Judge put down the paper. There it was, then. Everything he’d searched for. Everything he needed to secure a conviction. Seyss was already in an American lockup somewhere. As an SS officer, he’d been subject to automatic arrest when he was captured. It was just a matter of time then, until he was brought to trial. But if Judge had been expecting a few pangs of gratification, he was disappointed. No surge of adrenaline warmed his neck. No flush of victory colored his cheeks. All he had was a name, some papers, and the knowledge that in a year or so, somewhere in Germany, the floor would fall from a gallows and Seyss would die. The law had never felt so sterile.
“I suppose this will nail it,” he said, trying hard to add a cheerful lilt to his voice. “We won’t even need to bring in any of our eyewitnesses. Seyss’s comrades signed his death warrant. It’ll be the hangman for sure.”
Storey nodded curtly. “There are some pictures, too.”
Judge grimaced involuntarily and the corrosive drip in his belly started all over again. “Oh? Whose are they?”
“German. They’re rough, so don’t feel you have to look. I thought it my responsibility to inform you. Naturally, they’ll form part of the prosecutorial record.”
“Good news and bad news,” he’d said.
Storey handed him a sheaf of photographs an inch thick. 8 × 10s. Judge mumbled “thanks”, then began shuffling through them. He could feel his heart beating faster, his throat tightening involuntarily. It was a classic flight response. The way he felt in court when his lead witness impeached his testimony on cross. The first few showed sixty or seventy GIs scattered across a plowed-over field. Some of the soldiers were stripped down to their skivvies, others fully clothed. All of them were dead. The photographer abandoned landscapes for portraits. Judge stared at the faces of a dozen murdered GIs. One still arrested his eye.
An American soldier lay naked from the waist up in the snow, a string of perfect holes diagonally traversing his torso from right to left. One arm was outstretched, as if waving goodbye. A crater crusted the open palm. Quite a shot. The face was frozen in surprise and terror, mouth ajar, eyes opened their widest. Still, he was easy to recognize. The thick black hair, the cleft chin, the inquiring nose — a snooper’s nose, Judge had called it — the scar above the eyebrow, and of course, the eyes, wide and accusing. Even in death Francis Xavier Judge was taking his younger brother’s measure.
Seyss ordered all machine gunners to open fire on the prisoners, two thousand two hundred and forty-four rounds were expended.
Judge stood perfectly still, the text of the after-action report echoing in his head. Silently, he yelled to Francis to run, to fall to the ground. He saw his brother raising his hands in the air, could hear the prayer issuing from his lips:Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. He witnessed the look of worry turn to fear, then horror, as the first shots cracked the winter cold.Damn you, Francis. Hit the deck!
He flipped to the next photograph and his frustration flamed to anger.
The picture showed an SS officer wearing a camouflage uniform standing in the field, jackboot planted firmly in the lee of a GIs back. One hand was fastened round a lock of hair, lifting the head, the other bringing a pistol to the nape of the doomed soldier’s neck. The officer had blond hair and his face was streaked with dirt. An Iron Cross hung from his neck. Another was pinned to his breast. A hero. Four silver diamonds on his collar patch indicated his rank as major. Another man stood behind him, laughing.
Seyss entered the field along with SS Sergeant Richard Biedermann and administered the coup de grace as necessary.
Judge dropped the pictures onto the desk, turning away from Storey and closing his eyes. He’d thought his tireless digging had inured him to the loss of his brother, that his intimate knowledge of the manner and circumstances of Frankie’s death had somehow deadened the wound. He was wrong. The German’s recounting of the massacre — so factual, so cold, so trivial — coupled with the frank photographs, ripped open his hurt and christened his pain anew.
“You all right?” asked Storey.
Judge tried to answer, but didn’t dare speak. His throat was suddenly un-navigable, his legs growing weaker by the second. Somehow he managed a grim nod.
Storey patted him on the arm. “Like I said, there’s some bad news, too.”
Judge shot Storey a withering glance, ignorant of the tear rolling down his cheek. What could be worse than seeing a photo of your only brother, the last member of your family, slaughtered in a desolate field in a foreign land?
“Bad news?”
“It’s Seyss,” said Storey. “He’s escaped.”
Chapter 3
The Jeep sped down the Champs-Elysees, past outdoor cafes crowded with servicemen, and cinemas advertising American films. Flags of every color and nationality sprouted from parapets and doorways the length of the boulevard: the Stars and Stripes, the Union Jack, the Hammer and Sickle, and everywhere,le bleu, blanc et rouge — the French Tricolor. Swatches of bunting, memories of VE Day, adorned an occasional balcony. the marcelled crepe was faded, perhaps, wilted by summer rain, but no less proud because of it.
Judge sat in the rear of the Jeep, one hand clamped to the chassis, the other atop a compendious olive file square in his lap. The open air was a tonic for his woozy head. Everyone knew you didn’t mix booze and the same should be said for emotions, he thought. Anger, remorse, frustration, loss — Christ, he’d downed a shot of every one. A glance at the file sobered him. Stenciled across its cover were the letters “UNWCC” — United Nations War Crimes Commission — and inside was every fact, rumor, and half-truth the commission had gathered about the wartime doings of Major Erich Siegfried Seyss, late of the Waffen SS. The latest addition had been made only an hour ago.
Crossing the Place de la Concorde, the Jeep rattled over a sea of cobblestones as it circled the Obelisk, the ancient Masonic symbol that celebrated Napoleon’s victory over the British in Egypt, and later served as the model for the Washington Monument. An easterly gust carried a taste of the Seine: brine, moss and the hint of caprice. Les Invalides stood away to his right, a majestic stone armory seated at the head of a grass avenue five football fields in length. The “Little General” himself was interred somewhere inside its cool walls.
Everywhere Judge looked in this town he was surrounded by history and all of it had to do with war. He wondered if it was foolish to allow personal animosity to prevent his taking part in what promised to be a seminal historical event of his time. He shook his head. War. Empire. Revenge. Scale them down and what did you have? Anger. Avarice. Pride. History was only personal grievance writ large.
Two doormen clad in maroon top coats waited at the base of the steps leading to the Hotel Ritz. Judge jumped from the back of the Jeep, the dossier tucked high under one arm, and set off up the broad stairs. Bob Storey pulled him close as they entered the lobby.
“I’ve already spoken with Justice Jackson and made a plea on your behalf. He’s as fair a man as I’ve met, but he can be brusque. Remember, we’re damned lucky he’s even here. Luckier he’s seeing us. Let’s take that as a good sign. Just be polite and let him do the talking.”