The Runner (14 page)

Judge broke off, his anger ebbing as he backed away. Dietsch was scared witless and fright often made a person honest. Moreover, his words had the ring of truth. A man like Seyss would never reveal his destination to his accomplices. But Judge would never truly know if he’d gotten everything out of Dietsch until he braced him. And that he wouldn’t do.

Colonel Miller followed him outside the supply shack. “You didn’t mean what you said about a forty-eight-hour pass?”

Judge stopped in his tracks and faced the paunchy camp commander. “No, Colonel, I didn’t. Keep Dietsch locked up for a month. He can leave as soon as he tells you where Seyss went. If he does, get on the horn to Sergeant Honey or myself at Bad Toelz. Are we clear on that?”

Miller saluted. “Absolutely, Major.”

Honey drew Judge to one side. “Begging your pardon, sir, but we don’t have a month. Today’s Wednesday. We got till Sunday midnight. That’s four days.”

Judge bristled at the reminder. His fist clenched reflexively and he wanted to hit something, somebody, and he was thinking Honey’s earnest mug would do just fine. Instead, he slapped his thigh and stalked off to the jeep.

Four days.

It wasn’t enough time.

CHAPTER

15

E
RICH
S
EYSS WAS GROWING ANNOYED
with the portly American sergeant.

“As you can see, I am from Heidelberg. I am only asking for what every discharged soldier has been promised: a one-way ticket home. If you please, just have a look . . .’’

The sergeant waved away the document giving Seyss’s identity as one Erwin Hasselbach. “This is the last time I tell you, Fritz. Your denazification papers aren’t enough anymore. Too many of you boys are giving fake papers and using the trains like they were your own taxicabs. New system as of today. You need an actual ticket, and to get one of those you’ll have to go back to the Center for Discharged Soldiers. Show them your papers and they’ll issue you one pronto. You can be on this train tomorrow.
Verstehen Sie?”

Seyss had too much experience traveling in areas newly liberated by German forces to be entirely surprised. The situation was dynamic, tacticians would say, though chaotic was, the more appropriate term. Either way, he had been taught to deal with this kind of thing. In battle and its aftermath, change—rapid change—was the only constant. He certainly couldn’t blame Egon Bach for the development. He’d just have to find another way to board the train.

Seyss smiled obligingly as his mind worked the situation. The last thing he would do was present himself at a discharge center, especially now that Major Judge and his colleagues knew he was in Munich. Besides, not all soldiers received a train ticket home. Many were herded into outdoor holding pens to await transport by truck convoy. The wait often ran to days. Worse, if there was a problem with a false
persilschein
, as the American sergeant had mentioned, there were sure to be a host of intelligence officers checking those corralled at the discharge centers for false papers.

“Come on, Sarge,” said Seyss, his smile stretched to the breaking point. “Let’s be civil. Send me back to the center and I’ll never make it to my sister’s wedding tomorrow.”

An anonymous hand shoved in the back.

“Beeilen Sie sich,”
growled a man in a torn mackintosh, teeth black as coal. “Hurry up. We all have our tickets. Do as the sergeant says. Get out of the way.”

Seyss glanced over his shoulder. A restless line of men, women, and children snaked across the tracks and disappeared into the shadows of a warehouse. They were a slovenly lot: gaunt, ill shaven, all of them looking as if they were dressed in someone else’s clothing. Like him, they’d been waiting hours in the morning sun for the right to board the daily train to Heidelberg. With the Munich
hauptbahnhof
little more than a mangled husk, the Americans had shifted civilian traffic to the freight railway station. The place was not well suited to the task. There were no elevated platforms from which to board the trains, no public water closets, and certainly no
bahnhof
buffets where one could enjoy a beer while ambling away the minutes. Hundreds of people swarmed over the tracks, their anxious steps raising a curtain of dust and grit. Like stones in a rushing stream, American soldiers stood among them, directing the forlorn travelers this way and that. What a mess!

The sergeant cleared his throat and when Seyss returned his gaze, he saw that two soldiers had come up on either side of him. The sergeant tilted his head and shrugged. One hand fluttered, a closing of the fingers that would normally signal “Come here.”

Seyss looked from the beckoning hand to the weathered face and suddenly, he realized he’d been stupid hoping to persuade the bluff American. He’d scarcely have had better luck boarding the train with a valid ticket. With a single practiced motion, he unclasped Dr. Hansen’s watch and placed it in the sergeant’s palm. “It’s Swiss. Universeal de Génève. Good for a round trip, I should think.”

But the sergeant found no humor in the comment. Grunting, he thrust a thumb over his shoulder. “Private Rosen. Show Herr Fritz to his compartment.”

