The Runner (12 page)

Frightened by her dark thoughts, she drew herself upright and wiped at her eyes. Somehow her tears eased her anxiety and when she reached the door to her father’s bedroom, she had regained not only her composure but her confidence. She rested for a few seconds, gathering her breath and finding her courage. Her fingers danced through her hair, guiding stray locks to their place as if by intuition. Closing her eyes, she offered a brief prayer that today would be a good one for her father. Then she knocked and opened the door.

The room was dark. The labored huff and sigh of her father’s breathing rose from the bed. Alfred Bach was still asleep. She drew the curtains, then rolled up the blinds and threw open a window. Sunlight burst into the room as a gust of wind invigorated the still air.

“Good morning, Papa,” she said, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze.

The old man’s eyes fluttered, then opened. “Good morning.”

Ingrid smiled. He said good morning no matter what time of day one greeted him. “How was your sleep? Did you see Mama in your dreams?”

“Good morning,” he said again.

Ingrid kept her smile in place, but her heart sank. Illness had shrunk him. The outline of his frame hardly showed under the duvet. “Good morning,” she whispered.

Every so often her father had moments of clarity.
“Aufhellungen,”
the doctor called them. The term denoted a clearing of the clouds. On those days, Papa would be himself again, barking orders left and right, complaining about his arthritis, cursing that nincompoop Hitler’s decision to delay the invasion of Russia so that he could take a vacation in the Balkans. She had hoped today might be one of those occasions.

Alfred Bach lurched forward and Ingrid’s hands dropped to the sturdy restraints hanging from the bedside. “Ingrid, my darling daughter,” he said, “how I love you.”

She released the ties. “I love you, too, Papa.”

“How is Bobby?”

Always the questions about her husband. “He’s fine.”

“Is he coming to the party?”

Ingrid smiled coyly. Lately, her father had gotten it into his head that every day was his birthday. “I’m so sorry, Papa, but Bobby cannot come. His squadron is stationed in the East. He’s probably flying right—”

“No, no,” interrupted Alfred Bach. “He must be on his estate. He’s a
graf,
after all. Don’t forget that. His responsibility is to his land. A man must keep his eye on things.”

Alfred Bach loved his son-in-law’s vast tracts of land in eastern Pomerania almost as much as the title that had accompanied them. Graf Robert Friedrich von und zu Wilimovsky. And, of course, she was the
gräfin,
though her claim to the title was dubious now that the Red Army had seized her husband’s estates.

They were a pair, the Wilimovskys and the Bachs. Two of Germany’s fabled family’s, one destitute and ruined, the other soon to be.

She’d known Bobby her entire life. He was a dark, willowy boy—she’d never been able to think of him as a man—who loved sleek boats, fast cars, and faster airplanes. But he was no playboy. God, no. He’d neither drunk nor smoked. To her chagrin, he hadn’t even liked sex very much. He’d proposed at midnight, New Year’s Eve, 1939, at the Bristol in Berlin, Reichsmarschall Goering standing close by as his second. Maybe it was the Champagne or his dancing brown eyes or the fact that earlier in the day she’d learned she was carrying a child. Whatever the reason, she’d said yes, then and there. She had loved Bobby very much. But she’d hadn’t been in love with him. At least not then—and if she was to keep to the morning’s theme of unblinking introspection—maybe not ever.

Erich had stolen that from her. Not the ability to love so much as the capacity to trust that was love’s necessary antecedent. She saw him now as he always visited her, dressed in his formal evening attire, blond hair swept sternly from his forehead, bronzed skin glowing in contrast to his blackest of black uniforms. A gold medallion hung from his neck, an award bestowed by the Führer that very evening to honor the Fatherland’s finest athlete. A year after his defeat at the Olympic Games, Erich Seyss had regained his country’s adulation, winning three events at the European Championships, all by decisive—or as Adolf Hitler lauded in toasting him—“Germanic” margins.

He wasn’t the handsomest man she’d ever seen, perhaps not even in the room that night, but he possessed about him a stillness, a composure that was its own attraction. He smiled reluctantly, as if humor were a commodity in short supply. He had the gift of patience, of making others come to him, and not speaking until one wasn’t sure whether he’d even heard a word you’d blathered in that first gush of hellos and congratulations and generally shameless fawning. But the most alluring of all his qualities was his confidence, unalloyed and unspoken. To everyone who saw him that night in Berlin, seated on the dais to the Führer’s left, he was, of course, the new Germany. The Fatherland reborn.

