Christopher Reich - The Runner

The unexpected entry of Erich Seyss into her intimate thoughts thrust Ingrid back in time. She saw herself standing in the window of her apartment on Eichstrasse, her secret lovers’ nest in the heart of Berlin. She felt Erich steal in behind her, his fingers waltzing up her legs, over her belly, caressing her breasts. “ So, Schatz ,” he said in his dead-on imitation of Adolf Hitler, “only ten more children until you receive the gold medal of German womanhood. This is no time to rest. We must work, work, work!”

That was the Erich she had fallen in love with: the unannounced visitor, the wild and tireless lover, the trustworthy confidante who had encouraged her to take an apartment unbeknownst to her family, the adroit mimic ready to lampoon even the most sacrosanct of subjects. Her best friend.

But even as they fell to the bed, giggling mischievously as they raced to undress each other, part of her mind remained on guard. There was another side of him, too, one she’d begun to see with disconcerting frequency: the hidebound soldier, the slogan-hurling party man — “ Kinder, Kirche und Kuche ”; “ Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Fuhrer” ; “ Deutschland Erwache, Jude Verreck!” — the vitriolic anti-semite. In short, the ideal Nazi every Aryan aspired to become.

And in the heat of their lovemaking, when he was deep inside of her, arms pulling her to his body, when they were as close as man and woman could be, she looked into his eyes and asked herself which of these men he truly was.

And the absence of an answer frightened her.

A sudden breeze cooled the room. Catching a chill, Ingrid rushed to her bedside and wrapped a hand knit afghan around her bare shoulders. She returned to the window, eager for the scent of cooling pine and night blooming jasmine. Her thoughts of Erich faded and she found herself, instead, thinking of Devlin Judge. If she’d learned anything from Erich, it was to distrust her instinct.

She wondered if she’d been hasty in ascribing ulterior motives to Judge’s actions. With a guilty smile, she acknowledged that he hadn’t only been thinking about his investigation. Pressed so closely to him, it had been impossible to ignore his desire. Any stirrings she’d experienced in return were purely reflexive. Still, she couldn’t help but remember the feel of his body, his confident hands, the scent of his neck. He’d smelled of scotch and sweat and temper and decision. How long had it been, anyway? One year? Two? No, it had been longer. She hadn’t slept with a man since April of forty-two when Bobby went east. Three years, she whispered, both aghast and amused. She’d never have guessed she could go so long without companionship. It couldn’t continue like this forever.

But she would never consider someone like Judge. He was just another victorious soldier eager for his foreign fling.

In the distance, a kingfisher let go his mournful call, a scratchy bellow that accentuated her melancholy and forced her lacerating eye back on herself. If she was to question Judge, why not herself? What made her think he would consider her, even for a moment? Whatever longing he felt was no doubt as reflexive, as instinctive, as her own. He was a lawyer and an investigator. He knew full well the crimes of which her father had been accused. He would never want a woman who carried the tainted blood of a war criminal.

The question of her own guilt in the matter arose daily.

Upon her demand, her father’s lawyer, Otto Kranzbuehler, had slipped her a copy of the indictment. The stories were difficult to comprehend, let alone believe. 25,000 workers had perished in the Essen facilities alone. Beatings, starvation, murder — the charges described a litany of brutality beyond her imagining. Yet how was she in any way responsible? She hadn’t set foot in any of her father’s plants for ten years. Business was never discussed at home and the Bach women were not encouraged in their interest of the family’s affairs. Still, part of her refused to relinquish her guilt. She was a German. As a citizen, was it not her duty to know what was happening in the country of her birth?

Ingrid searched the ink black night for an answer and found none. For the second time that night she found herself examining the portico below for a solution to her problems.

One push.

The driveway was miles away, the cut brick hard and unforgiving. She imagined her fall — the sudden drop, the rush of air, the terrible thud. But her problems would not perish with her. How would Pauli eat tomorrow? Who would look after Papa? How would Herbert manage?

Frightened by her mere consideration of the idea, Ingrid spun from the window and rushed to her bed.

One more day, she promised herself.One more day and things will be better.

The armory was as still as a mausoleum. The place smelled of cosmoline and petrol and the dank rot of ten thousand wooden crates. It smelled of defeat, thought Erich Seyss, as he stepped inside and a towel of moist air settled around his neck. The last time he’d come, a string of dying bulbs had provided some light. Tonight, the building lay shrouded in darkness. Electricity had been cut six hours ago. Looking into the craw of the building was like staring into the abyss, a black so complete it was without dimension.

Seyss helped Rizzo close the barn-size doors, then switched on his flashlight and whispered for his men to form up. A pool of beams grew at his feet as Bauer, Biederman, and Steiner formed a circle around him. The three had made their own way to Wiesbaden, uniting at a friendly bar a short distance from the armory where he and Rizzo had picked them up. “My associates,” Seyss had explained succinctly, and in a tone which begged no elaboration. He’d ordered them not to speak in Rizzo’s presence and so far they’d obeyed. He had no idea how the American would react if he knew he was arming four SS troopers. Seyss suspected Rizzo already had a hint. Two days ago, the American hadn’t stopped talking the entire drive up from Heidelberg. The south side of Philly, the delicious German frauleins , Artie Shaw versus Harry James, Stalin versus Churchill — Rizzo had an opinion about everything and everybody. Tonight, he hadn’t spoken two words.

“I take it our merchandise is where we left it?” Seyss asked.

“Sure,” said Rizzo. “I mean, why shouldn’t it be? Nobody’s been here since the other day.”

There it was again — the edginess.

“Simply asking, Captain. No need for worry.”

Rizzo laughed apologetically. “I don’t have too many museum curators looking for Russian machine guns.”

“Pity. You’d be a rich man.”

“Give me some time,” cracked Rizzo, his voice steadier. “We just opened for business.”

Seyss relaxed a notch. That was more like the Rizzo he knew. “Lead the way. Once we gather up everything, we’ll take a look at the truck. You have it ready?”

“Yep. Gassed up and rarin’ to go. She’s a beaut. A Ford deuce and a half with Ivan’s red star painted big as life on the hood and the doors. Must’ve been shipped over during Lend-Lease. Whatever you do, promise me you’ll get it the hell out of town in a hurry. Anybody stops you, just speak a little Russkie and pretend you don’t understand what they’re saying.”

Seyss smiled inwardly. That was precisely his plan. “Come the dawn, we’ll be far from these gates. Don’t be worrying yourself, Captain.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear, Mr Fitzpatrick. Follow me.”

Rizzo set off as if on a forced march. From the entry, he turned left, counting off the stacks of crates as he passed them. Reaching six, he made an abrupt right turn and vanished into one of the narrow corridors that ran the length of the armory. Seyss followed close behind, then Bauer and the others. Their flashlights cut a shallow path, barely illuminating the concrete floor five feet in front of them. Above their shoulders, the crates brooded like crumbling statues to a pagan deity.