Ingrid smiled coyly, baiting him. “Are you sure you don’t have any sugar?”
Karlsberg blushed, then grew angry at his shame. “Come around back and don’t make any trouble.”
Ingrid guided the wheelbarrow to the rear of the building where the grocer was already waiting. She found the charade ridiculous. Everyone in the valley knew Ferdy Karlsberg was a black marketeer. She supposed Herr Schnell, the local constable, had insisted he run his operations from the back of his store. It was just like a Nazi to condone an illegal activity as long as it didn’t soil the impression of legitimate business.
“What do you have to offer today?” Karlsberg asked, his smile back in place.
In the two months since the war had ended, Ingrid had become an expert in the workings of the black market. Reichsmarks were practically worthless, yet Germans were not permitted to own dollars. A new currency backed by a new government would not be introduced for a year or two. Still, people wanted something to eat, smoke, drink, and wear—in that order. The fiat of the new Germany was cigarettes, preferably American, preferably Lucky Strike. Want a pound of ham? Three cartons of Luckies. A bottle of White Horse scotch? Five cartons. A pair of hose? One carton. But most Germans did not have access to the American post exchange. For them—and Ingrid, who included herself in this number—any household item of value would do, provided you had someone to sell it to. Cameras and binoculars were in particularly hot demand. Wine, unfortunately, less so. For her, men like Ferdy Karlsberg existed.
Ingrid handed him a bottle, gauging his reaction as he removed the linen cloth.
Karlsberg’s eyes glowed when he eyed the label—a 1921 Château Petrus. “Is it all this quality?”
She nodded. What did the fool expect Alfred Bach kept in his cellar? A few Rieslings and a Gewürztraminer?
For the next hour, Karlsberg examined the bottles one by one, making notations on a block of paper. Petrus, Latour, Lafite-Rothschild, Eschezeau. Wines fit for a king. When he had finished, he tallied up his figures, and pronounced, “Ten thousand Reichsmarks.”
“That’s all?” Ingrid was unable to conceal her disappointment. Ten thousand Reichsmarks sounded like a lot, but these days it was only equal to a hundred prewar marks.
“The market dictates the prices, not I, Frau Gräfin.” He led her up the rear stairs into his back room. “How may I be of service?”
Ingrid handed Karlsberg a prepared list. His eyebrows rose and fell as he studied the paper. He gave her breasts a final ogle, then said, “Let us see.”
Karlsberg drew a blue linen curtain to reveal a wall of cardboard cartons and wooden crates. Spam. Peaches. Pears. Corned beef. The bounty of the American army. He took several cans from each and set them on the counter. An ice box squatted in the corner. He opened it and took out a half dozen boxes of Danish butter and a dozen eggs. A burlap bag full of sugar slouched against the wall. He emptied two brimming scoops into a paper bag. Apples. Potatoes. Corn. Soon the counter was covered with enough food to keep her household fed for a month.
She sifted the goods. Something was missing. “I asked for steaks. Last week you assured me that you would have some good U.S. chops.”
Karlsberg removed his spectacles and cleaned them with his apron. Several times he glanced up at her, only to look away when he met her gaze. Clearly he was mustering his courage. “I have the steaks,” he said haltingly, “but I’ve given you all I can for the wine.”
“You said ten thousand reichsmarks.”
“And I’ve given you ten thousand reichsmarks’ worth of groceries.”
“Nonsense!” she exclaimed. “These bottles cost at least that much before the war, if you were fortunate enough to find them.”
“Certainly, Fräu Gräfin is correct. However, customers are less discerning these days. A Latour may bring more than a simple vin du table, but not much.”
Ingrid fought to hold her tongue. The prick might as well have both hands in her pockets stealing her money. She could feel her face flush with anger.
Karlsberg reached below the counter and brought out a carton of Chesterfields. “Take some cigarettes. You can kompensieren.”
