The Losing Role

by Steve Anderson

  Max shrugged. In German, the word “Ami” was slang for an American. He thought it boorish and never used it. Now he’d use whatever it took. “Not exactly,” he said. “The Amis are persistent, to be sure, but not in that way. Especially in New York. They won’t listen to reason. They follow their own paths, I suppose. But the longer you’re there, the less you know . . . ”

  A moment of silence crept in. They all knew less these days.

  “You mentioned success,” Pielau said. “Did you find it?”

  “Let’s just say I’m still looking,” Max said. Stalling. Thinking. They were offering him some kind of opening, and he sure as hell would take it. Yet to come up with a plan, he would have to survive first. He knew what he had to do, for now. He’d pull out all the stops. The Nazis liked a show. Bombast was their milieu.

  “Gentlemen, if I may say something?” Max said.

  “Go on.”

  Max stood and met the eyes of all, fists at his sides. He let one knee wobble, in anger. “I hate America,” he said. “I despise her. It. It knows no culture. It breeds contempt for others. It’s a bourgeois wasteland of fat cats and unruly sheep. This all threatens the National Socialist ideal. The only threat worse is Communism. May the two rot in hell. So if I can help make that happen faster, I stand ready.” The lieutenants nodded. Max turned to Pielau, clicked his heels, gave the Hitler salute and practically threw his arm out doing so.

  Pielau gave a half-salute. “Fine, admirable. I’m sure you’ll have your chance. Our intrepid commander—code name, Doktor Solar—will need such enthusiasm from all of us on this mission. We’re all a part of this now.”

  So Pielau was jumping on the bandwagon. Smart man, the captain. Anka should have been this smart. “So, you speak English too,” Max added in English.

  Pielau stared. He nodded, and then began to shake his head—

  “Ach, but of course, you do,” Max blurted in German, helping the poor soul out. He turned to Rattner. “And you too, I suppose,” he continued in English—

  Rattner snorted a laugh. “Speaking of tongues, I bet you’d like to know about the guards here?” he said in German, changing the subject with as much skill as a rhino diving into a creek. “They’re Ukrainian SS. Don’t speak German well enough to know what’s what. You see? We don’t want our guards knowing a thing, going into town, getting too full of beers or brandy and spilling the beans. Now do we?”

  “You don’t trust your own men, sir?” Max said.

  “That we will soon find out.” As Lieutenant Rattner spoke, Max glanced at Pielau. The way Pielau’s flabby jowl had tightened up, it was clear whom the lieutenant was addressing.

  That evening, Captain Pielau sent for Max. Pielau met him outside on the parade ground alone. Max saluted and the captain clicked his heels. Pielau was smiling, his teeth glowing in the moonlight. He lit cigarettes for them. He handed one to Max.

  “Let me tell you the greatest secret. Doktor Solar? Our commander? He is none other than SS Lieutenant Colonel Otto Skorzeny. You have heard of him, yes?”

  “Of course. The man is a legend.” Max didn’t want to know. Surely, this was top secret.

  “So I must warn you. What you said to me about fleeing to the Western Front? You must never say it to anyone again. Especially not here.”

  What about divulging top secrets to enlisted men? How did that fit in? Max shuddered, but it wasn’t from the cold. He grimaced and hoped it was a smile.

  “I mean it, Kaspar. Less astute SS officers would have had you shot for less.”

  “Rattner, for example. So I should thank you.” Max clicked his heels.

  Pielau stomped. “This is no joke. The war can change now. I can see how it can.” He grasped at Max’s wrist, his voice rising. “There are new weapons. The grandest plans. And we, here, are a part of that. We can win this. I tell you we can. When will you understand it?”

  Max pried Pielau’s hand from his wrist and stood back, locking eyes with the captain. “Oh, I understand, dear Pielau. I understand all too well.” His cigarette hung from his lips, a cold dead stem. It had already gone out.

  Three

  October passed into November. In the west the Americans entered Germany and took Aachen. This once-grand city—the seat of Charlemagne—was reduced to rubble and thousands of Germans surrendered after the bloody fight. In the east the Red Army kept closing in, raping and killing German civilians along the way according to rumors—the bitterest revenge in full blossom, while in the south the Allies crept up from Southern France and Northern Italy. A sinister end was nearing in Germany, and you didn’t need the BBC to grasp it. Old men were called up and issued bazookas. On street corners, the burghers wrung their hands and promised each other wonder weapons that were sure to turn the black tide.

