Judge threw down the phone, cursing the world. He damned Altman for being right and Lieutenant Patterson for confirming it! Pushing himself away from his desk, he rose and paced the perimeter of his office. There had to be another way to gather information about Seyss. Shadow his friends, track down his lovers, locate members of his extended family, but Judge had no time to gather such information. Stymied by his lack of resources, he sought refuge in anger. What kind of cruel gift was it to give a man every means to track down his brother’s killer while denying him the time to see the job through?
Fifteen minutes later, Judge’s world righted itself.
A captain with the military police detachment of the Forty-fifth Infantry Division radioed in that he recalled there being a prisoner named von Luck confined to a bed at Dachau. Yes, that Dachau—the oldest and largest of Hitler’s concentration camps situated fifteen miles northwest of Munich. A hospital had been set up on the premises to nurse the camp’s ill back to health. Though infirm, von Luck was under arrest as a security suspect. How could anyone forget that name?
Judge immediately contacted the officer now commanding Dachau and confirmed that the von Luck in question was, in fact, General Oliver von Luck, formerly deputy chief of the Abwehr, formerly trainer to German national champion Erich Siegfried Seyss, and that he was alive and in sufficient health to be questioned. An appointment to interview the prisoner was scheduled for two o’clock that afternoon.
Judge slammed his hand onto the desk and let go an enthusiastic, if abbreviated, rebel yell.
He was back in the game.
CHAPTER
17
GEORGE PATTON WAS LIVID. The war had hardly been over sixty days and he’d been transformed from a general of the finest fighting men on God’s green earth into a cockamamie combination of bureaucrat, politician, administrator, and nursemaid. If this was what victory wrought, to hell with it! He wanted war. It was a children’s game compared to the tasks he’d been charged with as military governor of Bavaria.
Standing in his office on this warm, sunny morning, cigar in his mouth, he ran over the matters that needed his attention. He had to fix the roads, rebuild the bridges, repair the waterworks—including the whole damned sewer system. A toilet hadn’t flushed in Munich since 1944. He had to demilitarize and denazify the civilian government, essentially meaning he had to fire every goddamned man and woman worth a damn. He had to look after the care and provisioning of a million American soldiers, a million German POWs, and a million ragtag displaced persons whom nobody, especially himself, wanted anything to do with. And all of this . . . all of this . . . he was supposed to accomplish without the help of any German who had ever been a member of the Nazi party! It was madness. Seventy-five percent of the country’s 60 million citizens had had some tie or another to the National Socialists. Ike might as well ask him to juggle with one arm tied behind his back. Worst of all, now he had to hold hands with the godforsaken Russians as if they were a couple of besotted newlyweds. Madness!
A crisp knock on the door to his office relieved him of his miserable thoughts. “What is it?”
The door opened and two men walked in, Hobart “Hap” Gay, his chief of staff, and a squat, bowlegged Russian supremo he didn’t recognize. They all looked like apes anyway.
“Sir, I’d like to introduce Brigadier General Vassily Yevchenko,” said Gay, a tall, plain-looking general who had served with Patton since 1942. “General Yevchenko insisted on seeing you this morning. It seems there’s some problem with a few fishing boats we captured on the Danube River two days ago.”
“Excuse me, General,” Yevchenko cut in. “These boats on Danube. On east side of river and filled with German soldiers.”
Patton advanced a step, his cheeks coloring at the sound of the barbarian’s slur. All it took these days was the sight of a manure-brown uniform to set his blood racing. He’d had it up to his eyeballs with wining and dining the Russians. Since V-E Day, he’d eaten enough stuffed pig, borscht, and caviar, drunken enough vodka, and witnessed enough Cossack line dancing to last him the rest of this life and the next. It took every restraining muscle in his body to keep him from drawing his pistol and shooting this degenerate descendant of Genghis Khan right here and now.
“So?” barked Patton. “What the hell do you want me to do about it?”
“On behalf of Soviet government, we demand return of boats and prisoners immediately. All are property of Soviet armed forces.”
“What did you say?” Patton asked. “Did I hear something about a demand?”
