The Runner by Christopher Reich Page A

doctors and she was anxious to break from her family. Even now, he could see her as she fell onto the couch in that exaggerated fashion that infuriated her father, a perfectly assembled mess of platinum hair and ruby red lipstick.
    “I’ve decided to get a flat of my own,” she had said, after they’d had a cup of tea.
    “What for?” he asked. “You have plenty of room here. Besides, your father won’t permit it.”
    “I want us to be alone. You could come see me anytime you like. I’m sick of Fritz or Hilda barging in. Egon watches us through the keyhole.”
    “Don’t be silly. You’re just eighteen.” He, being twenty-one, and the embodiment of wisdom.
    “Almost nineteen,” she replied coquettishly, tracing the looping silver script embroidered on his left sleeve. LAH. Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler. “An officer assigned to the Führer’s bodyguard shouldn’t have to ask my father’s permission every time he wants to see me.”
    Erich considered the dilemma. He didn’t like to admit that he was a stickler for rules and regulations. Earlier in the day, they’d argued about her makeup and clothing. Adhering to the party line, he had found himself saying that too much lipstick was un-German and that pants demeaned her femininity. He’d even declared that an SS man couldn’t be seen with a “trouser woman.” At that, Ingrid had broken out laughing, and after a moment, he had joined her. He knew what he had said was ridiculous, but an uncontrollable part of his nature compelled him to defend the party’s philosophy. He was, above all, a good National Socialist. Truth be told, he adored her tight blouses and soft curls. The idea of spending the night alone with Ingrid Bach was overpowering.
    “I think the museum quarter would be the best place to start looking, don’t you?”
    Ingrid screamed with delight and pulled him close. Guiding his hand to her breast, she kissed him in a very un-German fashion.
    “I said, you’re not still interested?” Egon repeated.
    “Of course not,” snapped Seyss, his attention again riveted to the here and now. He felt angry with himself for allowing his emotions free reign. Tucking in his jaw, he adopted the dry tone taught all SS officers.
Sächlichkeit,
it was called. The ability to view one’s circumstances with rigid objectivity. “Please pass along my regards to her and the boy.”
    “I’ll be sure to.” Egon laughed rudely. “Though I’m not certain she’ll be too pleased. She never quite recovered, you know.”
    “It was a different time,” said Seyss, answering his own accusations as well as his host’s. “One had obligations.”
    “As a party member, I understand. As Ingrid’s brother, I take a different view. You hurt her badly.”
    Seyss finished his beer and set down the empty glass. Five minutes listening to Egon’s nasal bray and he remembered all over again how much he hated the impudent bastard. He was sick of the small talk. He’d risked his life to be here and killed two men in the process. It was time to get down to business.
    “How did you find me, anyway?”
    “It was easy once I realized you’d be on the Allies’ list of war criminals. Still, I’d have thought you’d have learned to follow orders in your time. It was a foolish thing, killing the camp commander. He was with us, you know.”
    “It was necessary.”
    “It was rash. One more Nazi on the run means nothing to the Americans. But you had to murder an officer. Damn it, man, what were you thinking?”
    Seyss tightened the muscles in his neck as his temper flared. What could Egon Bach know about the need to avenge your comrades? To cleanse your soul with the blood of your enemy? About the beauty of looking into a man’s eyes as he died by your hand? The smaller man’s anger fired his impatience to learn the reason why he’d been told to come to Munich. But he’d be damned if he asked.
    To temper his restlessness, he clasped his hands behind his back and made a slow