Kompensieren meant to trade or to barter. This is how it was supposed to work: Ingrid would take Karlsberg’s cigarettes to a nearby farm and use them to purchase a hen or two, a dozen eggs, maybe even a gallon of fresh milk if she was so lucky. Bundling up her supplies, she’d find a train into the city—Munich, let’s say—and trade half her eggs for lightbulbs, one of the hens for heating oil, a pint of milk for some medicine. If particularly canny, she might end up with a few cigarettes to spare, and at day’s end, repurchase a bottle or two of wine from Karlsberg to toast her business acumen.
Good luck!
Ingrid had neither the time nor the opportunity to go from one vendor to the next trying to bargain for eggs or chickens or cigarettes. She lived in a secluded valley, fifty kilometers from the nearest town of any size. She had Ferdy Karlsberg and that was that. The only thing she could do with the Chesterfields was smoke them.
“It was steak I requested. It is for my boy.”
Karlsberg stared at her long and hard, then went to the freezer and took out a white box that he placed on the counter. “Here are the steaks,” he said, lowering his head as if ashamed by this show of weakness. “But you’ll get nothing else out of me.”
But Ingrid had seen something in the freezer that held far more appeal than the steaks. “Is that ice cream I saw in there?”
Karlsberg smiled. “Vanilla and strawberry.”
Ingrid’s first thought was of Pauli. He adored ice cream and hadn’t had a spoonful of the stuff in over a year. He would be mad with joy. She could practically hear him giggling. Slow down, she cautioned herself. Even with an ice block or two in the wheelbarrow, the ice cream would melt long before she arrived home. Her only chance of getting the ice cream home in some kind of edible condition was to find someone to drive her there and on this of all days, she hadn’t seen a single GI. It figured. Another possibility came to mind. Ferdy Karlsberg used to deliver their groceries in an old brown Citroën truck. If anyone had gasoline, it would be he. As a black marketeer, he had connections, and Lord knew, he was as frugal as a Swiss.
Suddenly Ingrid was acting, not thinking. Recalling his lascivious glances, she grabbed his apron and pulled him closer. Before she knew what she was doing, she had whispered the proposition in his ear. Karlsberg turned beet red. His eyes were wide with surprise and desire. “Well?” she asked. “Is it a deal?”
“Jawohl, Gräfin.” The disrespect had evaporated from his voice.
Ingrid stepped away from the counter and shook her hair loose. A streak of heat soured her body, momentarily promising nausea. Drawing a deep breath, she steeled herself to her task. She unbuttoned the front of her dress, pulling down the sleeves one at a time. And when she was sure she had his fullest attention, she unsnapped her brassiere and pulled it off her shoulders. There she stood, daughter of Germany’s richest industrialist, object of adoration for field marshals, famous actors, champion drivers, and the like, breasts pale and exposed, nipples embarrassingly erect, in front of a fumbling bunzli whose face had grown so red, so feverish, that the mere whisper of a pinprick would make him explode. And all for a quart of vanilla ice cream. She’d take two quarts, goddammit. Let him stop her!
Karlsberg let slip a petulant whimper and the next thing she knew, he was over the counter, clammy hands groping her breasts, moist breath wet in her ear, moaning about love and desire and she didn’t know what else. Ingrid wrestled free of his clumsy grasp, fighting off the inquisitive hands, then taking an abrupt step to the rear. The excited grocer tumbled headfirst onto the floor, landing in a pile at her feet. The entire incident had lasted no more than ten seconds.
Ingrid rushed to fasten her brassiere and button up the dress. But she held her ground. Neither shame nor fear nor acute humiliation—his or hers—would separate her from her groceries. She waited until Karslbe
rg dusted himself off, then addressed him in her most formal voice. “Be sure to load everything into the truck before you get the ice cream. And bring an ice block or two along just in case.”
Karlsberg remained frozen to the spot, his cheeks angry, his eyes accusing.
“Sofort!” she shouted. “Right away.”
Karlsberg jumped to work.
CHAPTER
19
NUMBER 61 RUDOLF KREHLSTRASSE SAT at the end of a wooded lane high on a steep mountain near the outskirts of Heidelberg. It was an unremarkable house, leaves of faded yellow paint falling from its neglected woodwork, birch shingles curled with age. Set back from the street among a clutch of leafy oaks, it cowered like the shy girl at a party, the homely lass who went home with her dance card empty. Erich Seyss double-checked the number, then strolled up the walk and rapped on the door. Heavy feet sounded from the rear of the house. Waiting, he gazed at the city below.