And when he appeared at her side late in the evening, not only smiling but bowing as he requested the next waltz, his diamond-blue eyes riveted upon her as if she was more valuable than any medal, she broke her every coquette’s precept and agreed immediately.

He was a wonderful dancer.

That had been eight years ago, Ingrid realized, almost to the day.

“Bobby won’t be coming to the party tonight,” she said to her father. “But I’ve invited all your friends. The Mellars, the Klinsmans, the Schroeders.”

A drawer in the nearest cabinet housed her father’s medication. Lidocaine to be injected twice daily. Aspirin. Morphine for the days when his pain was unbearable. She had no medicine to sharpen his mind. She administered the lidocaine and made sure her father had swallowed his aspirin, then went downstairs to prepare a light breakfast for him.

She saw the car as she passed the front door on her way back to his room.

A large American sedan swept up the driveway, a red flag fluttering from its front bumper. A pair of motorcycles preceded it and a jeep came to the rear. Setting down her father’s tray, she moved to the window. In the meadow, Pauli was rushing toward the vehicles, all gaping mouth and scraped knees. Visitors were rare. Apart from the squad of soldiers stationed at the head of the driveway, ostensibly to keep her father under house arrest, and the ever-present GIs running about the woods slaughtering her chamois, only a clutch of friends came to Sonnenbrücke. With petrol so scarce, it was simply too much of an excursion.

The motorcade halted directly before the front door. The petite red flag bore three gold stars. She was to receive a general officer. She prayed he would not bring bad news. She wasn’t sure she could bear anything more. Self-consciously, she prettied her hair and ran a hand over her dress. One part of her was aghast at her appearance, another proud of it. Damning her misplaced vanity, she let her hair fall where it might, then opened the door and stepped onto the brick portico. She recognized the officer stepping from the rear of the sedan at once. Leslie Carswell, the general who commanded the troops keeping an eye on Papa. She’d met him during the interrogations conducted to establish whether her father was fit for trial. He was tall and distinguished with trim gray hair, wiry eyebrows, and a craggy face you could hang climbing ropes on. Older, but not bad-looking. A southerner, if she remembered correctly. Like so many Americans he refused to walk like a soldier, sauntering casually across the driveway as if taking a Sunday walk.

“Miss Bach, a pleasure to see you again,” he called, extending a hand.

“Good day, General. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Casting a glance over his shoulder, she noticed that his driver and the other members of his retinue were staying in their places. Odd.

“A social call, ma’am.”

“Oh? I didn’t realize American men were permitted to mingle with the Hun.”

“The Hun?” Carswell slapped a hand on his thigh. “Why, with that lovely accent you sound as English as the queen herself.”

Ingrid smiled politely. She had no illusions about Carswell’s ability to influence the conditions of her father’s incarceration. One call could land Papa in an eight-by-ten cell, illness or no. “Papa insisted all the children learn English fluently,” she responded. “He was a great friend of Mr. Churchill’s.”

“I’m all for bettering relations between the fine German people and us Americans. In fact, that’s the reason for my visit. I was thinking it might be useful for us to have a discussion about what your father was doing during the last months of the war.”

“He was ill,” she shot back defensively. “You know that.”

Carswell chuckled as if there’d been a misunderstanding. “Before that, I mean. Some of the boys in Intelligence had a few questions about the extent of his resistance. Not many of Hitler’s top dogs went against him and lived.”

“Father talked, that’s all. He may not have liked the Führer but he certainly wasn’t going to compromise production. His first loyalty was to our soldiers.”

“And did you agree?”

“War is a man’s business, General. The opinions of a twenty-five-year-old woman don’t hold particular sway.”

Ignorance relieved her of complicity. What she did not know, she could not be responsible for. It was a hand-tailored excuse, worn thin these six years, and lately she’d begun to see through it altogether. One could not simply close their eyes and pretend nothing was happening. Ignorance was just a different kind of guilt.

“That may be, Miss Bach, but I’d be most interested to hear them. Have you by any chance been to the Casa Carioca in Garmisch? It’s quite a nice establishment.”

Taking in Carswell’s wolfish grin, Ingrid suddenly realized why he’d come. He couldn’t care less about Papa’s opposition to the Führer. He wanted to bed her. Many women were allowing themselves to be taken as mistresses to American GIs. In exchange for their company, they received cigarettes, stockings, chocolate, even perfume—all of it ready currency on the black market. She had no illusions how they earned their keep. “Mistress” was just a diamond-crusted word for whore.

