The Runner (35 page)

CHAPTER

43

“W
ELCOME TO
A
NDREWS
B
ARRACKS,
”
shouteda 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 clusters of trees still standing made him guess a residential district, either Steglitz or Zehlendorf.

Dropping his duffel, Seyss walked in a small circle. The corroded silhouettes of bomb-fractured buildings and burnt homes hovered in the distance like ghosts beyond the pale. The air stank of smoke and sewage and rang with the frenetic rattle of soldiers on the move. Behind him a mountain of rubble shimmered in the moonlight like a medieval cairn. To the south, he caught the flicker of an open fire, then another. He felt as if he were in Carthage after it had been sacked. But instead of sadness, he felt pride.

“We lost,” he whispered, “but dammit, we gave them a fight.”

Up and down the road, men continued to pour from the transports, a khaki stream disappearing into the darkening sapphire sky. The convoy of thirty-odd trucks, jeeps, and armored personnel carriers had left Frankfurt at eleven that morning, their cargo an E detachment of soldiers-cum-administrators sent to implement the rudiments of civic government in the crushed German capital. Seyss had bullied his way into their ranks, posing as an errant public affairs officer attached to Secretary of War Henry Stimson’s party who’d missed his ride to Berlin two days earlier. The secretary promised leniency so long as he arrived before the commencement of the second plenary session, set for 10:00
A.M
. tomorrow at the Cecilienhof in Potsdam. No one questioned his story. Nor did they ask for his papers. If he wanted to go to Berlin, they were glad to have him. There were too few Americans there as it was.

A few minutes later, the same loudmouthed soldier reemerged from the dusk, requesting the officers to pick up their campaign bags and follow him. Seyss complied, happy to be on the move. His legs were stiff from the long ride. Twelve hours to cover three hundred miles. The small group walked down a dirt path lined with whitewashed stones, then cut through the range of rubble mountains. A large placard set to the right of the path proclaimed Andrews Barracks. Gross Lichterfelde, Berlin. Established July 6, 1945. Second Armored Division. First Airborne Army. Beyond it loomed a campus of imperious gray buildings arrayed on three sides of a parade ground. He recognized them as surely as he would his home. Fifty meters ahead rose the proud halls of the Lichterfelde Kaserne, home to the SS Leibstandardte Adolf Hitler. Sight of his first posting as an officer nine years before.

A squad of military policemen stood in a semicircle next to the sign, and as Seyss passed, one shone his flashlight directly in his face. Seyss squinted his eyes, waving away the light. “Watch that, will you?”

“Mind taking off your cap, sir?”

Seyss took another step before stopping. “Excuse me?”

“Your cap, sir,” the voice barked again. “Take it off.”

Seyss paused, and turned slowly. The six military policemen had assumed a distinctly menacing posture. One stepped forward from their ranks, a short barrel-chested man with a Slav’s heavy brow and the same truncated speech. “You. You’re the man hitched a ride from Frankfurt? That right?”

“Yes,” Seyss answered, smiling now. “That’s right. Is there a problem?”

“Over here, sir. Now.” The squat MP unsnapped his holster, withdrew his pistol and held it at port arms.

This is it,
thought Seyss.
It was a trap all along. They opened up the bag and I walked right on in.
Retracing his steps, he brought himself to a halt in front of the Slav. Surprisingly, he felt no dread at the prospect of being captured, just a resigned fatigue. He brushed the cap from his head and stood there, arms thrust out in a gesture of bemused ignorance.
Go ahead,
he dared them.
Cuff me or shoot me. Just make up your mind quickly because in a second I’m going to draw my own gun and then none of us will have any choices.

“Name?”

“Captain Daniel Gavin. Public Affairs.” It was the name of a man he’d killed in the Ardennes on Christmas Day and he wore his dog tags around his neck to prove it.

“Let me see a copy of your G-3, sir.”

What a G-3 was, Seyss had no idea. Shaking his head, he said the usual crap about this being some kind of mix-up. His voice sounded far away. He wished he had something clever to add, some joke or aside that would lighten the air and show that this whole thing was a mistake. For the first time in his life, his mind was a blank. He’d exhausted his store of bullshit.

“Your G-3, Captain Gavin.
Your personnel records.
And a copy of your orders. Please, sir. Now.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve got it right here.” Seyss dropped to a knee, unzipped his duffel and ventured a hand inside. His fingers traveled over his SS-issue buck knife—a souvenir, should anyone ask—then perused the folds of the clothing he’d stolen from Frankfurt. The MPs had formed a tight circle around him. Six beams lit his every move, and in their hollow light he found his fighting voice.

Erich Seyss was dead, he told himself. Killed in Wiesbaden three nights ago. The search for him had been called off. There was no reason for the Americans to suspect that Gavin’s killer was headed to Berlin. This was all some sort of cock-up. Had to be. He took a deep breath, trying hard to decide if he wanted to die. He hadn’t expected to be given the choice.

