by Andy Marino
Max tensed. This checkpoint was huge—there were several lanes of vehicles, and at least two dozen guards. Not to mention the German shepherds, a pair of machine-gun emplacements, and a thick striped barrier—ACHTUNG. It wasn’t some isolated posting in the woods. Albert would be cut down before he could draw his gun, and then the rest of them would be dragged from the car and hauled back to Germany. If they weren’t simply killed in the crossfire.
“Is there a problem?” Albert said.
The SS man sighed. “If I’m being honest, I have a quota to fill. I’ll need to run a formal check on your papers.”
“I see,” Albert said. “The problem is, I’m due back in Paris immediately, and I don’t have time to wait for you to call this in. So. I propose we come to some sort of arrangement and settle this immediately.”
He reached into his pocket and produced a thick roll of Reichsmarks. The SS man glanced over his shoulder at the concrete blockhouse on the side of the highway, then turned back to Albert. He leaned close to the open window and kept his voice low.
“We both know those will be worthless in a few months.”
Mutti stretched her arm across the front seat and held out a silver bracelet. Max recognized it as the one Papa had given her on their anniversary in the last year before the war.
Wordlessly, Albert took the bracelet and handed it to the SS man, who closed one eye and examined it closely for a moment. Then he slid it into his pocket.
“Move along.” He stepped back from the car and waved to the blockhouse. The barrier went up. Albert shifted, and the car eased forward, and they put the checkpoint behind them.
“Thank you, Renate,” Albert said after a long silence.
“Karl would have wanted me to put it to good use,” she said.
“That guy was the oldest soldier I’ve ever seen,” Max said.
Albert laughed. “That’s because all the young ones who spent the war occupying France have been transferred to the Eastern Front. They went from the cushiest job in the Reich—hanging around the cafés in Paris—to the most miserable posting in the world.”
Albert didn’t sound like he sympathized. Max settled back against the seat, keeping an eye out for anything remotely interesting in the wooded darkness of eastern France. All he saw were some road signs in French, along with a few hastily posted signs for the German occupiers, pointing out the way to Paris.
Traffic was thin. The Škoda ate up the highway. After a while, Albert slowed and pulled off onto a bumpy cobblestone path that was clearly not meant for an automobile.
“We’ll stop here for the night,” he announced. Max was about to ask him where exactly here was, when the path took a sharp turn up a slight incline and the headlights moved across a row of tightly packed cottages. They were the color of creamy confections, topped with chimneys and shingled rooftops. Neat shutters of pale green and blue covered the windows.
There was something different about this little village, something Max couldn’t quite put his finger on. For the first time since they’d crossed the border, he felt like he was truly in France.
The street was empty. Albert eased the car slowly past a narrow bridge, across a thin trickle of a stream, then came to a stop in front of a large stone house with a pair of chimneys. The brick stacks rose from opposite ends of the roof. A sign above the door said AUBERGE.
“It’s an inn,” Max said, recognizing the word.
“I hope they have a room,” Gerta said. “I’m so tired of sitting up in this seat.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry,” Albert said grimly. “They’ll have a room for us.” Max understood what he meant. A village in occupied France had better show some hospitality to a high-ranking Gestapo agent and his family.
A moment later, they were all stretching their legs outside the car. Max’s body felt coiled and stiff. Kat put her hands on her hips and leaned back. Max winced as the bones in her back audibly cracked.
Inside the auberge, there was a small anteroom with a pair of worn leather chairs and a desk with a stack of papers and a silver bell. Albert brought his palm down on the bell, and a shrill chime rang out. A moment later, a young woman in a sauce-stained apron came bustling through a swinging door. The smile on her face faded as soon as she saw her new guests, but she replaced it in a flash—except now it looked strained.
“Hello,” she said in heavily accented German. “I am Adele. I am sorry, but my German is not good.”
Albert replied in rapid French. Her eyes widened. She wiped her hands on her apron and hurried behind the desk. Max tried to make out what Albert was saying, but he spoke too fast. Still, he was able to catch a few basic words: hungry, tired, food, room.
