AbrakaPOW

by Isaiah Campbell

  It may have that day.

  “The FBI is coming?” Mrs. Larousse asked.

  “Yes, and they’re already asking all the worst questions,” Major Larousse said.

  “Like?”

  “Like if we have any idea how they got the map, or if anyone saw anything suspicious beforehand.”

  “She’s eleven, Larry,” Mrs. Larousse said. “I’m sure they’ll understand.”

  “She’s my daughter,” he said. “I’m sure they won’t.”

  They both held their silent position as they sipped their tea. Max stayed behind the door, feeling more and more like a criminal. And an idiot. A criminally idiotic girl. She did not enjoy that feeling.

  “Well, I guess you just need to catch them, then, don’t you?” Mrs. Larousse said.

  “I don’t even want to think about the alternative,” the major said. “This is the sort of thing that can end a career. It’s the sort of thing people go to prison over.”

  “They’re not going to send Max to prison,” Mrs. Larousse said.

  “I wasn’t talking about Max,” he said.

  “I know,” she said. “I was being funny. You’re overreacting.”

  He stood and put his cup in the sink. “I need to go back in. We’ve still got a lot of ground to cover and we don’t have any idea where to start looking.”

  Max ducked into the hallway as Major Larousse hurried out the front door and drove away. Mrs. Larousse quietly stirred her tea in the kitchen, exuding anxiety now that she was free to do so.

  Max snuck back outside and went down the stairs again.

  “Okay,” she said to Felix. “I’ll be the servante. Just tell me what we need to do.”

  If anyone would have walked past the storm cellar in the hour that followed, they would have heard a great deal of whispering and arguing over plans and props. They would have heard Eric blurt something about magnets and fireworks, or Shoji bemoan the fact that his mother was going to kill him. They probably would have also heard the low voice of Felix, repeatedly reminding them that they only had until sundown to get everything into place.

  What they would not have heard, though, was the sound of Max’s heart pounding in her chest, even though she would have been surprised that it wasn’t loud enough.

  THE AMAZING MAX AND HER GREMLINS were about to go chasing the Nazis.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The sun had barely dipped under the horizon as four men in dingy gray jumpsuits ducked through the tree cover that was just a few feet away from the highway. They were on the outskirts of a small town called Tuscola—at least that was what the map in their hands told them. They were ahead of schedule.

  “Are you sure there will be a car?” Gerhard, whose face was long and his forehead high, said to the others in German.

  “I trust Felix,” Blaz said, also in German. To save time, let it be known that, for the rest of their conversation, the German people will be speaking in German.

  “Do you trust that girl?” Joschim, Blaz’s sidekick with a beard, asked.

  “I have learned to never underestimate American girls,” Blaz said. “She may be completely trustworthy, or she may be fully deceptive. But, whichever she is, we have no other choice.” He nodded at Heinz, the man with the scar. “How far away are we?”

  “If the map is to scale,” Heinz said, “ten kilometers, I believe. Or fifteen.”

  Gerhard held a canteen out to Blaz. Blaz took it and drank from it, ravenously. “If the car is not there, what then?” Gerhard asked.

  “Then we continue,” Blaz said. “South to the border. Continue at all costs.”

  They watched the last few rays of the sun disappear completely before they resumed their hike. They moved through the trees along the highway and over the hill, where they could see the lights of Tuscola blinking on ahead of them. Heinz pointed toward the road and they headed in that direction.

  They moved with caution, watching for any sign of headlights as they continued following the highway. Finally, just as it had been promised to them, they came along to a car parked on the shoulder. Blaz opened the driver’s-side door and the keys fell out at his feet. He laughed and slapped Heinz on the back.

  “I told you we could trust dear Felix,” he said. “Hurry, get in. We’ll be in Mexico by morning.”

  The men were happy to see that there was little difference between the American car they were stealing and the fine German autos they were used to driving. They settled in and prepared themselves to finally relax in the cushy seats as they began the last leg of their trip. Blaz checked for oncoming traffic before he drove away and was able to put his mind at ease. There was nobody to be seen that could inhibit their travels—none for miles. This was only true, however, because he failed to glance over at the bushes, where he would have seen a large boy doing a terrible job at hiding.