Just then, an officer broke through the circle. He was panting, out of breath. “This the man, Pavlovich?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the short policeman. “This is him. Name’s Gavin.”

“But . . . but . . .’’ The officer pointed at Seyss and took a labored breath. “But, Sergeant Pavlovich, this man is a captain,” he said reprovingly. “Our suspect is a major with the MPs, not the engineers. Jesus!”

The squat policeman said, “You sure, Lieutenant Jameson?”

“Didn’t you take a look at the bulletin? They included a picture for numbnuts like you. Ah, shit, just forget it.” Jameson extended a hand to Seyss and helped him to his feet. “Excuse me, Captain. Things are a little crazy right now. Everyone is in a tizzy about the flag raising tomorrow. President coming and all. Hope it was no inconvenience to you.”

But Seyss only half heard him. His ear was still tuned to the internal chorus singing his certain doom. “I beg your pardon?”

“Barracks are down the path a ways,” continued Jameson. “Sorry ’bout the mistake. Good night, sir.”

“Yes, uh, good night, then.” Seyss swallowed hard, finding his mouth parched and his feet bolted to the ground. A second passed and he retook possession of his faculties. A flag raising, Jameson had mentioned. The president was coming. He’d been too shell-shocked to ask where and when. He would make it a point to check first thing in the morning. Bending to zip up his duffel bag, Seyss replaced his cap, then hurried off to catch the others.

H
E LAY ON A COT,
staring at the ceiling of his old room. Directly above him was a door—
a door!
—nailed to the ceiling by some hapless recruit in a hasty bid to patch a shell hole. The room no longer smelled of camphor and linseed but mildew and rot. The same shells that had ruined the ceiling had rent tremendous chunks of cement from the walls. Given the barracks’ location, it was a wonder it was standing at all. Five hundred meters to the south ran the Teltow Canal, the city’s outermost ring of defense. There, in the first days of April, Marshal Chuikov had lined up all his tanks and artillery, thousands of guns in all, and for three days rained shell upon shell into the city. A quick walk through the dormitory revealed that the Russians had stripped the place bare. Nothing of use remained. Not a toilet. Not a sink. Not a faucet or a doorknob. Not a chair. Not a lamp. Not a desk or a dresser. Nothing! Even the paint appeared to have been chipped from the walls.

Locusts!

Seyss turned onto his side and tucked an arm under his head. Someone had scratched the number 88 into the wall. The numeral eight stood for the eighth letter of the alphabet,
H
, and repeated, it meant
Heil Hitler.
Alone in the dark, he whispered the words, needing to hear them spoken aloud once more.

“Heil Hitler.”

And in that moment, the past rushed forward and grabbed him, a relentless assault of sound and vision that stirred his soul and quickened his heartbeat.

“Heil Hitler.”

A thousand jackboots slapped the concrete in perfect cadence, their immaculate thud resonating deep in his gut.

“Heil Hitler.”

The clipped tenor of the drill sergeant’s command set him at attention, while the crisp attack of the drummer’s tattoo promised him a share of his country’s imminent glory.

Seyss closed his eyes, but sleep refused to come. The certainty of his capture and the shock of his reprieve had left him unbalanced. He needed to focus his thoughts on the future, not the past. It was difficult. As far back as he could recall, there had been only war or the prospect of it. Even in his heyday as his nation’s greatest sprinter, he’d looked forward to a career as a soldier. Now the war was lost and he was forced to consider what lay ahead, what lay beyond Potsdam. Beyond Terminal.

First thing tomorrow, he would inquire about the president’s visit. If Truman was coming into Berlin, he wanted to know where and when. The opportunity might be too good to pass up.

More important was the meeting scheduled for ten o’clock in the morning at 24 Grosse Wannsee. The residence of Herr Joseph Schmundt, executive vice president of Siemens and devoted member of the Circle of Fire. Seyss wished he’d arrived a day earlier so that he’d have had adequate time to reconnoiter the site. The ambush in Wiesbaden had left him cautious. The prospect of walking into an unknown building made him antsy. Maybe it was just a runner’s aversion to relying on others.

Regardless of his worries, he would have to go. He couldn’t expect to make his way to Potsdam and do his job without proper information about the security measures implemented to protect the Big Three. At a minimum, he needed to know the layout of the Cecilienhof, a floor plan of the homes where each leader was staying, their daily schedules, and if possible, a rota of the guards stating when they changed shifts. Most of all, he needed a fail-safe route across the Russian lines and into the conference area. Egon Bach had promised him all that and more.

Drawing solace from his lack of choice, Seyss finally let himself relax. There was a certain comfort to be found in the absence of alternatives. Resignation, some might call it. Duty, others. Seyss preferred fate. It had the added allure of predestination.

“Heil Hitler,” he said again, this time silently. And falling into a deep sleep, he once more returned to the past, to an eternal moment when his life stretched promisingly before him, when his happiness lay in the wicked grin of an eighteen-year-old girl, when the Fatherland teetered on the precipice of destiny.