Adele replied in what sounded to Max like total gibberish. He was completely lost. Reading a few theater programs had not prepared him for the reality of the spoken language. She gestured toward the swinging door and fixed another strained smile to her face.
Albert turned to the Hoffmanns and Kat.
“The restaurant is closed, but she will make us some food. After that, we will have a pair of adjoining rooms. And hot water.”
Adele called out “Colette!” and a moment later a girl burst through the swinging door. She was about Max’s age, with a high forehead, delicate features, and severely straight raven-colored hair. She took one look at the new guests and her expression curdled into pure disgust. Then she caught herself and gave a slight bow. Before she went to speak to her mother, she snuck another glance and met Max’s eyes. She jutted her chin out slightly, and the mixture of fear and defiance in her face made him turn away in shame. He felt his forehead getting warm, and he knew his cheeks were flushed. He could feel every fiber and stitch of the Hitler Youth uniform. He wanted to shout at the girl Colette—this isn’t me, it’s just a disguise. I hate the Nazis as much as you do! He could feel the words on the tip of his tongue, and for a single reckless moment, he teetered on the edge of actually opening his mouth. But he forced himself under control. He would leave this village in the morning and never see these people again—who cared what they thought of him?
And yet, as Colette beckoned for them all to follow her through the swinging door, Max’s shame clawed at his mind. The way the girl and her mother looked at Albert—and at Max—made it easy to see the revulsion churning beneath their polite and deferential demeanors. What had the Nazi occupiers done to the people of this village? Had the men been killed or sent away to the camps?
As Colette led them into a small dining room decorated like a hunting lodge, with mounted antlers jutting from the wall and exposed beams crossing the peaked ceiling, Max wondered if any of the real Nazis felt this horrible when they met the people of their conquered territories. Surely not all Nazis wore the uniform with pride. Yet neither did they strip it off in shame. Elke’s words came back to him: Most of our fellow Germans made the choice to stand with the Nazis … they have made the easy choice.
Colette beckoned for them to sit at a table made from a rough-hewn slab of wood polished to a fine sheen. She hastily plunked down rolled cloth napkins and silverware. Seated across from Max, Gerta and Kat looked equally miserable. Albert flashed a stern look at each of them in turn, which Max interpreted as a warning—act like you’re proud of yourselves.
Colette retreated to the kitchen. Through the door, Max could hear the rattling of pots and pans. A moment later Adele bustled over to the table with a bottle of red wine and a handful of glasses clutched by their stems. She poured full glasses for Albert and Mutti, then splashed a little in the remaining three glasses for Max, Gerta, and Kat.
Albert thanked her, then took off his driving gloves and lifted his glass. “Prost,” he said. Mutti lifted her glass and repeated the traditional German toast.
Kat gulped her wine down eagerly, made a face, then tried to pretend it had gone smoothly. Gerta pushed her glass across the table toward Max.
“You can have mine,” she said wearily. Max left both glasses untouched. Papa had given him a s
ip of wine at Christmas, and Max nearly spat it out. He didn’t understand how people drank the stuff, and had a suspicion that most grown-ups were just pretending to like it.
He tugged at his collar. He was starving, but would forsake dinner completely if it meant he could go straight upstairs and take off the uniform. He was about to ask if he could be excused when Colette burst through the kitchen door with plates stacked precariously on her arms. She set them down on the table. There was beef stewed in what looked like more red wine and a pile of potato croquettes. Adele came right behind her, dropping off a tray of colorful roasted vegetables.
“Rationing isn’t as strict out here in the country as it is in the cities,” Albert said in German. “Eat up. It might be the last good meal you’ll have for a while.”
He speared a big slice of beef and transferred it to his plate. Max did the same, and then scooped up some potatoes, too. He was about to dig in when he spied Colette watching him through the half-open kitchen door. As soon as he caught her eye, she vanished. The heat returned to his face, and when he went back to his food, he found that he’d lost his appetite.