“I’m sorry, General, but I just couldn’t. Someone must look after Papa, and my son still doesn’t know what to make of your GIs camped on our driveway. Maybe another time.”

Carswell was ever the gentleman. Tipping his cap, he said he’d come again next week, if only to inquire as to her father’s health. “And Miss Bach, if there’s anything I can help you with . . . anything . . . do let me know.”

Ingrid remained outside as the motorcade circled the marble fountain and accelerated up the driveway. To her everlasting shame, she even found herself waving.

Papa’s wine would only last so long.

CHAPTER

12

“H
ERE HE IS, THEN, THE LUCKIEST
man in Germany.”

Stanley Mullins swept into the hospital room in a swirl of self-importance, taking up position at the end of Judge’s bed. “I don’t know if a cracked rib will get you a Purple Heart, lad, but I can surely put in a request.”

Judge prodded the swath of bandages wrapped around his torso and winced. The only medal he deserved was one for monumental ineptitude. “Just get me out of here, Spanner,” he said. “We need to get up to Garmisch pronto. Seyss is in Munich and the only people who might have an idea why are his buddies in that camp. The sooner we talk to them, the better.”

Mullins tapped a finger to the side of his nose. “Got the scent of him, do you? There’s my bloodhound. Let me have a word with the docs. They seem to think you need a few days to mend.”

Judge was up on an elbow, shaking his head before Mullins could finish his words. The typescript of his orders scrolled before him like the news wire at Times Square.
Temporary duty. Seven days. To expire at midnight, Sunday, July 15th.
He was down to five days and he’d scared off the prey. It wasn’t quite the start he’d been hoping for.

“Relax, Dev,” soothed Mullins. “Word’s out that Seyss is in town. We’ve doubled the patrols, set up two dozen roadblocks, and instituted spot identification checks at random points all over the city . . . all per your very own instructions.”

The key word being “random,” Judge thought, disgustedly. There was no time to get a new description of Seyss out to the troops patrolling the city. Most hadn’t even had a chance to see his photograph. They’d be stopping every blond male over five feet tall. A black-haired, bespectacled six-footer would pass unnoticed, untouched, and unhindered. Still, Judge knew it was better than nothing, so he kept his complaints to himself.

Mullins motioned for him to scoot over and sat down on the bed beside him. “Before I track down the nearest sawbones, Dev, I wanted a word.”

Judge sat up stiffly. “Yeah?”

“Now tell me honest, are you feeling okay?”

“I’ve been better, but there’s no reason to keep me tied to a bed.”

Mullins’s watery eyes brimmed with concern. “You’re sure? You know my rule about sending out a man when he’s less than a hundred percent. It’s the only way I can look after you.”

“It’s a rib, Spanner. Not even broken, just cracked. But thanks for asking.”

Mullins tapped a finger to his forehead. “And up here? Everything as it should be?”

“Sure.”

“Good. Good.” Mullins smiled, but something in his regard changed. His worries about Judge’s well-being answered, he’d moved on to more important matters. “I don’t mean to pry, lad, but what happened back there at Lindenstrasse? One second you’re telling Sergeant Honey you’ve got your man, the next, Mr. Seyss has a gun in your back, you’re doing a swan dive off the stairs, and he’s making his escape.”

“I found him upstairs pretending to be some sort of building inspector. I called for Honey and then he . . .’’ Judge averted his eyes, praying he wasn’t turning some awful shade of crimson.

“He what?”

“He . . .’’ Judge was robbed for words. He’d been asking himself the same question since Honey had hauled him off the rotted spar earlier that morning.
What happened in there?
and its unspoken corollary,
Why didn’t you kill him?
Hearing the words issue verbatim from Mullins’s lips, he flushed anew with shame and humiliation. For behind them loomed a matter of far greater import: What if his failure to shoot Seyss wasn’t a question of atrophied reflex but of atrophied nerve? “Dammit, Spanner, he was just faster than I was. He jumped me and got the gun. What am I supposed to say?”

“Dev, you were in the same room with the bastard. Did you forget what he’d done to your brother?”

“Of course not,” Judge retorted. “What? You expect me to shoot him on sight? Last I heard, it was up to the courts to decide a man’s punishment.”

Mullins inched closer, his imposing bulk every bit as threatening as Judge’s stormy conscience. “It’s just that from that distance a man’s body is like the broad side of a barn. How could you miss? Safety off, hammer back. A funny thing for the Academy’s honor graduate to forget.”

“That was eighteen years ago, but if it makes you happy, I didn’t forget.”