  When they passed an abandoned truck, Blaz reminded himself how easily the best-laid plans can go wrong, and so he proceeded with the utmost caution. They drove through Tuscola, doing everything they could to avoid garnering attention. They were almost 100 percent successful. It was only when they passed through Ballinger, about fifty kilometers later, that someone found their passage suspicious.

  It was a thin Japanese woman, stepping out of the Palace Theater with her son, looking for the other children who had accompanied them to the movie. None of the men in the car noticed her, but she certainly noticed them. This was proven by her voice, which rang out after they were out of earshot and she had moved past the shock, “That’s my car! That’s my car!”

  Once they were outside the city limits, they increased their speed and hoped to put as many miles between themselves and Camp Barkeley as possible. Blaz stretched. “We are on our way home, my boys.”

  Suddenly, about ten kilometers ahead, a ghostly figure appeared in the center of their headlights, glowing pale-white in the light, with an eye patch on his face and a lit match in his hand. He also, though no one in the car noticed, held a magnet with a string attached to it.

  Blaz yanked the wheel and swerved to miss the ghost boy, who disappeared at the last minute. In saving the life of the apparition, or whatever it had been, Blaz grabbed a hidden cellophane pouch that was taped to the steering wheel. The contents oozed out onto his hands and he could discern from the smell that it was engine grease.

  Before he could ask one of the other men to take the wheel, the air outside the car erupted in the sound of gunfire. Or possibly bombs. Or, if they had really thought about the sound, fireworks.

  Blaz attempted to zigzag to avoid whatever trap they had driven into, but his hands were too slick to steer with precision, and whichever way he went, the gunfire followed them. Wider and wider he swerved and sent them flying across the road, back and forth between all the lanes, all to no avail in avoiding the bombs. It was almost as if the noisemakers were attached to the car.

  Heinz leaped over the seat. “I’ll take the wheel,” he said and proceeded to find his hands also covered in grease. Still, together, they got the car back under control and the gunfire stopped.

  This would have ended their ordeal if something in the woods ahead hadn’t started reflecting their own headlights back into their eyes, making it so they couldn’t even see the road. Gerhard reached his hand over to grab the wheel, Blaz jammed his foot on the brake, and they spun out of control and straight into a ditch.

  It was only then that they heard the siren of the police car behind them.

  Blaz and his men jumped out of the car and started to run into the woods, but the police car screeched to a stop and an officer jumped out, gun already pulled. “You boys stop or I’ll shoot you.”

  The other doors of the police car opened and the Japanese woman and her son emerged. “That’s it,” she said. “That’s my car.”

  “Boy, I guess that’s the last time we go see a movie in Ballinger, huh, Mom?” her son said.

  The officer squinted at the men. “Hey, those jumpsuits y’all got on? Oh my L
ord, these are some of them escaped prisoners!”

  Blaz looked at his comrades. They were already down on their knees, hands raised in surrender.

  Disgusting, he thought. He closed his eyes, counted to three, and then ran as fast as he could for the tree line.

  The officer fired.

  Blaz ducked behind a tree and the bullet hit the bark. Blaz continued running into the darkness, not looking back.

  Which was fortunate, because if he had, he would have seen an eleven-year-old magician, holding a mirror, hiding in a bush.

  A truck that had once been abandoned near Tuscola drove along the road and flashed its lights, which went unnoticed by the police officer because he was far too busy becoming a hero for capturing the escaped Nazis. Max snuck farther up the road to where the truck had stopped and jumped into the back with Eric. Carl turned around and hurried them back to the theater so they could telephone Mrs. Larousse to pick them up, seeing as Mrs. Jingu was too busy dealing with the police over a matter of a stolen car to drive the children home at a respectable hour.