  In Grafenwöhr the snow fell early and piled up—never a pretty sight when you’re in the army. Banks of icy and rock-laden brown snow lined the roads and the barren fields became pristine white tracts, a quicksand that swallowed men up to their crotches. The forests were no friend either. One nudge of the branches from man or bird or wind made the cold whiteness reign down in piles. Against it all, Max’s old uniform was little protection, and he wasn’t able to score a new one. SS Lieutenant Rattner told him he’d have no use for it soon.

  As the dark days wore on, the lieutenants preached secrecy like missionaries the gospel. No one spoke of the code name Doktor Solar, so Max kept Captain Pielau’s blathering to himself. The captain’s gossip habit would have to stop, Max knew. The penalty was too high. This Doktor Solar had to be receiving orders from the highest level. Who else could call in German soldiers from all over the Reich? Surely the Führer was head producer, possibly even playwright.

  The script they were writing had a clever angle, Max had to admit. The officers encouraged and even ordered the men to speak among themselves in whatever English they knew. It was fast becoming clear that theirs was a military operation that relied on one cheap motif—any knowledge of American English.

  The snow didn’t stall the hustle and bustle of Grafenwöhr. Hordes of soldiers were arriving by the day, and Captain Pielau confided in Max that they had close to 1,500 men. The place had become a giant rehearsal for portraying US Army life. They got US Army Field Manuals and learned American tactics, such as how to turn when ordered, raise a weapon, march. The hardest part was adopting the casualness with which Americans did almost everything. Standing “at ease” in the US Army was not a less stiff form of attention but rather slouching with your hands clasped behind the back. Americans smiled when they talked, even when at ease. And their speech? The hard Rs were toughest to sound out. Only the handful raised in America had it down. The rest complained that the Amis chewed on their words and the constant hard Rs made every sentence sound like this: “Are, are, are, are . . .”

  Worse still, few in camp had been near the front lines, even fewer had seen combat, and yet their combat training was now being rushed (a very un-German thing). It was as if the army were sending out snipers who’d never shot a rifle before—as if it were opening night and the actors had not memorized one line. Yet the soldiers around Max showed the same childlike fervor as the burghers on the street. He hadn’t seen this much frenzy since he performed at a League of German Women rally. Even the ones raised in America believed Germany could still win the war. Did they not see the vast industrial might of America and her still untapped reserves of men and spirit? America simply dwarfed Germany, Max wanted to remind them, and that was all that mattered in the end. Yet he held his tongue. And bided the time.

  One evening they were showing a double feature with Betty Grable and Lana Turner and the barracks was near empty. Max reclined on his bottom bunk reading prewar American magazines, thumbing through Colliers and The New Yorker for mention of productions he’d auditioned for. Felix Menning was up on his top bunk. In the far corner, a group of Luftwaffe privates was playing cards. Apart from them, no one else was in the barracks. Max had been wondering if th
is little misfit Aussenseiter Felix was a man he might be able to confide in? A man he could trust? Were there even any left? He flipped the pages of a Life magazine, skimming the photos and ads. Americans devoted full-page ads to hair tonic and tiny ads to typewriters, while in Germany it was just the opposite.

  He made a clucking sound with the top of his mouth. He was sure to smile when he spoke even though Felix couldn’t see him. “What we’re up to here? Let’s not kid ourselves. Has to be a secret mission. Behind the lines surely. That’s some dicey stuff. Don’t you think?”

  Felix didn’t answer right off. His bed squeaked, once. “You tell me. Sure, and then tell me about your big combat days. Go on, Max.” Felix had never called him Max before. It had always been Herr von Kaspar, with a smile or a joking bow. He should have never told Felix about the stage name.

  “If I must. I was on the Ostfront for six months. Always on the front lines.”

  “How many times you fire your gun? How many you kill? Any face to face?”

  “How many?” Now Max snorted a laugh. “Who was counting? My God, we were too busy getting shot at, and bombed . . .”