Earlier he was livid. Now he was plain furious. Patton shot a disbelieving glance at Hap Gay, who shrugged his shoulders, then returned his attention to this pathetic example of Russian manhood. Stepping closer to the Russian, he saw that Yevchenko was sweating like a stuck pig.
“We demand return of river craft. They are property of Soviet armed forces.”
Hearing the Russian’s demand for the boats turned Patton’s mind to another subject that rankled him. Since occupying German territory, the Russian Army had been stealing every piece of machinery that wasn’t nailed down—washing machines, typewriters, radios, you name it, they grabbed it—and sending it back home. As for the big stuff, factories, refineries, foundries, they had entire divisions trained to unscrew every last nut, bolt, and screw and ship the lot east to Moscow. Scavengers is what they were. Vultures. What was worse, loudmouthed New York Jews like Henry Morgenthau not only condoned Stalin’s behavior, they insisted the Americans and Brits do the same. His crazed Morgenthau Plan—which Patton had figured for nothing more than some sort of ancient Talmudic revenge scheme—proposed robbing Germany of every last piece of industrial machinery it possessed. An eye for an eye, and all that. The crafty Semitic bastard even went so far as suggesting the Allies place members of the German military into indentured servitude for a period of ten years. Christ, but they were the same, the Jews and the Bolsheviks. Didn’t anyone see that the only ones the Americans could count on were the goddamned Germans themselves? Madness!
“Two tugboats, one barge, one skiff . . .’’ Yevchenko was describing the boats he “demanded” that the Americans return. “Rowboat with oars and dinghy.”
Suddenly Patton had had enough. Offering the Russian general his neatest smile, he strode to his desk, opened the top drawer, and drew out his pearl-handled revolver. With his smile firmly in place, he returned to Yevchenko—who by now had given up quivering for a posture of sheer frozen terror—cocked the pistol and placed it squarely against the man’s beribboned chest.
“Gay, goddammit!” he shouted, “Get this son of a bitch out of here! Who in the hell let him in? Don’t let any more Russian bastards into the headquarters.” He turned to Paul Harkins, a senior member of his staff, who had joined Yevchenko’s gripe session midstream. “Harkins! Alert the Fourth and Eleventh Armored and the Sixty-fifth Division for an attack to the east. Go! Now!”
Gay and Harkins dashed from the room to implement his orders.
Yevchenko, his pudgy countenance a squeamish yellow, remained face-to-face with Patton. After an eternity, neither man giving an inch, the Russian yelled “Devil!” then turned on his heels and ran after them.
When his office was once again empty, Patton let out a victorious belly laugh. In fact, he would have preferred to cry. This should be a day of rejoicing, he said to himself, without a worry about the future and the peace they’d fought for. But as no man would lie beside a diseased jackal, neither would he, George S. Patton, ever do business with the Russians.
He circled his desk, running a hand along its polished veneer, then collapsed into his chair. Churchill had had the right idea. Get into the Balkans, drive north into Central Europe, and take Prague and Berlin. Patton himself should have been in the German capital now. He’d pissed in the Rhine, why not on the Reichstag?
Restless with anger, frustration, and, despite the mountain of problems before him, boredom, he planted his hands onto the desk and stood, makin
g a tour of his office. He stopped in front of a grand window overlooking the Isar River and the town of Bad Toelz. Past that lay a vast green plain, ideal territory for a rapidly advancing army of armored cavalry. And past that the East.
Patton picked up the telephone and rescinded the orders he’d given in Yevchenko’s presence. He was already in enough trouble with Ike for taking his daily equitation in the company of SS Colonel von Wangenheim. At least those bastards in the Waffen-SS knew how to fight. Strike like lightning, take no prisoners, and attack, attack, attack! They were magnificent sons of bitches! And they weren’t half wrong about what to do with the Jews, either. As for the Russians, they were scurvy bastards. The cooks in his Third Army could beat the living hell out of them.
Gay returned to the room with news that Patton had another visitor.
“Dammit, Hap, it better not be another red.”
“No, sir. It’s a delegation of city fathers. I believe, General, they wish to award you a commendation.”
Patton checked his watch. “By God, send them in, Hap. About time somebody thanks us for the bullshit we’re putting up with.”