  Carl departed only after Max and Eric assured him Mrs. Jingu wouldn’t find it odd that he had disappeared, particularly after she’d picked him up like a forlorn hitchhiker hours earlier in Tuscola, two miles away from where he had parked his truck and two and a half miles away from where he later parked her car. Max was surprised he wasn’t more concerned with the auto theft he’d committed, but then again, what were escaped Nazi prisoners for if not the perfect scapegoats?

  By the time Mrs. Larousse returned with Max and Eric to their driveway in Abilene, the news had already spread across town. The morning edition headline the next day told anyone who had missed the gossip that night: Three of the escaped prisoners had been recaptured.

  And wasn’t it funny how silly those Nazis were, driving straight into a ditch and not even trying to run?

  Oh yes, America is going to win the war for sure.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “I hope nobody looks in my storm cellar. Or reads this diary, I guess.”

  —Max’s Diary, Thursday, March 30, 1944

  And the cowards gave up without a fight,’” Mrs. Conrad read from the paper in class to start the day. “‘Finding the advanced machinery of an American automobile to be too complicated for their understanding, they showed their true colors and gladly returned to the warmth and security of the prison gates. Hitler’s home cooking must be no match for good old American prison food.’”

  The kids in the class laughed and Max felt a surge of pride, as though they were enjoying a performance that she was putting on for them. Which, in a way, they were.

  Judy raised her hand.

  Mrs. Conrad continued reading.

  Judy rolled her eyes and cleared her throat. “Mrs. Conrad?”

  Their teacher stopped and glared at her through her glasses. “Please raise your hand next time.”

  “Yes ma’am,” Judy said. “I’m just curious, does the article tell the names of the prisoners who were captured?”

  Mrs. Conrad peered at the paper. “No,” she said.

  “Can you check again?” Judy asked.

  The class gasped. Thanks to her nearsightedness, Mrs. Conrad’s reading skills were her only superpower. She probably wouldn’t have noticed if a circus marched through the classroom, but she never missed even the tiniest punctuation mark.

  “Perhaps you’d like to check it yourself?” Mrs. Conrad sneered.

  Judy stood. “That would be great, actually.” She stepped forward and took the paper out of Mrs. Conrad’s hands.

  Mrs. Conrad, a look of pure rage on her face, drummed her fingers on the desk while Judy read the article for herself. When Judy handed the paper back to her, she clicked her tongue. “Well?”

  “No, it didn’t say,” Judy said. “I thought the newspapers were supposed to tell all the news.”

  “Why on earth do you need to know the names of the prisoners?” Mrs. Conrad asked.

  Judy, apparently only then realizing that she was the center of some unwanted attention from the entire room, began to stammer. “I just— I guess I was— I don’t know. I’m just curious.”

  “That’s the kind of curiosity that will send you straight to the principal’s office.”

  “Yes ma’am,” Judy said and returned to her seat. But Mrs. Conrad wasn’t done.

  “No, young lady. You need to bridle that sort of curiosity. What business is it of yours what the prisoners are named ? Do you intend to send them a sympathy card?”

  Judy dropped her head. “No ma’am.”

  “Do you want to bake them a cake?”

  “No ma’am.”

  “Are you related to one of them?”

  Before Judy could respond with yet another humble response, someone from the back of the room answered for her.

  “She wants to know if her boyfriend got caught,” Lola yelled.

  Judy spun around. “You shut up!” she yelled.

  “Girls, girls,” Mrs. Conrad said. “There is no need for—”

  “Why?” Lola yelled again. “You don’t want anyone to know that you’re in love with a Nazi?”

  “I said shut up!” Judy said. “And let’s not start talking about who loves who.”

  “Girls! That is enough,” Mrs. Conrad said as she stood.

  “Why not, Nazi-lover?” Lola said, also standing.

  “’Cause then I might have to tell everybody that you’re in love with girls!” Judy screamed across the room.

  Lola picked up her pencil sharpener and threw it at Judy’s head. “You’re a dirty, rotten liar!”

  Judy ducked, grabbed her English textbook, and sent it flying at Lola. “At least I’m not a girl lover!” she screamed.