  “You never killed anyone. Right? Right. So spare me the Hitler School patronage. Your fake optimism. You think whatever we got going here is doomed. That’s what you think. That’s why you’re prying just now.”

  “Prying? Me?” Max chuckled. Not Felix too? he thought. A deluded child, like all the rest? Then again, the little juggler was also an actor.

  The Luftwaffe boys were still having at it, slapping down cards and shouting. Max spoke lower. “You were never on the front lines. I didn’t mean to question your ability, dear Felix, if that’s what you mean. So please, temper the finger pointing. It will only get you—us—into trouble.”

  The top bunk creaked. Felix leaned over and stared down at Max, blocking the light. Max stared up. Felix climbed down and knelt next to Max. His small, narrow eyes locked on Max’s, and he wagged a finger. A narrow finger. Everything about Felix was slender, from his shoulders to his eyebrows, from his lips to his skinny bowed legs. Even his Berlin accent was tinny. He was like some mythical forest imp. Max stared back, blank-faced.

  “Don’t give me that. I got your number,” Felix said. “No one else here does, but I do.” He whispered now. “You don’t believe in any of this. You don’t believe in the war.”

  “Quatsch,” Max said, yet he had to shrug and look away.

  Felix stayed at his side. Smiling now. Not letting Max off the hook.

  Perhaps less direct was best, Max decided. He tossed the magazine to his feet. “In America? You said you were in the circus,” he said.

  Felix looked away, first at the Luftwaffe boys, and then at his hands hanging off his knees. “Why not, I figured. I could ride a unicycle, juggle, play the clown, dress up like a woman and play one even better. So I’d give it a shot. Cabarets were closing here. Not like your time over there, eh?”

  Max shrugged. “Apples and oranges.”

  “So why give it all up for Germany?”

  Max stared, a long time. How to answer this? With the proven old platitudes, or something more shrewd. Before he could respond, Felix jumped back up onto his bunk. He had to be smiling again, the way his voice was singing. “That’s why you come here—why you play along. To find new roles, right? After all, you are an actor. And perhaps some new friends? From adversity comes clarity, isn’t that the line?”

  “Something like that . . .” Max rolled his eyes. Whatever was coming after Grafenwöhr, it might just give him a way out. And Felix was certainly giving him ideas. Had he meant to? Could this little forest imp read his mind? Predict the future?

  “And you?” Max said. “Why’d you volunteer?”

  “Didn’t you know?” Felix said, adding a snicker. “It’s to help you.”

  By their second week in Grafenwöhr, the clandestine materiel was arriving at a steady clip. Trains rolled in carrying vehicles covered with tarps. Underneath were US Army jeeps, a few trucks and a couple tanks, but mostly jeeps. The vehicles’ olive drab paint and white stars were a shocking sight but one they’d have to get used to quickly, Captain Pielau assured them.

  The captain assigned Max and Felix Menning to a warehouse that was open, on one end, to the stinging November air. The concrete under their feet was colder than the ice on the windows and the snow drifted in, swirling and gathering into small white dunes that refused to melt. The warehouse had rows of long tables, like in a beer hall. At one table, Max and Felix sorted the American tunics that had been delivered, accidentally, with POW triangles painted on the backs. Pielau had ordered them to try to scrape off the paint. They scrubbed and scraped, bent over the tables, their backs tightening up, aching. Sweat rolled down Felix’s face despite the cold. The paint would not give way. (After all, it was meant to stay on forever.) It was thankless work, yet far better than cleaning up the “dog tags” of dead American soldiers. Pielau was doing Max a good turn once again.

  Captain Pielau paced the warehouse with a clipboard, checking stocks and making notes. A couple tables over, their Quartiermeister, a former clothing designer (who’d worked in New York’s Garment District), was hunched over a new shipment of uniforms diverted from the Red Cross by no small degree of trickery. The Quartiermeister called Captain Pielau over. Pielau held up a pair of trousers, huffed at them, threw them down, and then threw up his hands. He scratched at his clipboard and paced the warehouse muttering. All went back to work. Max kept an eye on the captain. Over in a corner, Pielau threw his clipboard across the concrete floor.