“Right away, sir,” said Gay before retreating through the double doors.
Patton straightened his jacket and ran a hand along his collar, wanting to be sure that all of his stars were easily visible. The Boche loved pageantry almost as much as he did. Crossing to the window, he took up his position, hands clasped behind his back, eyes to the horizon. It was a decent pose, one that Napoleon used to greet his generals and lesser dignitaries. He fixed his gaze on a steeple in the distance, but his thoughts traveled far beyond.
To Prague. To Berlin. To Moscow.
East.
CHAPTER
18
INGRID GUIDED THE WHEELBARROW DOWN the center of the dusty road. Her hands were raw, her shoulders sore and swollen. Five more steps, she told herself. Five more steps, then I can rest. She steered the heavy load around ruts and rocks and bumps and furrows, squinting to drive the sweat from her eyes. And when she had taken five steps, she took five more, and then another five.
Normally the trip to Inzell took less than an hour on foot. The road cut across the far side of the valley, skirting the lake before plunging into the forest where it descended rapidly in a dizzying series of switchbacks. Five miles and fifteen hundred feet later, it reached the village. Today, however, the journey might as well have been fifty miles. She’d left Sonnenbrücke two hours ago and was barely at the far end of the meadow. At this rate, she wouldn’t make Inzell until noon. She refused to think about the return trip up the mountain.
Gathering her breath, Ingrid struggled to adjust her grip on the slick handles. Her pace was deliberate, not only because of the weight of the load but because of its contents. Ninety-six bottles of wine lay in the iron bed, each wrapped in a damask hand towel borrowed from the linen closet. To be safe, she’d lined the wheelbarrow’s rusted bed with the smallest of her mother’s embroidered tablecloths. While the eight cases of Bordeaux wouldn’t enjoy the bumpy trek to Inzell, at least they’d reach their destination intact—which was more than she could promise herself.
Breathing in with one step, out with the next, Ingrid maintained her sober pace. In an effort to redistribute the load from her hands to her shoulders, she had fashioned a makeshift harness from the coarse rope Papa kept to bind fallen game. The harness was attached to the center of the bed and passed over her shoulders and around her neck. A chamois cloth laid against the nape of her neck protected her exposed flesh from the splintery twine.
A half mile ahead, the road disappeared into the shadows spread by a curtain of Arolla pines. A soft breeze skittered past, then died, teasing her with the relief the distant shade would provide. She spotted a patch of grass at the foot of a pine and decided it would make an ideal resting place. Five more steps, she whispered to herself.
A quarter of an hour later, she was there.
Collapsing onto the grass, Ingrid closed her eyes. The forest buzzed and chirped and squawked with the frenetic joy of a warm summer’s day but all she could hear was the throbbing of her own heart. After a moment, she sat up and took stock of herself. Her palms were an angry pink. Pale ovals surfaced across the underside of her fingers. Soon they would become blisters. Even seated, her legs trembled with fatigue. Pulling the cloth from her shoulders, she ran a hand along the back of her neck. The shallow groove left by the harness was hot to the touch. She checked her fingers for blood. Thankfully there was none.
Legs stretched before her, hands brushing the cool grass, Ingrid remained motionless until her heartbeat calmed and the sweat ceased pouring from her forehead. Her eyelids grew heavy. She wanted to sleep. A lazy voice told her not to worry about the return trip up the mountain. She could get a lift with an American serviceman. They were everywhere these days. Though forbidden to fraternize with Germans, none paid the rule much heed. Besides, she’d never had a problem convincing men to bend the rules—or even to break them.
Drifting off, she entertained a vision of herself stumbling into Inzell in her torn blue work dress and stained apron, the silk foulard tied around her head dark with sweat. Her face was blotchy; her lips crusted with spittle. She looked more like a haggard hausfrau than a damsel in distress. The horniest GI in Germany wouldn’t give her a second look!
Shaking off her desire to sleep, she stood and walked to the wheelbarrow. Several bottles had shifted during the journey. She rewrapped each and positioned them carefully on top of the pile. How easy it would be to drop one, she imagined. To lighten her load by a single, heavenly pound. Angered by her lingering lethargy, she dismissed the thought. Then what would she bring home to Pauli?
