in their place. The wait was interminable. The dizzying fumes and increasing temperature combined to make his cozy little spot a fulsome hell. Seyss fidgeted constantly, one eye for the roof lest it decide to collapse, the other on the sky, the dirt, any passing object that assured him that the outside world was only a few inches away. He needed all his willpower to keep from carving a path through the cans to the door and leaping from the car. And each time, just when he thought he could stand it no longer, the engineer sounded his whistle, the car lurched forward, and slowly, mercifully, they were on their way.

Stuttgart was a wasteland, a pile of rubble ten kilometers long. Chimneys of brick and mortar still stood, but the homes they had warmed were gone. Factories were a total loss. Stuttgart was the ball-bearing capital of Germany, and as such a principal target of Allied bombing missions throughout the war. How many raids had it taken to flatten the city? Twenty? Fifty? And how many bombers? Ten thousand? As if in a dream, he saw them passing overhead. Swarms of dull green insects floating across the sky, their shadows combining into a gray cape that carpeted the entire countryside. And the drone. God, he’d almost forgotten the drone. A low-pitched buzz that reverberated in your bones and set a stream of acid pissing in your gut. Louder and louder, until your entire body shook and you could scream, “Stop, you sons of bitches. Kill me, but there are women and children down here, too,” and the man standing a foot away from you would put a hand to his ear and shout back, “What?” They dropped the HEs first — high explosive to concuss the walls, bring the buildings down on themselves; then the incendiaries — fire bombs to melt the glass and steel and ruined machinery into one giant gob of unsalvageable nothing.

“Let them come,” he whispered in a melancholy voice. “If this is all that is left, the Reds can have it.”

The sun was setting as they passed through Karlsruhe an hour later. Heidelberg lay eighty kilometers due north. Another two hours aboard the “petrol express”. The air had cooled considerably. A thick cushion of cloud hovered low on the horizon. Far away, lightning flickered, but Seyss couldn’t hear the thunder. He lay his head on an arm and closed his eyes.