CHAPTER

44

T
HE
G
RÜ
NEWALD WAS A PICTURE OF
controlled chaos.

A dozen trucks had arrived before them, a restless, belching column of iron and steel parked beside a grass berm deep in Berlin’s largest park. Engines growling, they disgorged their human cargo. The passengers, most of whom like Judge—or rather, Karl Dietrich—were former German soldiers in transit to their homes, fled from the trucks and milled about a dirt clearing, huddled gray figures drifting in and out of the thickening dusk. Judge estimated their number to be three hundred, maybe more. It was too dark to tell. He wondered why everyone was hanging around, why they weren’t legging their way through the surrounding woods back to home and family. A second glance supplied him the answer. A cordon of soldiers ringed the clearing, every man carrying a rifle at port arms.

Concerned, Judge looked closer. A dozen GIs walked among the Germans. They carried flashlights and billy clubs, the batons to lift suspicious chins and the lights to rake unshaven faces. They were singling out the bigger men; not the tall ones so much as the ones with some meat on their bones. Most had dark hair and a certain wideness of beam, and for a terrifying moment, Judge thought they were looking for him. Word had spread that he’d passed himself off as a kraut, he told himself. He’d been an idiot to think he could get by unnoticed. The GIs prodded the larger men toward a fenced-in pen that Judge only then saw a hundred meters down the road. A few Germans resisted and the prodding turned nasty in a hurry. Shouts of pain and anger erupted from every corner of the clearing. The word
“arbeitspartei”
was uttered and Judge relaxed a notch.

It wasn’t a manhunt. It was an impress gang.

Ducking inside the truck, he kept a tight hold on Ingrid’s hand as the other passengers jostled past and jumped from the tailgate. A mild panic overtook him, a dreary mix of self-pity and anger. He didn’t have to worry about being captured, just being stuck in a work gang.

The shouting grew louder as scuffles began to break out all over. A whistle shrieked and many of the GIs abandoned the cordon to join the fray. Ten seconds later, the clearing had devolved into a tangled braid of khaki, green, and gray. Judge figured that if he and Ingrid could slip along the side of their truck, then slide in front of its hood, they could make it across the road and into the impenetrable dark of the woods beyond. He explained the situation to Ingrid, then whispered, “Stay close. No matter what you do, don’t leave me.”

Judge threw a leg over the tailgate and jumped to the ground. Lifting a hand, he helped Ingrid down. Five feet away, a guard remained as immobile as a statue. Judge stepped toward him, asking in clumsy English, “What’s going on?”

“We need some men to build us a decent HQ,” answered the guard, his jaw moving under the helmet’s lip and nothing else. “You krauts are stupid not to cooperate. Where else you gonna get three squares a day? Move along, now.”

But Judge had no intention of “moving along,” at least not to any work camp. He turned to his right and advanced along the side of the truck. He kept his eyes on the ground, his step purposeful but not hurried.
If I don’t see them, they won’t see me:
motto of a delinquent’s youth. He shot a glance over the hood. It was less than twenty yards to the woods, closer than he’d thought. He slunk past the cab, then the wheel well, clutching Ingrid’s hand as he cut between the trucks.

Just then, a billy club landed hard on his shoulder and he knew he didn’t have a chance.
“Halten Sie sofort!”

Judge turned to face a jug-eared sergeant backed by two privates. For another second, he considered fleeing. He told himself to drop Ingrid’s hand and run like hell. A dash into the inky anonymity of the trees. One look at the grin animating the privates’ eager faces robbed him of the notion.
Try it,
they were daring him.
We need the exercise.

“Name?” the sergeant asked. He was a pudgy kid with a dimpled chin, red hair, and, of course, the jug ears. He spoke decent German.

“Dietrich,” responded Judge.

“And her?”

“My wife.”

“Where do you live?”

“Schopenhauerstrasse eighty-three,” said Ingrid. “It’s not far from here.”

The sergeant chewed on the answer, his eyes taking a long walk up and down Ingrid’s physique. Judge looked at her, too: a momentary glance that confirmed just how mismatched the two of them were. She was dressed in her navy cashmere cardigan, a white shirt and flannel slacks; he, in the torn and stinking garments of a railway-dwelling mendicant. Even after a twelve-hour journey her hair was in the finest order, her cheeks clean, her smile freshly pressed. As for him, he didn’t need a mirror to confirm the worst. His hair was two days greasy and curling like an untamed vine. His beard, all nettles and bramble. His fingernails were black with grime, but when he rubbed them along his pant leg, they came away white with a coating of fine dust. DDT sprayed to kill head and body lice. What a pair they made: The princess and the pauper.

“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 woods’ edge. 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 multicolored 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 he 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 a 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 on 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 to 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 noncom 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 Frankurt 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 farther.”

Recognizing the syrupy drawl, Judge spun to find Darren Honey fifty yards away, running 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 pistonlike 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 woods.

“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!”

“Y-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 to us out of the woods.”

“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.