Heidelberg had escaped the war unscathed. Declaring it a hospital city seven months earlier, the high command had transferred the local garrison—by then a Volksturm detachment peopled with elderly men and teenage boys—fifteen kilometers north to Mannheim. Red crosses painted on fields of white decorated dozens of city roofs, mute pleas to the Allied bombers, who by then held mastery of the sky. It was a quaint convention, and one, to his surprise, that the Allies had honored. Looking to his left, he made out the medieval redbrick ruins of the schloss, at once majestic and crestfallen, slumbering in the morning haze. And below them, the Neckar flowing lazily under a half dozen crumbling bridges, bisecting the city into old town and new. The view had looked the same in 1938, in 1838, and a hundred years before that. It was the Germany of Martin Luther, the Great Elector, and the Kaiser; the Germany of Hegel, Bismarck, and Hindenburg.
Twisting his head, he peered north. On the horizon, a plain of ash and rubble interrupted lush fields of green. Mannheim, an industrial city of half a million, had been razed from the map by Allied bombs. A cigarette burn on the fertile landscape. And whose Germany was that? he wondered. The answer came to him as the front door squeaked open. It was his.
“Ja?”
Peeking from behind the door was a husky man with accusing dark eyes, a slow wit’s underbite, and short black hair glistening with tonic. He wore a white shirt buttoned to the neck and a black blazer riddled with moth holes.
Seyss pushed open the door and walked into the house. “Jesus, Bauer,” he said. “You look like you’re headed to a funeral. You must learn to relax. It’s summertime. Birds are singing, the sun is shining.”
Bauer bowed, his stubborn features finding no humor in the remark. “It is an honor to welcome you to my home, Herr Major.”
Seyss patted him on the shoulder. “Call me Erich. We left our ranks behind with our uniforms and our pride. How have you been keeping yourself?”
“There is still work, at least for now. Rumor is the Americans will shut down our factories any day. You’d think with so few plants still working, the Allies would leave us with what we have. But no, they want to bring the entire country to its knees.”
“Don’t worry, Bauer. Egon won’t let that happen. He’s a fighter, isn’t he?”
Bauer nodded, but his furrowed brow betrayed his doubts.
Heinz Bauer was a man whose life was defined by his work, the third generation of the Heidelberg Bauers to give his life to Bach Industries. As chief of factory police at Bach Munitions Work No. 4, his mandate was simple: Keep the imported labor or ostarbeiter working. Storming the floor in the black uniform of the civilian SS, truncheon in hand, he was a sight to behold. The smallest complaint, the slightest slowdown in work, was met with a blow from Bauer’s truncheon or a kick from his gleaming jackboots. A single word always punctuated the warning. Arbeit! His nickname was Heinz the Terrible, and he treasured it more than a commendation from the Führer himself.
The interior of the house was as shabby as its facade, but fastidiously clean. Threadbare carpets beaten to within an inch of their lives covered cracked wooden floors. Faux Louis XV chairs lurked in dark corners. Somewhere there was an immaculate sterling tea set sitting atop a polished coffee table. Seyss was sure of it. He’d find the same sad paeans to respectability in every house along the block. The German working class was obedient if not original. A photograph of the Führer held prime place on a wooden dresser in the living room. Next to it lay his copy of Mein Kampf. And behind them, a photograph of his deceased wife. State first. Family second.
“I understand you’ve rounded up a few of my men?” Seyss asked, peeking his head round a corner.
“Just two, I’m afraid. Biedermann and Steiner. They’re in back. Kuprecht and De l’Etraz didn’t show.”
“Just as well. We’ll be better off as a squad of four. Let’s go say our hellos. I’m anxious to see the boys.” Seyss was moving faster now, a blur of decision, an officer of the Reich once again.
“Please, Herr Major, one moment,” called Bauer. “Herr Bach phoned earlier. He demanded that you call at once. The phone is this way.”
