“I suppose not.”
“But, I need you to come too. I don’t have time to learn my way around Berlin. You know Seyss, where he might go, where he might hide. You have a house there, don’t you?”
“Two. One in the city. One on the lake in Babelsberg.”
“And I imagine you spent some time there with him?”
“Yes.” The admission left her feeling dirty; the more so because of the respect with which Judge treated her. God, how he was different to Erich and Bobby. Neither of them would have asked her to go to Berlin, they would have bloody well ordered her. The comparison to her former lovers coupled with his close physical proximity made Ingrid see Judge in a new light, and she found herself wondering what a future with someone like him might be like. All she’d had to look forward to with Bobby was a role as loving wife and doting mother, a life no different than her mother had lived, and her mother before that. It was an existence built on her family’s wealth, standing, and service to the country — none of which counted for a damn any longer.
Feeling a desire to touch him, Ingrid leaned over and kissed his unshaven cheek. “I haven’t thanked you for saving my life.”
Judge brushed the spot, the hint of a smile lightening his anxious mien. “Does that mean you’ll go to Berlin?”
Ingrid bit her lip, wanting to say yes but hesitating and hating herself for it. Here was the chance her wounded conscience had dreamed of, the opportunity to act not as German, but as a woman true only to her herself, and she was afraid to say yes. Staring into Judge’s eyes, she drew from him the courage she didn’t have herself.
“I can’t not do anything,” she said. And as the words escaped her mouth, she understood that responsibility was something one took even when one didn’t want to.
“So, I convinced you?” he said.
Ingrid laughed softly. “Yes. But I’ve no idea how we’ll get there.”
Chapter 42
Nine railway cars tethered to one another sat on a weedstrewn siding bordering a meadow on the eastern outskirts of Frankfurt. The cars were very old, all sleepers, whose chalky green paint and immaculate yellow script had been eaten away by rust and neglect. A few letters were still visible: a flowery “D”; a faded “B”; the word “bahn”.
At first glance, the cars looked abandoned, their place on the rails sacrificed years ago to troop transports, flatbeds and the unsparing commitment to “total war”. But a closer look testified to their resilience. Wooden stairs and a handrail descended from each doorway. An American flag drooped from a makeshift flagpole and a brace of military policemen bustled from one car to the next, climbing the stairs and pulling open the doors.
The railroad cars constituted one of seven “separation centers” in Frankfurt where members of the German armed forces could turn themselves in to be processed out of the military and returned to civilian life. Each man was promised ten marks, a half-loaf of bread, some lard, cigarettes and a one-way ticket home. Seventy-odd days after the end of hostilities, the flow of soldiers had slowed to a trickle.
Judge held Ingrid’s hand as they walked across the clearing. If anyone asked, they were husband and wife. A day and a night together and already they wore the easy familiarity of a long-time couple. In dribs and drabs, men approached from all corners of the field, gathering in front of the first wagon in line. Ingrid tugged Judge’s hand and pulled him close.
“Stop, Major,” she said. “Look at these men, how they’re walking, how they are carrying themselves. You have to walk like that, too. Slow down a little. Drop your head. Pretend you don’t want to be here.”
“I don’t,” he said. “Believe me.”
Ingrid crossed him with a stern look. “You are humiliated.”
Humiliated. The word sent a jolt of revulsion right down his spine. Judge stopped in mid-stride, newly aware of his prideful gait. He watched the Germans filing across the field. He wouldn’t say they looked beaten, just tired; their step hesitant rather than directed. Posture all but forgotten.Humiliated. And he realized he was seeing the physical manifestation of their survivor’s penance.
Judge let go of Ingrid’s hand and moved off toward the railway cars. Tucking in his chin, he viewed the world from beneath the protection of a wary brow. He let his back slump and his chest sag, not overdoing it. He kept his stride even, but unhurried. After a minute, they reached the sparse assembly gathered near the lead car.
He was dressed like the men around him — which is to say as a civilian and poorly. He wore black trousers and a gray plaid workshirt. The garments were threadbare and filthy, and he was beginning to suspect the pants were ridden with lice. He’d bought the outfit off a man living at the Guterbahnhof for a dollar and a pack of Lucky’s. Another dollar convinced the man to throw in his shoes. As for socks and underwear, Judge would keep his own. To hell with the risk!
A shrill whistle pierced the air. “I want one line starting here,” shouted a private from his perch at the head of the stairs. “Single file, if you please, ladies. We are now open for business.”
The shabby gathering fell into place reluctantly, like children heading back to school after summer break. A few of the hardier types hustled back and forth among them, barking out commands to straighten the line as if addressing a platoon standing for inspection. Military tradition died hard.
Judge drew Ingrid aside. “I don’t know how long this will take. Find some shade and get some sleep.”
“Still remember what unit you served in?”
He touched a finger to his forehead. “Don’t worry, it’s all up here.”
Ingrid gave his arm a confident pat. “Then, Feldwebel Dietrich, I suggest you get moving.”
Judge joined the line and in a matter of minutes was swallowed up in its ranks. No one looked at him oddly. No one questioned his presence. Why should they? Hair unkempt and greasy, beard working past a stubble, he was just another German who wanted to get home.
He was the enemy.
“Name!”
“Karl Dietrich.”
“Pay book?”
“I’m sorry, I haven’t got it. It’s lost.”
The sergeant looked up at Judge from behind a broad walnut desk, his lantern jaw and low brow twisted into a frustrated knot. Shaking his head, he plucked a form from an overstuffed tray, wrote the name Karl Dietrich upon it, then stamped it twice. “Another one ain’t got his papers. Jesus H. Christ. Betcha he doesn’t know who Hitler was either. Der Fuhrer, huh? Ring a bell?”
Judge was standing inside the cabin of the first railroad car. The original furnishings had been ripped out compartments, sofettes, the works — and replaced with a line of identical desks, cabinets and unsmiling clerks. The place had all the charm of an induction center on Staten Island.
“Hemd auf,” ordered the sergeant. Shirt off.
Judge unbuttoned the plaid shirt and placed it on the table, only to have it flung back in his face a second later. “Get that piece of garbage off my desk!” the sergeant screamed. “Friggin’ kraut. Just cause he’s got fleas, wants to give ’em to everybody else. Alright, Fritz, raise that left arm up high, let Uncle Sam see if you’ve been a naughty boy.”