Directly ahead, two trains sat side by side. The train on the left was reserved for Allied soldiers. Officers, first class. Enlisted, second class. Few men appeared to be boarding, and as he passed, Seyss saw that the compartments were deserted. Rosen nudged his shoulder, indicating he should advance toward the other train.
The train for Germans.

Seyss threaded his way through the crowd boarding the endless string of cars. Twenty or thirty people waited at each entry. Most cars were already full. Compartments meant for six persons held twelve, not counting the children peering down from the luggage racks. Corridors running the length of each car were packed as tightly as sardine cans. Seyss hurried his pace. He’d be damned if he had gotten this far only to find the train full.

Killing Colonel Janks had, indeed, provoked a serious response. The occupational police hadn’t stopped at sending Major Judge and his partner to Lindenstrasse 21. Signs of heightened security were everywhere. Checkpoints had been established at the Ludwigsbrücke and along the Maximillianstrasse. Teams of military police patrolled the streets, demanding the identity papers of men who matched his description—mostly those under forty with blond hair. Two MPs had boarded a tram Seyss was riding. He’d looked each squarely in the eye as they’d passed down the aisle but neither gave him a second look. Black hair was an excellent diversionary measure, but it did little to change a man’s physiognomy—his eyes, his nose, his mouth. Emboldened, he’d offered his papers, but the policemen waved them away. A few more days and the uproar would die down. After that it wouldn’t matter. Where he was going, the Americans couldn’t follow.

Seyss finally spotted a passenger car with a few open places. He rushed toward it, only to be stopped by Private Rosen. “Keep moving,” Rosen said. “You didn’t think you’re riding with the paying customers?”

S
EYSS HAD NEVER SEEN SO
many jerry cans. The entire freight car was full of them. Twelve high, twenty across, at least fifty rows deep. He didn’t bother calculating. Thousands, at least.

“Go on, then,” said Rosen. “Up you go.”

A ladder had been laid against the wall of metal containers. A man hunched in the space between the green cans and the roof of the car, holding steady the ladder.
“Komm jetzt,”
he called down.

Seyss hesitated to join him. He’d had enough of tight spaces for a while and once the door was shut, he’d have no way out until it was opened in Heidelberg. To back out now, however, would appear suspicious. He’d traded a Swiss watch for this trip, a valuable commodity these days. The sergeant had outsmarted him. Seyss climbed a rung and ran a hand along the inside of the wooden door. An iron latch protruded from the rear of the locking mechanism. He leaned his weight on it and it gave way. Good. The door could be unlocked from within. It might take a while to clear a path through the jerry cans, but at least he wouldn’t be left to starve on some forgotten siding.

He continued up the ladder, accepting a helping hand to pull him into the car.

“Welcome aboard the petrol express,” said a heavyset man of thirty, give or take five years. The privations of war made it impossible to tell another’s age with any accuracy. “Name’s Lenz.” He had cropped brown hair and a walrus mustache. A rumbling baritone matched the stern countenance. His accent placed him as a Berliner.

Seyss introduced himself as Erwin Hasselbach, and threw in a Wehrmacht unit and the name of a dead
Heer
colonel who’d commanded it. “I suppose we should count ourselves lucky we’re not on the manure express,” he said.

It was a longstanding tradition to award every route its own name, usually something to do with its cargo. The run from Berlin to Hamburg was known as the silk stocking express; Kiel to Cologne, the cod express; Munich to the Ruhr, the potato express. The fumes wafting from the mountain of empty five-gallon gasoline cans left no question as to how this particular train had earned its name.

“Ah, the manure express,” said Lenz. “I know it well. That one steered a southerly course from Berlin to Berchtesgaden. But it wasn’t manure they transported. It was bullshit.”

Seyss wasn’t sure if Lenz was baiting him or not, so he kept quiet. Too many of their countrymen were quick to declare themselves betrayed by their Führer.
We never wanted war,
they said.
Who dared speak against Hitler?
The same men and women had presented themselves in droves to cheer the invasion of Poland and France and Russia. Hitler had coined an expression for such good-weather supporters: March violets.

Seyss raised his head enough to find he could not bring himself to a sitting position. The space on top of the cans was tighter than he’d feared. He closed his eyes for a moment, ordering himself to be strong. Then leaning on an elbow, he made himself as comfortable as possible and tried to restrict his breathing. The trip to Heidelberg would take eight or nine hours, depending on the condition of the tracks. It was not going to be easy. His only consolation was that he’d arrive by midnight, twelve hours ahead of schedule.

A few minutes later, Rosen returned and took away the ladder. “Bon voyage,” he called, then slammed the door closed.

T
HE TRAIN LUMBERED OUT OF
the station, creaking, and moaning with every rotation of the locomotive’s wheels. A cool breeze cleansed the car of the noxious fumes and Seyss pressed his face against the wooden slats, grateful for some fresh air. He was glad to be moving. The familiar pitch and roll of train travel eased his discomfort, both real and imagined.