Ingrid bent her knees and draped the harness around her neck. Taking firm hold of the wooden grips, she rose. For one excruciating moment, every muscle in her being screamed. Clenching her jaw, she allowed herself one deep breath, then began walking. The path was three miles, all downhill.
She had done it before. She could do it again.
THE VILLAGE OF INZELL BOASTED a grocer, a butcher, a clothing store, and a combination tobacconist and kiosk. The stores were evenly spaced along either side of a narrow road. All were identical two-story buildings of burnished wood and whitewashed cement topped with dark shingle roofs. Running up the mountainside behind them were a host of chalets, cabins, and huts. Window boxes blossoming with daisies and dandelions brightened every sill. To all appearances, the war had never ventured into this alpine valley. At the far side of the village, a tall stone fountain shaped like Napoleon’s Obelisk shot water into a circular pool. Next to it stood a railway station, complete in every detail except one. No tracks passed before the passenger platform. Construction of the spur from Ruhpolding to Inzell had stopped in February 1943. After Stalingrad, every ingot of steel, every bar of iron, and every cord of wood was diverted to the protection of the Reich.
Setting down the wheelbarrow next to the fountain, Ingrid lifted the harness from her neck, then peeled the foulard from her hair and dunked her head into the cold water. A shiver of pride and relief swept her body. After rinsing her hands, she pulled her hair back into a ponytail and smoothed her dress. Her damp fingers made sure it clung in all the right places. Now she could do business.
“Good morning, Frau Gräfin Bach,” chirped Ferdy Karlsberg as she entered his tiny store. “How are you this lovely day?”
Like every grocer she’d known, Karlsberg was short and fat and, if not a pincher, at least a leerer. He had ginger hair and bright blue eyes and cheeks so bloated she swore he must be caching a dozen acorns for the winter. As usual, he was having a great deal of trouble keeping his eyes from her dress. Today, though, she welcomed his interest.
“Good morning, Herr Karlsberg,” she answered, determined to match his good cheer. “I’m wonderful, thank you.” She didn’t dare say it was much too hot for trudging down the mountain with a thousand-pound wheelbarrow. Instead, she chose her most vulnerable smile. “The usual, I’
m afraid.”
She removed a yellow card from her dress and passed it across the counter. Her ration card entitled her to three loaves of bread, two hundred grams of meat, one hundred grams of butter, one hundred grams of sugar, a pound of flour and a pound of wheat each week. Theoretically, it was enough to ensure a daily intake of twelve hundred calories for three adults and one child. But theory died a quick death in the real world. The meat—sausage, actually—was often rancid. The butter, sour. The bread always black and stale. There was nothing wrong with the sugar, flour, or wheat once one removed the rat droppings.
Karlsberg tore a square of brown paper from a dispenser on the wall and laid it on the counter. Turning his back to her, he ran a hand along his shelves collecting first the bread, then the sausage. Naturally he chose the smallest ones. He measured out the flour and wheat, weighing them on a scale she was sure ran a few ounces heavy, then placed each in a paper sack. When she asked about her sugar and butter, he shrugged. “The food authority failed to provide any in the latest delivery. I am sorry.”
Ingrid offered Karlsberg her best smile. The food was hardly enough to feed a growing boy, let alone Papa, Herbert, and herself. She’d spent hours figuring how she might get her hands on a ration card entitling her to more food. Miners in the Ruhr were receiving double rations, as were farmers and skilled laborers. A widow and her child were hardly vital to the nation’s reconstruction.
There was another way.
She recalled her visit from General Carswell, his kindly smile and flirtatious manner. Would she be interested in answering some questions about her father’s activities, say at the Casa Carioca in Garmisch? Eyeing the meager provisions set on the counter, she decided she’d been naive to decline so quickly.
Karlsberg wrapped the bread and sausage, and using both of his stubby hands, slid them across the counter. “Is there something else I can help you with?” His eyes were fixed on the only thing he found more appealing than her wet dress—the wheelbarrow outside his front window.
The Runner Page 17
