The Runner Read Free

Americans referred to them as DPs—displaced persons.
    Tucking a shoulder under his chest, he tried to roll onto his back. Maybe he could catch a glimpse of the dealings through a crack in the floorboards. The crawl space was too narrow and he returned to his prone position. A beetle skittered up his arm and onto the back of his neck. He raised an arm to knock it away, but froze as his hand brushed the floor. He clenched his teeth, willing the insect away. Its legs tickled his flesh, then it was gone. He scooted a few inches forward. The confinement was suffocating him.
Hurry up,
he urged Janks and Vlassov. He felt his breath coming faster, panic approaching step by step. No one escaped out the front gate. The idea was insane.
    Listening to Janks barter away the prisoners’ food supplies, Seyss felt his fear ebb and fury take its place. A sack of grain for a pistol. Two boxes of chocolate for a silver wound badge. A gross of K rations for a general’s cap. Small wonder the camp population was half starved. Finally Janks said it. Fifteen loaves of bread for an Iron Cross. Twenty loaves plus a carton of Lucky Strikes if it had oak clusters. At the mention of the Iron Cross, Seyss’s hand moved to his own neck. It was bare, of course. His own decorations had been confiscated at the hospital in Vienna. Held as evidence, he’d been told. That small and beautiful piece of metal for which he’d spent his blood was this evening deemed worth a few loaves of bread and a carton of cigarettes. Seyss was in no mood to appreciate such grotesque irony.
    “What’s next?” asked Janks. “That it? We done here?”
    “That is all, Colonel,” said Vlassov.
    “Good. Load up your wagon and get the hell out of here.”
    As the footsteps tramped above him, Seyss slid his wrist toward his eyes and focused on the watch’s tritium hands. Eight minutes past nine. Bed check was well under way. Had the officer of the watch reached his barracks yet?
    He crawled forward until he was under the porch that extended from the southern side of the kitchen. A cool breeze lapped at his face. Vlassov lumbered back and forth carrying his evening’s wages. After his fourth trip to the wagon, he reentered the kitchen and spoke to Janks. “All done, Colonel. I see you next week.”
    “Till next week, Mr. Vlassov. My boys will open the gate once they see you in your wagon. Go on, now.”
    Vlassov grunted a good-bye and walked out of the room. The kitchen door opened and closed. Seyss slid from beneath the porch and raised himself to one knee. Vlassov was standing in the dark, smoking his customary cigarette before mounting his wagon and leaving the camp. Seyss stared at him a moment. He had been taught to hate the mongrel Slav, to disrespect this man without a homeland, this
untermensch
. But all he saw was an opponent. A man who stood in his way.
    Placing the blade of the dagger in his mouth, he grasped the railing, and sprang onto the porch. He landed silently. A single step and he was upon Vlassov. Spinning him round, he clamped a hand over his mouth, then plunged the dagger into the base of his throat. Vlassov grunted, bucked once, and was still. Maintaining his grip on the knife, Seyss peeled off the Czech’s reefer jacket one arm at a time. He removed the dagger and gently lowered the body to the ground. A clean kill.
    Seyss checked his watch. Twelve past the hour. The officer of the watch had reached his barracks by now. At any moment, the whistle would sound announcing that a prisoner was missing. Three short blows, a pause, then three more. The gates would remain locked until Janks gave the all-clear. Urging himself to hurry, he plucked Vlassov’s cap off the porch and placed it on his own head, sure to tuck his lank blond hair under the visor. He had put on the Czech’s jacket when the kitchen door opened. Colonel Janks stepped onto the porch, slowly extending his neck like a cautious turtle. No doubt he’d heard Vlassov’s dying snort and