  Mrs. Conrad moved like lightning and fastened her fingers onto Judy’s ear. “Lola, you come here this instant. You’re both going to the principal’s office for this vile, sinful behavior.”

  Lola dropped the pencils she had been aiming at Judy’s eyes and dragged her feet to stand at Mrs. Conrad’s other hand, with which Mrs. Conrad promptly pinched Lola’s ear and pulled both girls out into the hall.

  Mrs. Conrad asked the custodian to come in and watch the class. He was an older man, too old to serve in the military, and so treated this task as though it was a mission from President Roosevelt himself. There was no horseplay or trickery under his watch, and the hours until lunch ticked by slower than ever before. Even when Mrs. Conrad returned, he volunteered to sit off to the side as a service to her, God, and country. She—more frazzled than she’d been since the stock market crash fifteen years prior—accepted his offer, and the entire class wished they were dead.

  Once the lunch bell rang, Max hurried out to the shed, ready to share the play-by-play of the Battle of Judy and Lola. When she got there, the boys were busy rehashing the escapades of Operation Drive the Nazis Crazy. All in all, it made for a very entertaining meal.

  It was Carl who finally ended the fun. “Hey, how do we know Felix is still in the cellar?”

  “We tied him up, remember?” Max said with a bit of condescension in her voice.

  “Yeah, but if he knows magic and such so well, he might have gotten loose.”

  Max and Shoji shared a worried glance. “How good are your knots?” Shoji asked.

  “Oh, I tied ’em real good,” Carl said. “I used my best hog-tying knots. But still.”

  “I’d almost be more worried if he didn’t get loose,” Eric said with a chuckle. “I mean, we didn’t leave him any food or water, and who knows how long it’s been since he drank anything.”

  They all froze at the gravity of his statement.

  “Gosh, what if he’s dead?” Shoji asked.

  Max felt a lump in her throat. “You guys need to go check on him. Now.”

  The boys rushed to hop on their bicycles and took off toward the storm cellar of death. Which left Max alone to return to class and deal with the moral implications of killing a Nazi and hiding him in yo
ur backyard.

  Thankfully, Lola and Judy were returned to class after what must have been the most apocalyptic principal’s lecture and swatting of all time. Neither of them looked like they had come out unscathed. Judy refused to speak to anyone. Meanwhile, everyone refused to speak to Lola.

  After school was over, Max rushed to get in line for the bus. She could picture the boys digging a hole to deposit Felix’s body, and she needed to make sure they dug it deep enough.

  Lola caught her before she went out the door. “Can I come to your house? My mamaw’s really mad at me ’cause the principal called her. The longer I can stay away from her, the better.”

  Max noticed several kids staring at them and whispering. She instinctively took a step back from Lola. “Sure, you can come over and we can play in the yard or something,” she said.

  Lola’s face dropped. “Please don’t tell me you actually believe stupid Judy.”

  “Of course I don’t,” Max said, then remembered Lola’s gift for smelling a lie. Max closed her eyes and made herself eradicate any inkling she might have been harboring that inclined her to believe the worst human alive over the Gremlin’s personified conscience. She opened her eyes. “Honestly. I wouldn’t believe Judy if we were in a thunderstorm and she told me there were clouds in the sky.”

  Lola smiled. “Thanks.”

  To show her sincerity, Max pulled Lola into a hug. Then, to show the gawking kids her opinion of them, Max introduced them to “The Rigid Digit,” which was a common hand gesture in Brooklyn but might not have translated into Texan. Judging from their shock and giggling, the message rang through loud and clear.

  Max decided that it would be advantageous for them to forego the bus ride and walk to her house. When they arrived, Max saw that there was still a bicycle parked in the backyard.

  “Is Shoji here?” Lola asked as they walked up to the front door.

  “Looks like it,” Max said, realizing that Lola’s presence and the promise Max had made to her the day before were going to make things difficult, particularly since she was so anxious to know if Felix was still among the living. “Hey, why don’t you go get Houdini out of his cage and I’ll go see if Shoji’s in the backyard.”