Christopher Reich - The Runner

Smiling, Ingrid sat up on an elbow and ran a finger over his lips. “Optimistic, even?”

“Didn’t you hear Sergeant Mahoney? President Truman is visiting Berlin today. All we’ve got to do is find out where and when and I’m betting Seyss will be there.”

“I hope you’ll let me go with you.”

“The police’ll be looking for the pair of us traveling together. We used up our ration of luck last night. Besides, there’s something else I need you to do. I want you to get in touch with Chip DeHaven. You told me he’d written you that he’d be in Potsdam for the conference. Did he ask you to come up for a visit?”

“Well, yes, but I’m sure he was just being polite.”

“Then let him show you his manners. He’s your cousin. He’ll have no choice but to see you when he learns you’re in town. As a counselor to the President, I imagine he’s quartered in Potsdam. Probably with Truman himself.”

“I can’t just go to Potsdam and tell Chip I’m here,” Ingrid protested. “It belongs to the Russians now.”

“That’s true. We have to find someone to let DeHaven know you’re in town.”

“I’m afraid we’re a little short of friends at the moment. Who do you propose?”

Judge asked himself who in Berlin might share his distrust of authority. The answer came in an instant.

Leaning closer to Ingrid, he ran a hand through her hair and whispered it in her ear.

Seyss rose at dawn, showered, and dressed in one of the fresh uniforms he’d taken from room 421 of the Frankfurt Grand. The walk to the mess hall was like a stroll down memory lane. Images of morning formation flooded his mind. He dismissed them outright. Nostalgia had no claim on his time today. Instead of herring, sausage, and hardrolls, he took eggs, bacon, and toast. The talk at the breakfast table was confined to one subject: Truman’s visit to Berlin. The flag raising was set for twelve o’clock at the former Air Defense headquarters. On his way to the ceremony, the President would pass the length of the East-West axis in review of the Second Armored division. From the excited talk, Seyss gathered that practically every American soldier in Berlin would participate either in the parade or the ceremony. As would the cream of the American high command. Patton, Bradley, even Eisenhower, himself, were slated to attend.

It was, Seyss decided, the rarest of opportunities.

Newly confident, he crossed the parade ground and walked into the motor pool. A broad smile and a stiff bribe got him an MP’s Harley-Davidson WLA, complete with windscreen, siren, saddlebags and a rifle bucket (unfortunately empty). The mechanic was sorry he didn’t have anything speedier. Everything else had been dragged out for the parade.

With a few hours before his meeting with Herr Doctor Schmundt in Wannsee, Seyss decided to make a tour of the capital. He was anxious to see how Berlin had fared, and more importantly, to discover the disposition of occupying troops in the different parts of the city. At Yalta, Stalin, Roosevelt, and Churchill divided Berlin into three sectors. The Russians took the east, the British the northwest, and the Americans the south and southwest. After the war ended, the French crowed about wanting a piece for themselves, so the Brits carved a chunk from their sector and handed it over. Germany had become a cake, with all the victors claiming a piece.

Leaving Lichterfelde, he motored north toward Charlottenberg, patrolling the East-West Axis from the Victory Column to the Brandenburg Gate to view the preparations for the parade. Armored vehicles of every sort lined both sides of the eight-lane road. Tanks, half-tracks, self-propelled guns. He stopped long enough to gape at the carcass of the Reichstag — still smoldering two months after its destruction — and the remains of the Adlon Hotel. Beneath the Quadriga, a crew of GIs was busily erecting a large wooden placard.

You are now leaving the American Sector, read the sign, with the message repeated in French, Russian and, lastly, German.

From the Brandenburg Gate, he motored west, following the contours of the River Spree. More than half of Germany’s electrical industry had been located within Berlin’s city limits and the waterway was a vital commercial artery. A few barges cut through calm green waters. Those heading east flew Russian flags and were loaded with machinery: boilers, presses, an endless assortment of steel plate. He wondered where reparations ended and theft began.

He sped past the giant Siemens factory — so big it was called Siemens City — and had a look at the AEG works in Henningsdorf. He checked out others, too: Telefunken, Lorenz, Bosch. Their premises had been stripped. A few pieces of scrap lay scattered across the barren factory floors. Nothing more. He sped by Rheinmetall-Borsig, Maybach, and Auto-Union, the firms responsible for manufacturing the Reich’s tanks and heavy artillery. Empty. Henschel, Dornier, Focke-Wulf — the mainstays of the aircraft industry: concrete husks all; nary a screw rolling on the floor.

Locusts!

The sight of the naked factories validated Egon Bach and the Circle of Fire’s every worry concerning the Allies’ intentions for Germany. They were hell-bent on stripping the Reich of every last vestige of her industrial might. An agrarian state wasn’t far away.

Nearing the edge of town, Seyss found himself gripping the handlebars more tightly, sitting higher in the seat. The candy-striped pole blocked the street ahead. One hundred meters further on stood the Glienickes Bridge, the only one of three crossings open from which Russian-controlled Potsdam could be reached from Berlin. An American transport — “ a deuce and a half” in their streetwise vernacular — had just pulled up to the border. Eager to observe the relations between these reluctant partners, Seyss cut his speed and shunted the bike onto the sidewalk. Russian sentries in pea green smocks stormed over the truck like ants to their queen. One yelled for the tailgate to be opened. The American driver shouted an order and his troops poured out. Immediately, they formed a line and began unloading large cardboard cartons. Seyss was close enough to read the boxes. Evian. Eau Minerale. Drinking water. Probably provisions for the Presidential party.

The Russian officer spent a long time counting and recounting the boxes, tallying the total against a sheet on his clipboard. Finished, he blew a whistle and the American soldiers formed a single file line. Each held out his dog tag as the Russian officer passed by. It was clear they’d been through the whole routine before; equally clear they didn’t enjoy it.

As he turned the motorcycle around and headed north to Wannsee, Seyss remembered something Egon Bach had said during their meeting at Villa Ludwig.How long before the flame of democracy ignites the cradle of communism?

Soon, Seyss whispered. Very soon.

Grossen Wannsee 42 was a stern Tudor mansion set far back from the street on a heavily wooded lot in the southwestern corner of Berlin. Tall iron gates circled the estate. A sprawling lawn cradled the house, sloping in the rear to the Wannsee itself, a calm expanse of water formed by an outcropping of the River Havel. Beds of tulips lined the red brick drive and strands of bougainvillea enveloped the trellis. It was every inch the province of one of Germany’s industrial titans. And that included the spit-polished black Hosch roadster parked before the front entry.

Seyss gave the house a last glance, then goosed the motorcycle down the shadowy lane. It had turned into a fine day. The air was cool, dampened by a morning shower. The sun hung at forty degrees, blanching the eastern sky. Breathing deeply, he enjoyed a surge of vitality, an invigorating shiver that made him see everything that much clearer.Berliner Luft, he thought sarcastically. The Berlin air. Citizens of the capital never missed a chance to boast about the restorative qualities of their city’s air. It was a crock of horse shit, really.