After a troubled sleep, Max’s eyes snapped open. His bedroom in the auberge was very dark. Albert’s measured breathing came from the room’s second bed, while Mutti, Gerta, and Kat shared the adjoining room. It took a moment for Max to realize what had torn him from sleep: noises from the inn’s first floor, directly underneath the bedroom. Men speaking German, muffled laughter, and then an outburst in French.
Adele, Max thought, sitting up in bed. He held his breath and listened. He couldn’t make out the words, but it was clear by the pitch of her voice that she was in distress. Another peal of laughter and a dull thud—the sound of something striking a wall—sent Max out of bed, fumbling in the dark for his knapsack. Quickly, he pulled on his trousers and an undershirt and crept barefoot from the room, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. He paused in the corridor.
“This champagne is swill!” one of the German men said. “Bring us something better.”
“Maybe she’d like to try it herself?” a second German asked, laughing.
Adele protested in French. Then he heard Colette cry, “Arrêtez!”—stop!
Max hurried to the top of the stairs and peered over the railing, down into the auberge’s front room. Adele was sitting in one of the worn leather chairs. Looming over her were two uniformed SS men. One had his hand clamped down on her shoulder, trapping her in the chair. The other held an open bottle of champagne above her head.
“Open up!” he said, tilting the bottle.
Colette rushed at the man. He struck out with his empty hand and dealt the girl a glancing blow that staggered her. Adele cried out.
Without thinking, Max bounded down the stairs. A red haze obscured the edges of his vision. The champagne bottle paused in its tilt as the soldier turned in surprise. Max hit the bottom of the stairs, sprinted at the man, and knocked the bottle from his hand.
Time slowed. Colette’s wide eyes found his.
The bottle shattered, splashing the desk with fizzy liquid. The room erupted into frenzied movement. The soldier took his hand from Adele’s shoulder and aimed a wild swing at Max. Adele sprang from the chair, scooped up Colette, and pulled her toward a corner of the room, out of the fray. Max ducked away from the incoming fist and felt the air whoosh past his face. The smell of alcohol, roasted meat, and sour sweat hung heavily about the soldiers. The second SS man actually laughed, harsh and gruff. He moved behind Max, between the leather chairs and the kitchen door.
The man who had swung and missed regained his balance and squared up to face this boy who’d rudely interrupted his evening’s sport. He was young and broad-shouldered, blond haired and blue eyed, sprung fully formed from the Nazi mold of Hitler’s dreams. Max was breathing hard. As the blond man eyed him with contempt, a smile played at the corners of his lips. Max realized that his drunken sport wasn’t ruined, it was just changed. There was a new game afoot. The man curled his fingers into fists, then splayed them wide.
“How do you say stupid boy in French?” he asked his friend.
“My father’s in the Gestapo!” Max blurted out. His perfect native German clearly startled the soldier, who glanced at his friend, puzzled. “He’s a kriminaldirektor and he’s right upstairs and if you know what’s good for you you’ll leave right now or he’ll have you sent to a camp!”
“He’s lying,” said the soldier standing by the kitchen door.
“He is German, though,” the first man said. “What are you doing here, boy?”
Reality caught up with Max in a fierce rush—he was an unarmed barefoot boy facing down two drunken SS men with pistols holstered at their sides. He had charged in like Kat with her rocks, and now he was trapped. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Adele shielding Colette, who peeked out from behind her mother.
“Get out of here,” Max said, his voice cracking. “And leave these people alone.”
“Go back up to your room, boy, and mind your own business,” the SS man said. He swayed slightly on his feet. He was dull-witted and stubborn with drink. There would be no persuading him.
Max glanced at Colette. The only thing to do was double down on his bluff. “The Führer will hear about this,” he said.
There was a brief pause. Then the two men burst into braying, uncontrollable laughter. Max realized he’d taken things too far, making an absurd claim.
“Go ahead and tell him, then!” the first man said.
“I’ll get him on the phone right now,” the second man said, doubling over in laughter.