“So, you’re from Heidelberg?” he asked Lenz, when his light-headedness had faded.

Lenz crawled across the unsteady metal carpet. “Yes. And you?”

Seyss shared his deceit. “Born and raised.”

Lenz broke out laughing. “You’re a fucking liar, you Swabian bootlicker.”

“Say that to all the boys you pick up on the Ku’damm?”

Lenz laughed louder, but all the while Seyss could feel his eyes sizing him up. No doubt he was wondering what this other fool had done to find himself stuck on top of a few thousand stinking cans of gas. Lenz clamored toward him and Seyss could see his eyes. They were dark and pouchy, dragged down by doleful black circles.

“Sind Sie Kamerade?”
Lenz asked with a grunt.

Seyss obeyed his gut instinct. “First SS Panzer Division.”

“Ah, one of Sepp Dietrich’s boys. I served in the Leibstandarte under him before I transferred to Das Reich. Unterscharfführer Hans-Christian Lenz at your service.”

Seyss extended his arm to shake Lenz’s hand. He wanted to say that he’d also served in the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler, but he’d revealed too much as it was. He certainly could not tell Lenz his real name. “Why Heidelberg?”

“Darmstadt, actually. My brother has set up a little business for himself. He asked me if I might come and join him for a while. I said ‘Why not.’”

“A business of his own? Is that right?” Seyss could smell larceny a mile away and Lenz’s flashing eyes did little to rob him of the notion. Still, he played along as his part demanded. “A baker, is he? We had a baker named Lenz in our company. Matter of fact, he came from Berlin, too.”

“Sorry, old man. My brother was in the Kriegsmarine. A submariner, if you can believe it. And still alive.”

“He’s a lucky one.”

“And enterprising. Freddy keeps his fingers in a number of pies. A little of this, a little of that. It’s not a bad time for a man who keeps his eyes open.”

“Ah.” Seyss thought Lenz a little too proud of his brother’s role as a black marketeer. He’d never approved of the middlemen who made a living, and sometimes a fortune, trading on the miseries of others. As a rule, they were no different from carrion fowl, feeding off the bones of the sick and the dying. Still, Lenz seemed a decent enough sort. Maybe his brother was the exception.

“And you?” asked Lenz. “What takes you to Heidelberg? Friends? Family?”

“Friends,” said Seyss. When he didn’t elaborate, Lenz gave an unpleasant guffaw. “A woman, then?”

“No.” Seyss looked away, despising the man’s assumption of familiarity. It had been foolish to engage a complete stranger in conversation. Just because Lenz had served in the same branch did not mean they had something in common. Hundreds of thousands had worn the uniform of the SS. Those that he had counted as friends were long dead. From now on, he really must learn to keep his mouth shut.

Lenz asked what was wrong, but Seyss did not reply. After a while, the Berliner scooted to the far side of the car and was quiet.

The train rolled west, passing through Augsburg, then Ulm. The cities appeared relatively undamaged. The spire of the cathedral in Friedrich Square rose majestically in the afternoon sky. Twice the train stopped for an hour as cars behind him were shunted to a siding and others added in their place. The wait was interminable. The dizzying fumes and increasing temperature combined to make his cozy little spot a fulsome hell. Seyss figdeted constantly, one eye for the roof lest it decide to collapse, the other on the sky, the dirt, any passing object that assured him that the outside world was only a few inches away. He needed all his willpower to keep from carving a path through the cans to the door and leaping from the car. And each time, just when he thought he could stand it no longer, the engineer sounded his whistle, the car lurched forward, and slowly, mercifully, they were on their way.

S
TUTTGART WAS A WASTELAND
, A
pile of rubble ten kilometers long. Chimneys of brick and mortar still stood, but the homes they had warmed were gone. Factories were a total loss. Stuttgart was the ball-bearing capital of Germany and as such, a principal target of Allied bombing missions throughout the war. How many raids had it taken to flatten the city? Twenty? Fifty? And how many bombers? Ten thousand? As if in a dream, he saw them passing overhead. Swarms of dull green insects floating across the sky, their shadows combining into a gray cape that carpeted the entire countryside. And the drone. God, he’d almost forgotten the drone. A low-pitched buzz that reverberated in your bones and set a stream of acid pissing in your gut. Louder and louder, until your entire body shook and you could scream, “Stop, you sons of bitches. Kill me, but there are women and children down here, too,” and the man standing a foot away from you would put a hand to his ear and shout back, “What?” They dropped the HEs first, high explosives to concuss the walls, bring the buildings down on themselves, then the incendiaries, fire bombs to melt the glass and steel and ruined machinery into one giant gob of unsalvageable nothing.