“Well, then, lad, if it’s not the technique, the problem must lie elsewhere.” A ruddy hand fell to Judge’s shoulder delivering the brunt of Mullins’s exasperation. “What happened to the young thug I took off the streets? My own Jimmy Sullivan, you were. Tell me true, Dev, when you handed in your detective’s shield, did you toss in your balls along with it?”

Judge knocked the arm away, while somewhere inside him a band snapped. “Go fuck yourself, Spanner.”

Mullins’s face colored and when he spoke his voice was barely a whisper. “You can call me Spanner once you’ve brought in Seyss. Until then, you’ll be wise to remember your manners. It’s Colonel Mullins to you.”

Judge was fed up with Mullins’s games. “Then you can tell the colonel to go fuck himself, too.”

Mullins smiled. “There’s my lad. Just wanted to make sure the spirit hadn’t been siphoned out of you. There’s hope yet.”

The former lieutenant from Brooklyn’s Twentieth Precinct rose and sauntered from the room, mumbling he was off to find a doctor who could sign “the lad” out. Judge dropped his head on his pillow, wondering if Mullins’s words contained a grain of truth. Since coming to the hospital, he’d been replaying his confrontation with Seyss over and over. He kept seeing Seyss lunge at him, feeling that twinge of hesitation when his finger froze up and he’d allowed the Nazi swine to get the better of him.

What happened to the young thug I brought in off the street? My own Jimmy Sullivan, you were.

Judge tried without success to shake off the question. He wasn’t one to dwell in the past. He didn’t like recalling those days. Frankly, he had an aversion to looking back. Too many close calls, too many unexplained coincidences. It made him uncomfortable to realize how narrowly his success had been won. But the bite of Mullins’s words whisked away his hesitance and transported him to his youth—to the only day that really mattered. May 24, 1926. And its memory was so sharp, so crystalline, he shivered, even as he sat sweating in his lumpy hospital bed.

It was the cry he remembered most. The old man’s scream when they’d hit him with the blackjack.

Dev and the boys had been hanging around the Maryann Sweet Shop all day long, drinking egg creams and playing quarters in the back alley when the parade went by. A hundred Italian men and women dressed in their Sunday best marching down Pulaski Street—black suits, fedoras, every man a mustache, every woman a shawl—all of them gathered around a ten-foot-tall papier-mâché mockup of blessed Saint Maria Teresa Whoever they carried on their shoulders.

“Look at ’em,” Artie Flannagan had joked. “Just off the boat.”

“Not a real American among ’em,” said Jack Barnes.

But it was Moochy Wills who’d encapsulated their feelings most eloquently. “Fuckin’ wops!”

The escapade was Moochy’s idea. Follow the patron of the society home, give him a sock to the head, and nab the money from the collection plate. The guy would be carrying a hundred, easy. Italians weren’t lazy like the Irish. Stupid, maybe, but not lazy.

Twenty years after the fact, Judge could still feel his initial stab of reluctance: the sharp ache in his gut, the sudden loss of breath. He’d acted up before. Ditching school, crashing speakeasies, once even helping some wiseguys unload a few dozen cases of hooch down at Sheepshead Bay in the dead of night. But this was different. This was robbery. He knew it and still he didn’t say a goddamned word.

So they did it, just like Moochy said. They marched behind the parade until it dispersed. They waited outside the tiny
ristorante
while the faithful ate and drank and raised the roof, and when the party was over, they followed Il Padrone home to his apartment in Flatbush. Judge could see them all as if he were watching the scene unfold on the silver screen. Moochy, Jack, Artie, and Dev, perched on the stoop of that run-down tenement. And, of course, Il Padrone. He was an older guy, fifty and slight, wearing a silver sash around his chest decorated with a score of Italian words. Seeing the three strapping teenagers so close, he flinched, then shaking off his fear, offered a smile and a tip of the hat.
“Buona sera,”
he said. Good evening.

“Yer in America,” answered Moochy Wills, raising the blackjack over his head. “Learn to talk fuckin’ English.”

The rest happened fast. Moochy bringing down the jack on the old guy’s neck, the bony hand flailing the air, hopelessly working to defend himself. Artie and Jack, and yes, Dev, too, throwing in their best kicks, not looking where their work boots struck. Then Moochy clearing them away, wanting the guy for himself, clubbing him over and over until blood poured from his forehead and he’d collapsed to his knees. All of them laughing hysterically, shouting “Fuckin’ wop!” over and over.

