Christopher Reich - The Runner

“Come with me,” said the sergeant. He led them up the road a hundred yards to a series of blowsy command tents pitched in a line on the forest’s cusp. He pulled back a flap and showed the two of them to a trestle table set in the far corner, then addressed himself to a corporal who stood consulting a city map of Berlin that hung on the wall” Anything happening in Wannsee tonight?”

The corporal ran his hand along the multi-colored street map, as if gleaning information from its waxed surface. “No, Sarge. All quiet.”

The sergeant motioned them to sit. “My name’s Mahoney,” he said, switching back to German. “Military Police. I don’t know when you left Berlin but it isn’t the same place it used to be. I’m not talking about combat damage. Wannsee got through pretty much intact, so you caught a good piece of luck, there. What I mean to say is that this town is a scary place at night. You do not want to be out after dark.” He poked a finger at Ingrid. “Especially you, ma’am.”

Ingrid shot Judge a glance and shook his head imperceptibly. “You’re very kind to warn us, Sergeant,” she said, “but we really must be going. My mother is quite ill. I’m afraid it’s question of hours rather than days.”

Mahoney continued as if she hadn’t said a word. “It’s the Russians I’m talking about. They’re not much for respecting our zonal boundaries. At night, they take to the streets in packs. Trophy Brigades, they call themselves. You’d think that after two months alone in this town they’d have taken everything they wanted. Unfortunately, they’re after more than just loot.” He offered Judge a respectful nod. “Begging your pardon, Mr Dietrich, but your wife is what they’re after.”

Judge began to answer, but just then a tall captain strode into the tent calling for Mahoney. The sergeant shot to his feet and faced him. “Sir?”

“Any servicemen on that transport just in? Officers?” His crackling voice was redolent of hominy grits and black-eyed peas. A son of the south.

“No, sir. Strictly krauts and a few dozen DPs. Czechs this time.”

The captain walked to a bulletin board next to the map of Berlin and posted a circular bearing the photograph of a dark-haired American officer with a solid jaw and a bull neck. It was a photograph of Devlin Judge taken in Staten Island the day he’d received his commission. “Take a gander when you get a chance,” he drawled. “Patton himself wants this sumbitch’s balls on his plate for breakfast. Sending us some of his men to help find him. Oh, and by the way, he may be traveling in the company of a lady friend.”

Mahoney saluted as the captain departed the tent, then took a long look at the picture — ten seconds, by Judge’s count. “ As I was saying, Herr Dietrich, you don’t want to be out on the streets alone with your wife.” He was looking straight at Judge, eyes wandering from his jaw to his nose to his hair. “We spend most of our days dealing with rape and murder. What I’d like you to do is stay with us tonight. Don’t worry, we won’t throw you on a work team. I can offer you a few blankets, a spam sandwich, and some coffee. That should do until morning. Once the sun’s up, the city’s a different place.”

Judge sat motionless in his chair, stiller than he’d ever been before. The absurdity of his situation was too much for him to comprehend, so he decided to understand none of it.

An American disguised as a German sitting within plain sight of his own wanted poster while the non-com in charge was practically singing “On the Good Ship, Lollipop” instead of arresting him.

Keeping his eyes to the floor — if only to avoid his own accusing gaze — he replied, “I’m sorry but we’ll have to take the risk.”

Mahoney looked at Ingrid for support. Receiving none, he spun in his chair and asked his corporal, “Watkins, can you get these people back to Wannsee safe and sound?”

“What? Now?”

“Lickety-split, Watkins. How ’bout it?”

Judge stared hard at Mahoney, feeling a sudden fondness for the earnest soldier. He recalled a time when helping a man facing tough times was the normal thing to do. The only thing to do.

“Sorry, Sarge,” said Watkins. “Everything that’s not tied down has been requisitioned for the parade tomorrow.”

“President’s coming into town for a visit,” said Mahoney, by way of explanation. Standing, he shrugged his shoulders. “You’re on your own then.”

He placed a supportive hand under Ingrid’s arm and guided her outside. But as they approached the dirt road that separated the parade of tents from the forest, he slowed, shaking his head as if thinking twice about the matter. “ Ah, what the hell? I’ll drive you myself. Be my good deed for the day. Where did you say you lived?”

Ingrid cleared her throat before answering, glancing toward Judge for advice. The address she’d given Mahoney belonged to Rosenheim, the Bach family home in Wannsee, so named for its well-tended rose gardens. Rosenheim sat atop the list of spots Judge planned to reconnoiter in the morning, including residences of Bach family friends where he believed Erich Seyss might be hiding.

“Schopenhauerstrasse,” Judge volunteered reluctantly. “In Wannsee.”

“You can show me the way,” said Mahoney. “Jump in.”

Judge gave Ingrid his hand and helped her into the rear of the Jeep, then took his seat. Listening to the engine turn over, Mahoney goosing the accelerator, he had the disconcerting notion that events were spiraling out of control, that he’d committed himself to a course that could only end in disaster, and he shivered. The Jeep slowed as it approached the main road, waiting for a fleet of trucks to pass. The same convoy that had brought Judge to Berlin was headed back to Frankfurt to pick up the next batch tomorrow.

Mahoney eased the Jeep a foot closer to the road, anxious for the trucks to pass.

“Sergeant,” a familiar voice shouted from somewhere behind them. “Stop right now! Do not go any further.”

Recognizing the syrupy drawl, Judge spun to find Darren Honey some fifty yards away, jogging toward the Jeep. Mahoney patted him on the leg. “ Nur ein moment .” Just a second.

But Judge didn’t have a second. The recollection of von Luck’s stiff corpse left no doubt about Honey’s intentions. Balling his fingers into a tight fist, he hit Mahoney in the jaw with a piston-like jab, then shouldered him out of the Jeep. The engine sputtered as the Jeep lost its gear. Judge slid behind the wheel before it stalled altogether, finding first gear and gunning the vehicle between the last two trucks. Ingrid yelled in time to the blaring horn, but by then they were over the grass berm and into the forest.

“What are you doing?” Ingrid shouted.

Judge couldn’t waste time explaining his actions. “You know your way through here?”

“Maybe, I’m not sure,” she answered, flustered.

“I need a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’. Now!”

“Yes,” she stammered.

“Then get us into the city. I don’t care where. We’ve got to disappear.”

Ingrid pulled herself into the front seat. Leaning forward against the dash, she extended an arm toward manicured walkways that lay in the headlights’ crescent. “Follow these paths. They’ll lead us out of the forest.”

“How far?”

“Five minutes. Maybe ten.”

Judge shifted his vision between the grassy landscape in front and the darkness that pursued. Just then, the first headlights appeared behind them and he knew they didn’t have that long.

A half mile from the American command post, they had disappeared into a dense forest with a canopy so thick as to block out every sign of the sparkling night sky and the late rising moon. It was the forest his mother had described sitting on his bedside reading the Brothers Grimm. A deep, dark, living thing, scented of pine and oak, and teeming with hobgoblins and fairies and, yes, even werewolves though they looked more like the half-starved DPs crowding every road in Germany than any fanciful creature. It was the forest where Hansel and Gretel had gotten lost, but instead of a gingerbread house, there was a ruined flak tower, a crippled ten-storey superstructure where Hitler had positioned his anti-aircraft batteries to discourage the marauding hoards from raining destruction upon the capital of his thousand year Reich. It was the forest where Tristan wed Isolde, but all traces of its magical incarnations had disappeared, probably hauled off by the Russians, along with everything else.