“How far to this place?”
“Eichstrasse is in Mitte. I’d say eight kilometers.”
About five miles. Fifty city blocks in Manhattan. A breeze if they could stay clear of the Trophy Brigades Mahoney had warned them about. Cocking his head, he listened for the retaliatory growl of his frustrated pursuers. The night was silent.
“Can you walk it?” he asked Ingrid. “Once in the city, we’ll stand out like a sore thumb in this Jeep. The first American patrol we see will either shoot us or have us arrested.”
Ingrid smiled with the knowledge of a secret strength. “Yes, Major, I believe I can.”
Judge slowed the Jeep and when she’d stepped out, drove it a little ways into the forest. He found a dense grove of bushes and nosed the vehicle slowly into its embrace. Sliding from the wheel, he freed the crushed branches until the Jeep was partially hidden from view. Hardly a masterful job of camouflage, but it would do until morning.
Rubbing sap from his palms, he jogged back to Ingrid.
“Alright, Pocahontas,” he said. “Lead the way.”
The building on Eichstrasse was standing and, except for a fractured chimney and a couple of broken windows, undamaged. They’d circled the block twice before approaching, checking alleys and doorways for signs of surveillance. The neighborhood wasn’t deserted; it was dead. Not a lamp burned from a single paneless window. Not a soul walked the streets. Neither a German, an American, or for that matter, a Russian was in sight. The feared Trophy Brigades had taken the night off.
Ingrid’s apartment was on the third floor. “Just a studio,” she had warned him, forgetting for a moment that they had more important concerns than the size of her apartment. They climbed the stairs quietly and when they neared her door, Judge signaled for her to remain behind. He approached as stealthily as he knew, rolling his shoe from heel to toe, easing his weight onto the distressed floorboards. In his hand he carried a bent crowbar he’d picked up on the street; fine, if he wanted to brain someone, but it wouldn’t hold up long against a loaded pistol. Reaching the entry to her apartment he checked for signs of recent intrusion. A sheen of dust coated the brass doorknob. Cobwebs hugged the doorframe. Laying an ear to the door, he listened. Nothing. If Seyss had been by, he’d kept his presence well hidden. Cautiously, Judge turned the knob to the right. Locked. Finding a rusted nail, he played with the keyhole until he’d picked the lock.
The apartment was empty. Even more surprising, it was untouched and as she’d left it six years before. Sitting squarely in the Soviet zone, maybe the Reds figured they’d get to it in their own due time.
“Just a studio” meant just that: a large corner room with an armoire and chest of drawers set against one wall, a king size bed against the other, with a couch and a coffee table in between. A mantle of dust an inch thick covered the furniture. Ingrid immediately tore off the bedspread and threw it into the corner. A few steps took her to the closet where she opened a Vuitton steamer trunk and removed a set of clean sheets.
“Don’t just stand there,” she said. “Get on the other side of the bed and give me a hand. It must be after two. I’m exhausted.”
Judge did as he was told and in a few minutes the bed was made. He asked for another sheet and laid it atop the sofa, taking a few lap cushions into the hallway and pounding them until they were rid of dust. A quick check confirmed the absence of running water. Making use of an iron cleaning bucket, he went downstairs and found a spigot in the interior court of the building next door. A sign had been posed above it reading, “For washing only.”
“Thank God, a little water,” said Ingrid, seeing the full bucket.
Judge set it in on the john. “You can’t drink it until it’s boiled.”
“I wouldn’t dare, but I do need to clean up a little. Would you excuse me?”
“Sure.” Judge walked around the apartment, yawning, stretching his arms, trying hard not to think of what had gone on here six years ago. The duvet Ingrid had laid on the bed was embroidered with the Bach family crest. He sat down on the bed to read the Latin motto.
“In peace, strong. In battle, strongest,” Ingrid recited, sitting down next to him. “Charming, isn’t it? Now you know why I kept it hidden.”
“Better than mine.”
“Oh? You have a crest as well?”
Judge dropped his head and laughed, but only for an instant. That was his Ingrid. The lady to his manservant. By now, he knew her well enough to know that her remark carried no condescension, just surprise and genuine interest. Even without a penny in her purse, she would always be an aristocrat.
“Not a crest, no, but at least a motto. ‘Nunc est torpus ad bibendum — Now is the time to drink’. The old man was Irish. What do you expect?”
Ingrid grinned half-heartedly and when Judge looked closer he saw she was shivering. “You’re cold?”
She shook her head. “I’m scared.”
Judge put his arm around her. He tried to muster his most confident smile, but managed only a slight peaking of the cheeks. Any rousing words would prove hollow encouragement. “Me, too.”
“I wouldn’t know it. You look like you were cut out for this type of thing.”
“Me?” the thought of himself as a hardened soldier made him laugh. He looked at the crusts of dirt blackening his fingernails and cringed. “The only battles I fight are in the court room. It’s a pretty placid affair, a few guys arguing with each other. Sometimes we even raise our voices. When it’s over we go out and have lunch together.”
“I saw how you struck General Carswell. You liked it.”
“No,” Judge retorted, picking out the sliver of derision in her voice. “I didn’t.” But even as he made his denial, his anger faded. She was right. He had liked it.
“I’m sorry,” she said, laying her head on his shoulder. “I’m upset. I miss my son.”
For once, Judge couldn’t think of anything to say, so he remained quiet. Stirred by her presence, he drew her closer. It was a reflex, an instinct. No, he admitted to himself. It was desire, something he’d wanted to do since he’d first seen her; something his predetermined prejudices against the Germanvolk, in general, and the Bachs, in particular, had prevented.
He brushed his nose against her vanilla hair, smelling her, wanting her feminine scent to flush the omnipresent sting of charred wood and raw sewage from his nostrils. A delicate hand inside his shirt caused his breath to catch. Fingers skipped over his ribs, caressing his chest.
Judge tilted his head toward hers, and saw in her eyes the same desire that had gripped him at Jake’s Joint and, he now knew, that had consumed him ever since. He kissed her softly, tasting her lips. She moaned, and pressed herself against him, and for the swiftest of moments, he thought,I’m kissing a German, and I am kissing the enemy, then he felt her mouth open to his and he knew she was simply a young woman who needed to be loved; a soul not so different from his own.
He kissed her long and deep, and she responded, searching hungrily for his tongue, her hands exploring his body, grasping, massaging him. Pent up for so long, his desire throbbed and grew hot inside him. Abruptly, he raised his head from hers, and for a moment they both stared at one another, a look of bemused surprise brightening their faces.
With a finger he traced the curve of her neck and her shoulders. He’d forgotten the silky feel of a woman’s skin and his fingertips sent small currents of electricity dancing along his arm. “We’re like a couple of teenagers.”
She brushed his hair back from his forehead, drawing her hand gently across his cheek. Suddenly, she laughed huskily and pushed him flat onto the bed. “I never did this when I was a teenager.”