And that cry! It wasn’t pain, not even fear. It was worse. It was disappointment. This didn’t happen in America. This was why he’d left Palermo or Naples or wherever the hell he was from. That cry!

Out of nowhere, Artie Flannagan yelled, “Jesus, the cops!”

The boys had been so focused on clobbering the old man, none of them had noticed the patrolman twirling his nightstick at the corner of Seventeenth and Newkirk. He was a bear of a copper with a jaw like a steam shovel and a voice to freeze the hair on top of your head. Seeing the old man prostrate on the sidewalk, he shouted for the boys to stop right there and took off toward them with the stride of a thoroughbred. Judge remembered thinking that a big guy couldn’t move that fast. It was impossible.

Moochy grabbed the money from the Italian’s coat and hightailed it down the street. Artie and Jack followed. But Dev didn’t budge. His legs refused to move. He stood rooted to the spot, listening for the immigrant’s pathetic whining. Thing was, the Italian had stopped making any noise whatsoever a minute before.

His sentence was three years at Boys’ State. Two for the crime and one on top for not cooperating with the court—that is, not ratting out his friends.

The arresting officer, Patrolman Stanley Mullins, presented himself to Judge’s family as they left the courtroom.

“Yes, sir, you’ve got a bad egg, there, Mr. Judge,” he said, looking down from his lofty promontory. “A shame he should get into this kind of trouble at so early an age.”

There was nodding all around. A sob and a sniff from the ashamed mother. A cuff to the head from Dev’s father. A smirk from Francis, the seminarian.

“Still, I do believe there’s some good inside the boy,” Mullins went on. “It takes a man to stand up for his friends. A bigger man yet to know when he’s done something wrong and ’fess up. Aye, there’s a wee vein of gold in this one. And, if you don’t mind, sir and madam, I’d like to help you find it.”

Mullins spoke to the judge and had the sentence reduced to two years’ probation. For his part, Dev had “come ’rounds” to the precinct house on Wilson Avenue every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday for two years. He didn’t learn a thing about police work. His duty consisted of shoveling out the stables at the rear of the station and taking boxing practice with the precinct team. The larger men beat the tar out of him. But only for so long. Young Dev had always been a quick learner.

And he had another job, too—one Mullins hadn’t told his parents about. Every Monday and Wednesday afternoon at three-thirty sharp, Dev showed his face at the back door of the F&M Schaefer Brewing Company, engaged since the adoption of the Volstead Act in the production of root beer soda and “near beer.” And for three hours, he would haul fifty-gallon barrels of their finest from vat to garage, loading them aboard Mack Bulldog trucks with side panels curiously advertising Hoffman’s Moving Services. His pay was a dollar an hour—a princely sum, even if he never saw a dime. Every cent went to a newly promoted sergeant of the watch who stashed it in a cashbox inside his desk. Nine months later, Dev and Sergeant Mullins trundled off to the home of Signor Alfonso Partenza, president of the Società Benevolenza di Santa Maria Teresa, unemployed day worker and father of ten.

“A donation to the cause,” Mullins told Signor Partenza, offering a new calfskin billfold that held the stolen sum of $216. “The least we could do to make your sore neck feel the wee-est bit better.”

“Grazie,”
Partenza answered, grateful but not so trusting that he didn’t count the money. This was America, after all. Not so different from Italy.

All this came back to Judge as he lay in the silent room, grimacing at the ache of his ribs, his tailbone, and most of all, his own unsettled mind.

What happened to the little thug I took off the street?

Still here,
Judge answered, finding the fighting voice inside of him. Maybe a little rusty, but still here. And next time, he’d follow Seyss’s advice. Shoot first and ask questions later.

A knock on the door saved him from further brooding. Darren Honey walked into the room, helmet under one arm. “Jeep’s downstairs. Ready when you are.”

Judge peeled back the sheets and with a grimace swung his legs over the side of the bed. “You reach my pal in Paris, get him working on those names?”

Honey dropped a hand into his helmet and removed a green polyethylene bag holding the dog tags he’d retrieved from the basement of Lindenstrasse 21. “Colonel Storey said he’d contact Graves Registration pronto. It’s going to take him a couple of days to figure out if these two were killed or just POWs. He said to tell you, though, that they weren’t at Malmedy.”

“So, what do you think Seyss was doing with those tags?”

“I don’t think Seyss would risk going to his house for some souvenirs. Normally, if Fritz goes home, it’s to get some money or see a girlfriend, maybe get something decent to eat. You got a closer look at him than I did. Did you see him carrying anything else?”