Deciding he needed another drink, Judge made his way down the stairs and into the middle of the foray. The music grew louder, the smoke thicker, and his head lighter. He was aware of every budge, every glance, every whispered, “Hi Joe”. Still, he kept his eyes lowered, ashamed to meet their direct glance. He reminded himself he was an observer not a participant, but that tired voice got drowned out in a hurry. He tried, “ a gentleman doesn’t act this way,” and got the same results. Lifting his chin, he cast an appraising look at the young frauleins around him. He was shocked, and, if honest, titillated at their acceptance of his brazen scrutiny.
Judge found the bar and ordered a scotch, happy for a moment’s respite from the melee. Yet no sooner had the drink been poured than a raven-haired girl of twenty bullied her way in beside him, took the glass full in her fist like she was grabbing a can of Schlitz, and emptied it in one long draught. She stared at him long enough for him to notice that she was very pretty, then picked up his hand and laid it on her breast. “Kommon, Schatzi,” she said huskily, in some sort of pidgin English, “Take me your haus, Captin. You dutti Yanki bastid. Less go fickin.”
A hungry hand kneaded his trousers. Judge yanked it away, scolding her in a Berliner’s precise German. “That’s enough, sweetheart. Go find a boy your own age. Run along now.”
Watching her disappear into the crowd, Judge’s hungry eye was arrested by a flash of silver. A tall, languid blonde in a satin dress danced cheek to cheek with a slack-jawed man of fifty sporting three stars on either shoulder. Judge could not see her face, but he could see the general’s and recognized it immediately. Leslie Carswell, commander of the Seventh Army, whose headquarters Judge had spoken with the day before to arrange the meeting at Sonnenbrucke. The couple swayed to the music, and as the song came to an end, Carswell cocked a knee and gallantly dipped the woman in his arms.
It was then that Ingrid Bach threw back her head and looked directly at Devlin Judge.
Chapter 27
Judge’s first thought was that it couldn’t be Ingrid Bach. He wouldn’t classify the women at Jake’s Joint as prostitutes, but they weren’t paragons of virtue either. War had forced on them a terrible hardship and to survive they’d decided to partner with their occupiers. Their rewards were silk stockings, Hershey bars, cigarettes, maybe even a place to stay for a couple of weeks. It was a decision born of economic necessity which was what made her appearance all the more startling. Ingrid Bach was hardly poor. The woman lived in a home the size of the Frick Museum!
Certain that he was mistaken, Judge returned his attention to her. She was applauding with the crowd, but still she stared at him. The sea-blue eyes, the sharp nose, the blonde hair now immaculately dyed and coiffed — all conspired in an instant to erase his doubt. He practically expected her to march over and begin lecturing him about the poor chamois being shot on her estate. And, nothing could serve as more potent confirmation than the look of abject shame that spread like a shadow across her features, as she, too, recognized him.
Suddenly, everyone was in motion. The band eased into “Body and Soul”, the crowd began dancing, and she was lost, a silver fan twirling slowly on the far side of the floor.
Judge abandoned his post at the bar and cut through the crowd. Ingrid’s discernible humiliation stayed with him the entire way, lending his step an aggressive edge while resuscitating his earlier guilt. He had hardly earned the right to act as wildly irresponsibly as the men around him. He hadn’t slogged over the Alps or braved withering fire at Omaha beach. He hadn’t breached the Siegfried Line or fought his way across the Rhine. Hell, he hadn’t even gone to boot camp. On the contrary. He’d spent the last three years dressed in gray flannel suits and Egyptian cotton shirts, eating at Toots Shors three days a week and at Schrafts the other two.
Bodies, not minds, Judge told himself. He’d been serving his country too.
Crossing the floor, he bumped into Honey cheek to cheek with a chesty fraulein, then forced his way between two couples practically glued together at the waist. Ingrid Bach saw him coming and dug her head into Carswell’s shoulder. Judge didn’t slow for an instant. Reaching Carswell, he tapped him boldly on the shoulder.
“Excuse me, sir, but may I respectfully cut in?”
Carswell dropped Ingrid’s hand and stared at Judge’s sweaty brow, loosened tie, and five o’clock shadow. Obviously, he thought the man a drunk. “You may respectfully go to hell, Major.”
The snap inspection gave Judge the opening he needed. In a single fluid motion, he slid in front of the general, found Ingrid’s hand, and let the crowd sweep them away.
Ingrid Bach lifted herself on a toe to glance at Carswell’s outraged countenance. “Very cheeky, Major. Bravo.”
“You know us New Yorkers. We’re not always the best mannered guys in the world, but we have heart.”
“Heart? When you left yesterday afternoon, you were positively frigid. All business. I’d thought we might at least be cordial.”
Judge offered a conciliatory grin. He’d go cordial a step better if it might help squeeze some info out of her about Seyss. “I was a little overwhelmed by the house and meeting your father. It’s hard to figure out who you can trust in this country.”
“Maybe so, Major. But it’s not fair to judge an entire nation by the actions of a few.”
Judge nodded, wondering with which group she lumped herself in. No doubt the former. Another innocent bystander.
The music swelled as it reached the first chorus. Judge was careful to hold Ingrid away from him, so that their bodies did not touch. She stood a few inches shorter than him, and he imagined that if she came a step closer, she’d fit nicely in his arms. This pleased him enormously. Guiltily, he wondered why.
“Known Carswell long?” he asked, curious as to their relationship.
“Me?” She smiled enthusiastically. “Yes, ages, actually. My cousin, Chip DeHaven, introduced us years ago. We’re old friends.”
“Chip DeHaven — from the State Department? I didn’t realize Carswell was from New York. I’d always taken him for a Southerner. Give him a beard and he’d look like Robert E Lee.”
“No, actually, he’s…” Suddenly, Ingrid averted her eyes and her smile crumbled. “You’ve caught me in a fib. I don’t know General Carswell. I haven’t the foggiest where he’s from. He’s been asking me out for weeks. Finally, I gave in and said yes. I hope you don’t think I’m…” Her words trailed off as her eyes fell to the ground. “I’m very embarrassed.”
“Don’t be.”
“Look, if you want to know why I’m here, it’s the same reason as the other girls. I don’t take kindly to poverty.”
“But you’re a Bach!”
She let go an ironic laugh. “Didn’t you hear Papa this morning? We’ve nothing left. My brother Egon took control of the business two years ago. He convinced the Fuhrer that if Bach Industries was to pass to the next generation intact, the business as a whole must be deeded to him. Egon gave us a few hundred thousand Reichsmarks as compensation and Sonnenbrucke, of course. He thought he was being generous but the money was spent before the war had even ended. I’m lucky not to have been expelled from Sonnenbrucke. Carswell hinted it would make an excellent retreat for officers.”