Christopher Reich - The Runner

“ He had it coming ,” she said mocking his deep voice. “You sound like Gary Cooper. So American. So sure of what’s right and what’s wrong.”

Judge gripped the wheel harder, knuckles flaring white. “Not always. But this time, yes, I’m sure.”

“Erich was sure, too. Sure that Germany had been wronged by the diktat of Versailles. Sure that all ethnic Germans wanted to be united under a single Germany. Sure that England would never enter the war against us. He used to say Poland had been dealt and shuffled more than a deck of cards.”

“I thought he wasn’t political.”

“That’s not politics, my dear Major. It is destiny.”

Judge thought it was hogwash, but kept to his line of questioning. “Would Egon agree?”

“Egon?” If she was surprised at the turn of conversation, she did not show it. “Well, yes. As long as destiny increased the konzern ’s order book. If we were in the business of school wares, I can assure you he would have fought tooth and nail against Herr Hitler. But, alas, our family is in the business of selling armaments. War increases our fortunes.”

“So, he and Seyss had something in common?”

“They both wanted a strong Germany. But six years ago, you could have said that about all fifty million of us.”

“They weren’t friends?”

“Friends?” Ingrid’s sardonic laugh infuriated him. “Egon hated Erich. He was everything Egon wasn’t. Tall, handsome, a soldier. You don’t know Egon. He’s short. His eyesight is poor. He’s like a wolverine, an ugly little creature with sharp fangs and claws. He’s absolutely vicious. Erich, of course, was our White Lion.”

“Of course,” said Judge, not bothering to hide his disdain. But the provenance of his next words mystified him. “And he had you. Even a brother would be jealous.”

Ingrid dropped her eyes, and when she answered, her voice had gone flat. “Yes. For as long as they allowed him.”

The American Military Hospital stood on a broad hilltop at the southern edge of Heidelberg. Formerly known as the Universitatspital , the building was squat and rectangular, a beige three storey brick plopped down in the midst of a verdant forest. As dusk surrendered to night, the sky blushed a faint azure. Few lights burned in the windows. A shortfall of coal was forecast for the coming winter. Even hospitals had been ordered to cut their use of electricity.

Judge brought the Jeep to a halt under the porte cochere extending from the hospital’s main entrance. A steady stream of nurses, doctors, soldiers, and visitors trickled in and out of the door. He checked over his shoulder for the tail car that had never materialized, then scanned the parking lot to the far side of the building. A dozen army vehicles were scattered haphazardly across the wide space, suggesting they’d arrived at different hours during the day. Thus comforted, he climbed from the Jeep.

“We’ll make this quick,” he said, offering Ingrid his hand to help her from the Jeep.

Inside he presented himself to the information desk and asked if Colonel Stanley Mullins was anywhere in the hospital. The reply came that Mullins had returned to the Provost Marshal’s office in Bad Toelz. Judge was relieved at the news. He didn’t relish confronting his former precinct commander with his suspicions of impropriety. Who had arranged for Judge to pick up von Luck? Mullins would ask. Who had seen to it that his transfer to the Third Army was extended by twenty-four hours? Who was it that just last night spent an hour teaching his former charge the rudiments of driving an automobile? Judge could hear the insulted voice, decrying his complicity. “Are you completely daft, lad? D’ya think I’d lift you up with one hand, only to knock you down with the other?”

And in truth, Judge was disposed to believe him. With every passing hour, the Silver Star assumed a greater role in his deliberations. Not only was the award uncommon, but most of the men who’d received it had already shipped out of Europe. Decorated combat vets had first dibs on spots back to the USA. The fact was Darren Honey was one of the few soldiers so decorated still in Germany. In court, Judge would present the ribbon as irrefutable evidence.

After stating his business, he was told to wait until an orderly arrived to show him to the morgue. He’d barely taken a seat next to Ingrid Bach when a thin young man dressed in a white lab coat limped out of the elevator and waved at them as if they were long lost buddies. “Good evening, sir,” he announced in passable English. “I am Dieter. Please come with.”

Dieter was nineteen with shaggy brown hair and a survivor’s all-weather smile. The Americans had taken his leg at Omaha Beach, he explained, and given him a new one in Frankfurt, just three weeks ago. No hard feelings, okay? Even Ingrid Bach smiled at his unsinkable good cheer.

“You want to see what body?” he asked, as the three descended in a cramped elevator.

“Seyss,” said Judge, speaking German. “He was brought in Sunday morning with the Americans who were killed in Wiesbaden.”

Dieter grimaced. “Bad business, eh? Like the war all over again.” He showed Ingrid and Judge into the same tiled viewing room where yesterday nine gurneys had been lined against the wall. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

The room was empty, except for some metal tables placed in each corner and the large operating light that hung from the ceiling. One sniff made Judge’s sinuses burn. He’d forgotten how overpowering the odor was. Placing a hand under Ingrid’s elbow, he said, “It will be very quick. All I need is a nod, yes.” Or no , he thought.

“I understand,” she said.

Dieter returned five minutes later, a confused look on his face. “Seyss was here, sure. But it says he was sent for cremation today.”

“Today?” Judge robbed Dieter’s hands of a sheaf of papers. The top page held an order transferring body 9358 Sturmbannführer Erich Seyss to the crematorium. The order was signed Colonel Joseph Gregorio, Chief of Hospital Administration, and countersigned by General Hadley Everett. “Has the body already been disposed of?”

Dieter snatched the papers back from Judge. Smiling, he peeled off the top sheet and read from the page below it. “Pursuant to order no.691 issued by the United States Army of Occupation, Military Government of Bad Wurtemberg, Mandatory Conservation of Coal, effective 15 July 1945, all non-urgent uses of coal are to be hereby discontinued.” He thumbed to the next page, taking up mid-sentence, “Therefore all bodies sent for cremation shall be transferred to section D, graves registration, for immediate burial.”

Judge was growing impatient. “Do you still have the body?” he demanded.

Dieter shrunk an inch. “Sure, just in a different place. I only came to tell you it would be a while.” He shot a glance at Ingrid. “Americans — always in such a hurry.”

He returned five minutes later, his entrance presaged by a stubborn caster in need of oil. Having rolled the gurney to the center of the room, he took hold of the white sheet with both hands. “Tell me when you are ready.”

Judge stepped forward, stopping a foot from the gurney. Ingrid Bach took her place at his shoulder. She clutched his hand, and said yes. Dieter removed the sheet. In preparation of cremation, the body had been stripped of clothing. It lay naked, its skin a translucent blue. The wound to the head was crusted and black, a malignant crater.

“It’s not him,” said Ingrid Bach, after hardly a second had passed.

Judge stammered, “How could you—”

“It’s not him, damn it! Put back the bloody sheet!”