Christopher Reich - The Runner

A hungry hand kneaded his trousers. Judge yanked it away, scolding her in a Berliner’s precise German. “That’s enough, sweetheart. Go find a boy your own age. Run along now.”

Watching her disappear into the crowd, Judge’s hungry eye was arrested by a flash of silver. A tall, languid blonde in a satin dress danced cheek to cheek with a slack-jawed man of fifty sporting three stars on either shoulder. Judge could not see her face, but he could see the general’s and recognized it immediately. Leslie Carswell, commander of the Seventh Army, whose headquarters Judge had spoken with the day before to arrange the meeting at Sonnenbrucke. The couple swayed to the music, and as the song came to an end, Carswell cocked a knee and gallantly dipped the woman in his arms.

It was then that Ingrid Bach threw back her head and looked directly at Devlin Judge.

Judge’s first thought was that it couldn’t be Ingrid Bach. He wouldn’t classify the women at Jake’s Joint as prostitutes, but they weren’t paragons of virtue either. War had forced on them a terrible hardship and to survive they’d decided to partner with their occupiers. Their rewards were silk stockings, Hershey bars, cigarettes, maybe even a place to stay for a couple of weeks. It was a decision born of economic necessity which was what made her appearance all the more startling. Ingrid Bach was hardly poor. The woman lived in a home the size of the Frick Museum!

Certain that he was mistaken, Judge returned his attention to her. She was applauding with the crowd, but still she stared at him. The sea-blue eyes, the sharp nose, the blonde hair now immaculately dyed and coiffed — all conspired in an instant to erase his doubt. He practically expected her to march over and begin lecturing him about the poor chamois being shot on her estate. And, nothing could serve as more potent confirmation than the look of abject shame that spread like a shadow across her features, as she, too, recognized him.

Suddenly, everyone was in motion. The band eased into “Body and Soul”, the crowd began dancing, and she was lost, a silver fan twirling slowly on the far side of the floor.

Judge abandoned his post at the bar and cut through the crowd. Ingrid’s discernible humiliation stayed with him the entire way, lending his step an aggressive edge while resuscitating his earlier guilt. He had hardly earned the right to act as wildly irresponsibly as the men around him. He hadn’t slogged over the Alps or braved withering fire at Omaha beach. He hadn’t breached the Siegfried Line or fought his way across the Rhine. Hell, he hadn’t even gone to boot camp. On the contrary. He’d spent the last three years dressed in gray flannel suits and Egyptian cotton shirts, eating at Toots Shors three days a week and at Schrafts the other two.

Bodies, not minds, Judge told himself. He’d been serving his country too.

Crossing the floor, he bumped into Honey cheek to cheek with a chesty fraulein , then forced his way between two couples practically glued together at the waist. Ingrid Bach saw him coming and dug her head into Carswell’s shoulder. Judge didn’t slow for an instant. Reaching Carswell, he tapped him boldly on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, sir, but may I respectfully cut in?”

Carswell dropped Ingrid’s hand and stared at Judge’s sweaty brow, loosened tie, and five o’clock shadow. Obviously, he thought the man a drunk. “You may respectfully go to hell, Major.”

The snap inspection gave Judge the opening he needed. In a single fluid motion, he slid in front of the general, found Ingrid’s hand, and let the crowd sweep them away.

Ingrid Bach lifted herself on a toe to glance at Carswell’s outraged countenance. “Very cheeky, Major. Bravo.”

“You know us New Yorkers. We’re not always the best mannered guys in the world, but we have heart.”

“Heart? When you left yesterday afternoon, you were positively frigid. All business. I’d thought we might at least be cordial.”

Judge offered a conciliatory grin. He’d go cordial a step better if it might help squeeze some info out of her about Seyss. “I was a little overwhelmed by the house and meeting your father. It’s hard to figure out who you can trust in this country.”

“Maybe so, Major. But it’s not fair to judge an entire nation by the actions of a few.”

Judge nodded, wondering with which group she lumped herself in. No doubt the former. Another innocent bystander.

The music swelled as it reached the first chorus. Judge was careful to hold Ingrid away from him, so that their bodies did not touch. She stood a few inches shorter than him, and he imagined that if she came a step closer, she’d fit nicely in his arms. This pleased him enormously. Guiltily, he wondered why.

“Known Carswell long?” he asked, curious as to their relationship.

“Me?” She smiled enthusiastically. “Yes, ages, actually. My cousin, Chip DeHaven, introduced us years ago. We’re old friends.”

“Chip DeHaven — from the State Department? I didn’t realize Carswell was from New York. I’d always taken him for a Southerner. Give him a beard and he’d look like Robert E Lee.”

“No, actually, he’s…” Suddenly, Ingrid averted her eyes and her smile crumbled. “You’ve caught me in a fib. I don’t know General Carswell. I haven’t the foggiest where he’s from. He’s been asking me out for weeks. Finally, I gave in and said yes. I hope you don’t think I’m…” Her words trailed off as her eyes fell to the ground. “I’m very embarrassed.”

“Don’t be.”

“Look, if you want to know why I’m here, it’s the same reason as the other girls. I don’t take kindly to poverty.”

“But you’re a Bach!”

She let go an ironic laugh. “Didn’t you hear Papa this morning? We’ve nothing left. My brother Egon took control of the business two years ago. He convinced the Fuhrer that if Bach Industries was to pass to the next generation intact, the business as a whole must be deeded to him. Egon gave us a few hundred thousand Reichsmarks as compensation and Sonnenbrucke, of course. He thought he was being generous but the money was spent before the war had even ended. I’m lucky not to have been expelled from Sonnenbrucke. Carswell hinted it would make an excellent retreat for officers.”

“He must like chamois.” “That’s not funny, Major,” she replied sternly, but beneath her schoolmarm’s tone, he detected an impish humor.

They swayed with the music for several bars, growing more comfortable with one another. When the musicians went to the bridge and the tempo quickened, Judge even dared a modest spin. Ingrid responded to his direction perfectly, releasing his hand, turning beneath his outstretched arm, then returning to him with the primmest of smiles.

Judge quickly looked away, aware he was enjoying himself more than circumstances allowed. But a second later, he put his lips to her ear, speaking softly. “I asked for this dance so that I might apologize again for disturbing your father this morning. I should have taken your word about the severity of his illness. I’m sorry.”

Ingrid bowed her head. “Apology accepted, but I’m still curious why you thought I’d know where Erich Seyss was?”

“Even the smartest criminals head for their wives or girlfriends when they’re being pursued. Most know we’re keeping an eye on their loved ones, but they can’t help it. I guess they realize that eventually they’re going to be caught or killed, so they’re willing to risk a final goodbye.” He didn’t want to say he had no other place to look.

“I would have thought he’d left the country. Show up in a month or two on one of those U-boats that keep surfacing in South America.”