Christopher Reich - The Runner

“How long?” asked Ingrid.

“I’m not sure,” said Judge. “Maybe a few minutes. Maybe until morn—” He raised a hand for quiet and turned his ear to hone into a distant sound, much as a man might squint to sharpen his focus. A growl, the faintest of coughs, then silence. He advanced a step or two, his eyes scanning the dark. There it was again, the growl, and this time Ingrid heard it too.

“A car,” she said.

“No,” he corrected her. “A bunch of them. Probably Jeeps.”

The sound grew steadily, crawling over the rolling terrain, alternately screaming and sighing like a sawmill’s stutter. A minute passed and the stutter was replaced by a throaty hum, hungry and ominous. The Jeeps traveled the countryside with their lights doused, wolves advancing on an abandoned prey. Judge counted eight of them and knew it was no rogue operation. The vehicles sped past a hundred feet below, close enough to see the white stars emblazoned on their hoods; close enough to know it was the same military police of which he had so recently been a member.

Ingrid laid her hand on his arm and, for a moment, they watched the unholy caravan close on the Rathaus a mile away. “And now?” she asked.

But by then Judge was moving, grasping her hand and hustling her to the Jeep.

“Now?” His voice was tight, a rigid self-control holding back his fear. “Now, we’re on our own.”

Erich Seyss was collecting cigarette butts. So far this morning, he’d scraped six off the pavement, and it was still early, just a few minutes before eight. Yesterday, he’d gathered one hundred and twenty-three, enough to make twenty “fresh” cigarettes and earn him a little more than fifty marks. Twenty hours scouting a thirty-meter stretch of concrete for the equivalent of half a dollar. The prospect of such an existence quelled any desire he harbored to rejoin the civilian world.

Tucking his hands into his pockets, Seyss took up position against a shrapnel-scarred column inside the portico of the Frankfurt Grand, a once opulent hotel now consigned to boarding American officers. French doors stood open granting him full view of the hotel lobby. At this time of day, the place was a sea of khaki and green. Officers crowded the reception baying like a pack of dogs for their room keys. They camped on every chaise and divan, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, and flagging down waiters with a shrill whistle and a shout. They flooded from the stairs, the elevators, the men’s room and the kiosk.

Locusts! thought Seyss. Worse than any plague.

Two of the offenders sauntered from the hotel, flicking their cigarettes at his feet.

“Merry Christmas, Fritz,” muttered one.

“Yeah, happy birthday,” added the other.

Seyss bowed and scraped as befitted his beggar’s status, knocking the embers from the saliva-soaked butts before dropping them into his jacket pocket. Eyes scanning the lobby, he caught sight of a slim officer emerging from the elevator, scuffed pigskin briefcase in hand. He checked the man’s epaulets for a pair of silver captain’s bars and his lapels for the twin castles that denoted the corps of engineers, then studied his features. Yes, it was his man. One last time, he compared the breadth of the shoulders, the size of the waist, the man’s height to his own. He smiled inwardly. A perfect match.

When the captain’s key had been placed in the box below the number 421, Seyss left the shade of the portico. A short stroll took him to a newspaper kiosk at the corner, and there, he waited for his man to exit the hotel.

Frankfurt was a-bustle with grim prosperity. A turn-of-the-century steam engine dragged a lone streetcar up Mainzstrasse.Trümmerfrauen crowded every corner chiseling mortar from an ever-growing stack of bricks. Newspaper boys shouted the day’s headlines while a gang of laborers trudged down the side of the road escorted by GIs front and rear. Watching it all through a sun-scratched haze of dust and grit, Seyss acknowledged a long absent warmth blossom in his chest. Hope. And he knew that Germany would survive.

The realization sharpened his urgency to reach Berlin.

Two days had passed since the nightmare at the armory. Two days he’d earmarked for travel to the German capital and establishing local cover. Sunday was spent walking the forty kilometers to Frankfurt. Arriving, he phoned the contact Egon had given him, but the party did not answer. A check of the neighborhood showed it to have been resettled by American officers. Exhausted, he passed the night huddled in a vacant boxcar.

Venturing into thestadtzentrum the next morning at dawn, he expected to find the city crawling with military police, his face plastered on the front page of every paper. After Wiesbaden, he was certain the American would have pulled out all the stops. Curiously, there were no signs of heightened security. Neither his name nor face graced the daily papers. No more than the regular complement of MPs patrolled the streets and not a single Jeep blared his name, description, or the details of his reward. It was as if the Americans believed him dead, alongside Biedermann, Bauer, and Steiner. The conceit was difficult to swallow. At least one man knew he was alive.

Seyss called to mind the taciturn figure who’d guided him from the armory. He was neither short nor tall, his features hidden beneath the brim of a sweat-stained fedora. Even his nationality was a mystery. Providing Seyss with an olive field jacket and a peaked campaign cap, he’d rushed him to an unlocked gate in the perimeter fence and told him of a safe route to Frankfurt. Seyss knew better than to ask who he was. Ein Kamerad . That was enough.

Just then, his captain appeared in front of the hotel, hand raised to ward off the morning sun. Bounding down the stairs, he turned right and passed Seyss at an officious clip. Seyss fell in behind him, sure to guard a distance of at least five paces. Unconsciously, he found himself matching the American’s step, his arms swinging in a parody of a march. He could hear the steady click of the officer’s spit-shined shoes stamping the pavement, their brisk tap-tap smacking of duty, honor, and to his German ear, the will to conquer. But Seyss didn’t envy him his smart uniform and rakish cap. He no longer gave a damn about the trappings of glory. He envied the captain only one thing: his victor’s elan. He had known it once. He swore he would know it again.

Seyss followed the American two blocks to the tram stop at the corner of Mittelweg and Humboldstrasse. Ducking into a shadowy corner, he waited until the number thirteen tram appeared and the captain climbed aboard. Seyss knew his destination without having to follow him: I.G. Farben, Germany’s largest chemicals manufacturer. Dwight Eisenhower had declared the sprawling complex of modem buildings set within an idyllic park-like setting headquarters of the American Occupational Government. As for Farben, well, they were out of business. Demand for Zyklon-B wasn’t what it used to be.

Seyss watched the tram trundle off, then retraced his steps to the hotel. He circled to the employee entrance and passed unnoticed into the employee locker room. One hour after the morning shift had begun, the place was deserted. He made his way through the maze of dented metal lockers, stopping at the farthest corner. He drew his knife and one by one began prying open lockers. He found what he needed on the third try: a clean white shirt, a matching waiter’s jacket and a black bow tie. Removing the clothes, he caught a glimpse of himself in a nearby mirror. His hair was matted and greasy, the blond beginning to show in desultory patches, his clothing stained with sweat, soot and blood. Three days’ growth of beard dirtied his face and, Lord knew, he smelled like a Jew in a cattle car. He offered his slovenly reflection a wink and a nod. Just your average German male.