“Demanded, did he?” Seyss asked in amusement. The prospect was out of the question. He didn’t want Egon to learn he’d lost the two thousand in cash he’d been given. Terminal, he would say, was your first and only responsibility. Egon could sod off. A civilian couldn’t understand an officer’s duties to his men. Seyss would get the money himself. It was a question of pride. “Later, Bauer. Right now, we have more pressing matters.”
“Jawohl, Herr Major.”
Bauer lowered a shoulder and led the way to a musty salon at the rear of the house. Two men sat smoking on a worn couch. The nearer one was blond and broad-shouldered with a fair complexion. His name was Richard Biedermann. He was a handsome man, if one could forgive the kidney red scar meandering from his chin to his right ear. Shrapnel posed difficulties for even the best battlefield surgeon. Hermann Steiner was less imposing, a paper pusher by the look of him. Short and thin, with greasy black hair, rimless spectacles, and a rat’s inquisitive snout. Seyss knew better. Steiner was the battalion sniper. He’d never known a better shot.
“Good morning, boys,” he said. “It’s been a long time. Keeping yourselves out of trouble?”
Both men rose sharply from the couch, shaking Seyss’s hand while wishing him a buoyant good-morning. Seyss patted each on the arm, asking how they had made out since the end of the war. Both had served under him during the Ardennes offensive and through the last months of fighting. Both were wanted in connection with the affair in Malmedy.
“Forget about us,” said Richard Biedermann. “We’re worried about you.” Members of Seyss’s unit had nicknamed Biedermann the Cub for his close physical resemblance to Seyss and his cloying habit of sticking near his commanding officer.
“Oh?”
Biedermann handed Seyss a newspaper. “This morning’s edition.”
Seyss gazed at the front page of the Stars and Stripes and found his own picture staring back at him. It was the photograph taken upon his incarceration in Garmisch, better even than the one in his soldbuch. He forced a smile even as his stomach dropped. Was this Judge’s doing, too? He should have shot the man when he’d had a chance.
“Once a star, always a star,” said Hermann Steiner. “It seems, Major, you are famous again.”
Seyss tried to laugh but managed only to groan. “Be serious. Do I look anything like the man in that photograph?” He plucked the spectacles from Steiner’s nose and put them on. “And now?” He lost his posture and shuffled from one side of the room to the other. “Just another poor German looking for something to eat. How many of us are there? A million? Two million? Ten? Do you think this photograph is enough to see me captured? Besides, where we are going, there are no Americans to look for us.”
“It’s not the Americans we are worried about,” said Biedermann. “There is a reward, too. A hundred dollars at the American post exchange. Not bad, these days.”
Seyss kept his smile glued to his face,
but inside he acknowledged a swell of disappointment. Biedermann was right. These days a German would sell his mother for a hundred dollars, then ask how much he could get for his father. Access to the post exchange was an even better idea. With a hundred dollars, a man could purchase cigarettes enough to earn a fortune on the black market. This was, he had to admit, very bad news.
Casting an eye at Bauer, Biedermann and Steiner, he wondered just how quick one of them might be to turn him in to the authorities. None of them knew the true nature of their mission. They’d been asked to accompany Seyss to Berlin, no reason given save on a matter of importance to the Fatherland, and they’d accepted. Six years of war had conditioned them not to ask questions. For their services, they’d been promised a one-way ticket to South America via the port of Naples. A Croatian priest in the Vatican, the Reverend Dr. Krunoslav Draganovic, was providing travel visas to all those who could prove themselves good Catholics of blameless character and morals. It turned out members of the SS were a particularly religious lot. Along with a certificate attesting to their unblemished souls, an administrative fee was required. Fifteen hundred dollars was deemed adequate to cover the reverend doctor’s travails. The proceeds to be earned on the black market from Seyss’s reward would cover that fee twofold. The Americans were proving cleverer than he had expected.
“Even the Kripo is looking for you,” added Steiner. “An inspector came round the bar asking too many questions. He was a real bumbler, but others might not be.”
Seyss decided to confront any hesitation head-on. “If any of you men want out, you can go. I know plenty of Germans willing to take a risk for the benefit of our country. We have lost the war, true. But I, for one, am not willing to lose the peace.”
The Runner Page 18
