Christopher Reich - The Runner

Judge felt his every muscle tense as a prelude to snatching the quirt and shoving it down the obnoxious corporal’s throat. Yet even as his neck flushed and he rolled forward on the balls of his feet, another emotion eased his rage tempering it as a dash of bitters softens gin — and he realized he wasn’t angry at all, but ashamed.

A firm hand squeezed his shoulder. “Calm down,” whispered the soldier behind him. “Your persilchein will do a lot more good than beating up that prick.”

Judge turned, saying only, “ Ja. Danke .”

He was the enemy.

Just then, the doctor arrived. He was a German, like Hansen from Camp 8. A local recruited to do the American’s work. Soon after, the line began to move.

The examination took less than two minutes. A peek at his throat and ears. A stethoscope to his chest. “Breathe deeply. Again.” And a few questions. “History of tuberculosis? Gonorrhea? Syphilis?”

Judge answered no to all of the above.

“Fine, then,” the doctor said, giving him a wink to go along with the red stamp on his papers. “Off to the front with you.”

“Sit down, Dietrich. My name is Schumacher. You look surprised to see a countryman in an American uniform. Don’t be, there are a lot of us.”

Judge was in car number three. An interview, he’d been told. Nothing more. Schumacher carried the easy authority of an officer born to the caste. Forty with black eyes, black hair and a face that looked like it had been stamped from pig iron. A colonel in the Signal Corps if you believed his rank and insignia. Judge knew better. Counter-intelligence was more like it. A Nazi hunter.

“You state here that you served in the Wehrmacht for six years, first with the Third Panzer corps, General von Seydlitz commanding, then the Sixth Army under von Paulus.”

“76th Infantry division.” Judge shifted in his seat, a witness giving false testimony. His war record mirrored that of Ingrid’s oldest brother, Heinz, killed at Kharkov in forty-three. She’d told him all she knew, then grilled him on the facts for an hour. If any questions arose about what he’d done after Kharkov, he was prepared to say he had deserted.

“I take it then you spent some time in Stalingrad.”

Judge said “yes”, and explained that he’d been wounded and airlifted to the rear before the encirclement. It was a safe enough lie. Few men had made it out of Stalingrad alive.

Schumacher looked impressed. “Lucky sod.”

Judge nodded, then asked, “May I be so bold, Colonel, to inquire where you served?” He wanted Schumacher to do the talking.

“With Rommel in Africa. I was picked up at El Alamein. It was a short war, I’m afraid. I’ve been in the States for the last three years. Kansas. A marvelous place. Wide open spaces.”

“Ah, America,” Judge replied. “The Yankees. Mickey Mouse. Perhaps one day I shall go.”

“Perhaps.” Schumacher picked up Judge’s personnel sheet and studied it. “We’ve checked your name, Dietrich, against our books for those wanted for automatic arrest or intelligence interest. A lot of Karl Dietrichs on the list, but none listed with the Sixth Army. We’re looking for SS primarily. Frankly, you look the type. Sly. Too smart for his own good. Sure you weren’t one of Himmler’s bootlickers?”

“No, sir.”

“ Sind-sie Kamerade? ”

“No sir.”

Schumacher sighed and gave a begrudging smile. “I’ve been told to accept you at your word. Prisons are too full as it is, you understand.” He picked up a rubber stamp and held it poised above the sheet. A “B” meant automatic discharge and a persilschein . Anything else meant transfer to a detention facility until more evidence could be dug up, either for or against. It was the risk Judge had to take to procure a ticket to Berlin. Suddenly, Schumacher dropped the stamp on the desk. “One question, Dietrich: your accent. I can’t quite place it.”

Judge had his answer ready. “Berlin, sir.”

“Ah, Berlin.” Schumacher said it with satisfaction, as if his dilemma were solved. But then he inquired further, “Where exactly?”

“Weissensee.” The district where Judge’s mother had grown up.

“Wannsee?”

Maybe Schumacher had lost part of his hearing. Or maybe he knew better. Judge sat up straighter, speaking louder to drive the anxiety from his voice. “No sir. Weissensee. In the northern part of town.”

Schumacher leaned across the desk, his black eyes boring down on Judge. “You mean eastern, Dietrich.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“These days Wiessensee is in the eastern sector of Berlin. Naturally, you’re aware that residents returning to the Soviet zone are subject to internment and interview before being granted a return visa? I hear it’s a long wait. Two months or so.”

“Wannsee,” Judge blurted. “Near the lake. It’s very beautiful.”

“Ah, Wannsee. I thought that’s what you said.”

Schumacher picked up the stamp and with a mighty fist, pummeled the sheet. Judge dared a glance. A red “B” graced the bottom of the page.

He had filled out his P-4 form, listing his name, his relatives and his home address — all wonderfully fictitious. He had sat through a lecture on the proper manner for Germans to address American soldiers — it could be summarized in one word, “don’t!” — and a film narrated by Jimmy Stewart extolling the virtues of democracy. He’d sworn that he had never been a member of the Nazi party. He’d been handed a freshly typed document proclaiming him free of all ties to the German army and the National Socialist Workers’ party and eligible for any and all types of employment. His very own persilschein . He could use the same document to apply for a passport, a birth certificate, even a driver’s license. He’d been given ten marks, a new pair of shoes ( Florsheims! ), and a paper bag crammed with tinned meats, bread, chocolate and cigarettes. Most importantly, though, he’d received a ticket authorizing him to travel to Berlin on the next available transport.

Three hours after stepping inside the first railway car of Voluntary Separation Center 3, Frankfurt, Karl Dietrich was free to go.

Judge found Ingrid lying in the grass drinking a pint of orange juice given her by a smitten GI. He helped her to her feet and explained that a bus was leaving for Berlin in an hour from a transit center a kilometer away. The two jogged the entire distance, presenting themselves to a buck private manning the gate.

“I have a ticket for Berlin,” Judge said, coating his English with a viscous German accent.

“Bus is full. We’ll put you down for day after tomorrow. Name?”

Judge looked to his right and left. Seeing no troops nearby, he reached into his pocket and took out a twenty-dollar bill. “I need two seats on the bus.Today.”

The private palmed the bill from his hand, took the ticket, and returned his eyes to his clipboard. “Well? What’re you waiting for? Bus leaves in thirty minutes.”

“Welcome to Andrews Barracks,” shouted a bulky figure moving along the column of idling trucks. “Officers gather to the right and stay put. We’ll get you inside, assign you a billet pronto, so you can get to bed before midnight. You Bettys who work for a living, grab your gear and come with me. We’ve got a few of our finest tents set up and awaiting your inspection.”

Seyss slung his duffel bag over a shoulder and jumped from the rear of the transport. He followed the officer in front of him, moving to the right as instructed, crossing the pavement to a fringe of grass and waiting there. He was curious to discover exactly where in Berlin Andrews Barracks was located. A canopy covered the truck’s rear bay, and as night fell, he’d been robbed of the chance to spot familiar landmarks. About thirty minutes ago, he thought he’d glimpsed some water, but that was no help. Lakes and canals crisscrossed the entire city. All he knew was that he was somewhere in the American sector, that is, in the southwest part of town. The lack of large buildings and the few cluster of trees still standing made him guess a residential district, either Steglitz or Zehlendorf.