Five Past Midnight - James Thayer [39]
Accompanied by a spewing curse, the documents were passed through the window. Richter took his time with them, flipping through the pages with a studied insolence. He held up the general's identity card to the daylight as if to detect a forger's mistake, and earned more profanity from the back of the Horch.
From somewhere in the growing line of refugees came a shout, "The big shot gets to ride while we walk."
Another angrily yelled, "That's all this war got us, a bunch of bloodsuckers."
Richter waved them to silence. Carrying a carbine in his arms, one of his men moved back along the line, shaking his head, warning the travelers. A cargo truck slowly approached along the road, pausing frequently while walkers stepped aside.
The sergeant bent low to stare at the general's face, which was crimson from indignation. The Wehrmacht general's hooked nose could not be mistaken for the fugitive American's. The general was wearing a tailored gray-green greatcoat with scarlet facings, buttoned at the neck. Next Richter examined the chauffeur's papers. The driver was a fifty-year-old corporal undoubtedly called from the reserves. No American there, either. Richter glanced at the Horch's floor to make sure no one was hiding there. He handed the documents back through the window.
"Stay where you are while I search the boot," Richter ordered. He lifted the trunk lid, then pushed aside several camouflaged travel bags.
Nothing but changes of uniform. He closed the trunk and then walked slowly to the Horch's hood. He opened it to reveal the eight-cylinder engine.
Richter glanced at one of his corporals across the road. The corporal was grinning. Seldom could one thumb his nose at a general, and a rude one at that.
"You idiot," the general shouted from inside the cab. "Nobody could hide under the hood."
Moving even more sluggishly, Richter latched the hood. He used a mirror mounted on a pole to look under the car, then walked to the cross arm, a red and white bar with a counterbalance. Even his words were slow. "Please proceed, General."
The Horch shot forward, trailing curses like exhaust. Richter joined the corporal in a laugh. The truck neared the checkpoint. Richter was able to pass several more refugees through, and then the truck arrived at the crossbar. It was an Opel Blitz two-axle vehicle with an enclosed bed.
Richter stood on the running board to ask the driver for his documents. The corporal was on the other side of the truck, and another guard positioned himself at the rear. The checkpoint guards had been ordered to bracket all trucks so no one would be able to escape.
As he passed his papers and his cargo manifest through the window, the driver asked, "You looking for anybody in particular?" He had a Swabian accent, which to Berliners sounds lisping.
Richter returned the papers. "Not you. Your ears stick out too much and you're about a foot too short."
The driver smiled thinly. "I guess a lad carrying a submachine gun is allowed to have a smart mouth."
"Your cargo doors locked?"
The driver shook his head.
While one of his men searched the truck's underside with the mirror, Richter went to the back of the truck, where the guard there lifted his rifle to cover the sergeant. Richter lifted the hasp and pulled open the doors. The cargo was beef carcasses, hung from rods in two rows. The carcasses were still swaying from the truck's stop. They dripped blood from their butchering. They hung there, teasingly rocking on their hooks, five tons of meat not seen by most Germans in two years.
Gasps came from the refugees. Several stepped toward the truck. The guard moved his rifle to the ragged crowd.
"My God, look at all the beef." came from someone in the crowd.
"Enough to feed a village."
"Another load for Wilhelmstrasse?" came from another refugee. Wilhelmstrasse was Berlin's diplomatic and government quarter.