“Herr Bormann will wake him up for this, surely!”
Max’s heart pounded. The situation had become impossible. Who knew how many more Nazis were prowling around this little village? There might be a dozen more of them right outside the front door of the auberge. He had put Albert and his entire family in danger, but he couldn’t have watched the soldiers torment Adele and Colette from the top of the stairs and crept back to his bedroom without doing anything about it.
And yet what had he really done, in the end?
Here was the price of brave choices.
“Step away from my son.” The icy command came from the bottom of the stairs. The SS men whirled around. Albert stood there, impeccably dressed, fixing a stony glare on the two soldiers. (Had he slept in his clothes? Max wondered. They weren’t even wrinkled.) Albert flashed his silver Gestapo badge in his palm—an eagle holding a wreathed swastika in its talons.
“Your son interfered in SS business,” the man said, folding his arms.
“What business is that?” Albert said, glancing at the smashed champagne bottle. “Behaving like animals in this woman’s home? We are not Russian dogs. We are Germans. The French are our cousins. Act accordingly.”
He pocketed his badge and drew himself up to his full imposing height. Max never ceased to be amazed at how Albert could radiate authority as if it were activated by a switch he could flip on and off. “Get out of here. Don’t bother these people again.”
Chastened, the young soldier gathered up his cap, which had fallen at the foot of the chair. The two men composed their faces into blank masks and headed for the door.
Max let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He’d half expected Albert to burst into the room with fists and blades flailing. But of course it was much less dangerous to defuse the situation and maintain their cover.
There was a blur of movement from the corner of the room, and Max turned in time to see Colette step out from behind her mother’s back. Her head darted, quick as a snake, toward the first SS man. A huge glob of spit landed on his silver-buttoned breast pocket.
For a moment, nobody moved. Then two things happened at once: the SS man reached for the pistol at his side, and Albert crossed the room in three quick steps, knocking the man’s hand away from the holster.
There was to be no more talking. The SS man swung his fist at Albert, who dodge
d it easily, grabbed the man’s arm, and pinned it behind his back, holding him fast. Then he slammed him up against the wall.
Before Max could warn Albert, the second SS man—moving astonishingly fast—drew a small knife from his boot and sank it into Albert’s upper back, just below his shoulder blade. Albert grunted, drove an elbow into the second man’s face, then slammed the first man’s forehead into the wall. Both SS men went down. The one Colette had spat on lay perfectly still, while the second man cupped his hands around his nose as blood sluiced between his fingers.
Albert delivered a swift, vicious kick to the man’s jaw. His head snapped back, and he flopped bonelessly onto the floor.
“Max,” Albert said calmly, kneeling and turning his back, “would you mind pulling this out?”
Max blinked. The black handle of the blade protruded from the muscle just to the left of Albert’s spine.
“You want me to—”
“Yes,” Albert said. “With some urgency, if you wouldn’t mind.”
As Max steeled himself and reached for the knife, Adele began to usher Colette toward the kitchen door. Albert barked at her in rapid French, and she stopped. Albert explained something that Max could only half understand. Adele and Colette nodded along nervously, then rushed through the swinging door.
“Max,” Albert said.
Max gripped the warm hilt of the blade. He thought he’d read somewhere that you weren’t supposed to pull a knife from a wound, you were just supposed to leave it alone until a doctor could—
He shook his head. There would be no doctor.
“Steady,” Albert said. Max took a deep breath, let it out, and yanked the knife from Albert’s back. It slid out surprisingly smoothly, and then Max found himself holding a knife with a squat little triangle of a blade. There was a small swastika inscribed in the blade near the hilt, the grooves of the Nazi symbol red with blood.
“Thank you,” Albert said, getting to his feet. Max handed over the knife and eyed the fallen SS men. They were sprawled on the floor, unconscious. A moment later, Adele and Colette came back into the room carrying cloth napkins and a roll of gauze that unfurled behind them like a parade streamer. Albert gave more commands in French, and Adele began to help him unbutton his shirt.