  He ended up at Max’s table, his jowls reddening. “Kaspar, you know what is happening here, don’t you? Can’t you see it?” Beside Max, Felix slowed his scraping to listen. “Those trousers over there? All British. Here we go and swindle the Red Cross for Ami uniforms, and we get British. Well, we can’t use that, can we?”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir.” Max added a smile.

  “And see all that—and that?” Pielau went on, his voice growing shrill. He pointed around the warehouse at the crates and boxes and the tables piled with mismatched gear. Men looked up woodenly as if they were being complained about. “And that there? We have not nearly enough. We need belts, ammo cases, helmets, and more overcoats. We have no helmets.”

  “Helmets would be good, sir.”

  Pielau slumped against the table, whispering now. “Mein Gott, Kaspar, you know Doktor Solar is not going to like this.” He glared at Felix, who resumed his scraping.

  Max stepped sideways, closer to Pielau. He whispered, “Look, you have to relax. Tell you what—go on to your officers’ mess, get yourself a coffee with two fingers of corn schnapps in it. That’ll make you feel better.”

  “You don’t understand,” Pielau said. “I mean, what will people think?”

  Pielau often took weekend trips to Nuremberg. He had friends and girlfriends there. If he were boasting of great things, Max could not know about it. He gave the captain a long, hard stare. “Sir, people are not supposed to think anything—let alone be aware of it,” he said.

  Pielau stiffened as if at attention. “You’re right as always. Thank you.” He lit a cigarette, patted Max’s shoulder, and strode off into the cold and gray afternoon.

  Max and Felix scraped on. As they worked, four sailors two tables over began laughing at them. The four had been merchant sailors before the war. Their American English could be clumsy, and thick with accent, yet they knew all the slang and could say what they needed. Max heard them now.

  One nodded at Felix and said what sounded like: “Piece a’ chicken.” Another pointed and said, “Pantywaist.”

  Felix kept scraping, but he had stopped sweating. His forehead grew red.

  Physically, the sailors were Felix’s opposite—stocky and thick and even the wiry ones had muscle. The widest of the four, a balding redhead with a broad smile, kept the others laughing with new words. “A real Nancy,” he said, “that fella’s a flit,” and what sounded like “F
ag-got.”

  Max glared at the sailors. “Should I translate?”

  “No need,” Felix said under his breath. “What did I tell you about the lieutenant? Same goes here.”

  “Very well . . .”

  Felix stopped scrubbing. He looked up at the sailors. They laughed louder. They whistled. Felix grinned. “Hiya boys,” he said in American English, practically shouting it.

  The sailors laughed harder. They flopped their wrists.

  Felix added with a slippery lisp, “Why don’t ya come up and see me sometime?” He put his hands on his hips and wiggled the hips.

  Others in the warehouse laughed and pointed at the sailors, who glared back now, rattled by the implication of this. Felix kept it up. The red-haired sailor got special treatment. Felix blew a kiss and rubbed at his crotch. He shouted: “And who’s that next to ya, sailor?”

  Next to the red-haired one stood a sailor with prematurely white hair. He had a discreet goatee beard. The two stared at each other.

  “Gets lonely at sea, no? So tell me, Red, how long you been screwing the goat?”

  Laughs boomed and echoed in the warehouse. The older sailor glared at the red-haired sailor, whose face hardened. The red-haired sailor showed Felix a fist.

  Felix marched over, past the first table.

  “Menning, wait,” Max said, following.

  The red-haired sailor came around the front of his table. Felix kept going. The laughs turned to jeers and shouts.

  They met on open floor. Felix swung at the sailor. The sailor ducked. Yet he didn’t punch. He let Felix have another go. Felix caught the sailor in the right jaw.

  The sailor hardly flinched. Max stepped in to break it up, but others held him back and the men gathered from all corners of the warehouse.

  Felix swung again and missed. The sailor spat, smiled, and then undercut Felix in the stomach. Felix bent over, his mouth shaped like an O, and a rushing sound shot from his mouth. The sailor moved to sock Felix under his jaw, but stopped. Felix was still bent over. The sailor pushed him back with a thumb, and Felix stumbled back and landed on his butt. The cheers peaked. The sailor bowed. He hollered something in Northern dialect and sat on Felix as if pretending to ride him.