The Losing Role

by Steve Anderson

  Felix tried to bite at his knuckles.

  “Who’s the goat now?” the sailor said, to more cheers.

  Humiliating. And yet Felix grinned, and the cheers rose. Men clapped. Felix loved any audience, hostile or no. It was the way he got back at the world, Max thought, clapping along (while for Max, it was the way he made love to the world).

  “You’re all right,” the sailor said to Felix. He dismounted and helped Felix up. The two bowed together.

  “He’s coming,” someone shouted.

  “Look alive.”

  The clapping had stopped. The sailors sprang to attention. SS Lieutenant Rattner was pushing his way through the crowd. “What the hell you pulling here, boys?” he yelled, glaring at the sailors. He had his cap clenched in his hand as if ready to swat someone with it. No one spoke.

  “Where’s Pielau?” Rattner shouted at Max. “Don’t know, sir,” Max muttered.

  Felix was gasping for breath. His uniform was a mess. Rattner saw him and sneered. He marched over and stopped inches from Felix’s face. Felix grinned again.

  Rattner slapped Felix hard across the temple. Felix stumbled but sneered back, defiant. Rattner slapped Felix across the jaw, cutting his lip.

  Felix, wobbling, stood at attention.

  Rattner turned to face the men. All eyes met his. “That’s for your own good,” he said to Felix. “Haven’t learned a thing from my combat training, have you?”

  Felix shook his head. Blood rolled onto his chin, mixing with sweat. “Not yet,” he muttered, “but just you wait and see.”

  Four

  Late November now. One Monday morning, Captain Adalbert von Pielau did not return from his weekend leave. The same day, Lieutenant Rattner assumed Pielau’s duties. On Tuesday Rattner became an SS Captain. He roamed the Grafenwöhr compound with his overcoat wide open, showing off his new insignia.

  The stout red-haired sailor who’d scrapped with Felix Menning led Max out behind a storage shed. The sailor’s name was Zoock. Zoock said Captain Rattner deserved a flogging for harassing Felix to no end. “I can’t take his swagger. Just say the word, Mac,” he said in impressive American street English, “and me and the boys we’ll give him the works.”

  “I’m not Menning’s keeper,” Max had to say in German, disappointed that he couldn’t think of the American way to say this. “Why don’t you ask Felix himself?”

  Zoock asked Felix, but Felix passed with heartfelt thanks. “Things will take care of themselves, my good man,” Felix told Zoock, patting him on his balding head.

  On Thursday, after midday mess, the men were ordered to stay in their barracks. They watched from windows as a glossy command car and motorcycle escort rumbled through the compound. In Max’s barrack, the men traded hopeful stories about the visitors. Some suggested it was Reichsmarschall Goering, or Admiral Doenitz, head of German intelligence. Others were certain of a captured Allied Commander in the flesh, either that “gangster clerk” Eisenhower or that schmuck Montgomery. Felix couldn’t stay on his bunk. He paced the room, retelling their fantastic hypotheses and trading them for more. He then proposed it was the Führer himself, though many fell quiet at this prospect. Max so wanted to tell them: It was Doktor Solar, of course.

  Outside, boots crunched on the pathway pebbles. Lieutenants came and called selected men out, one at a time. In Max’s barrack these were mostly the sailors. Zoock got the call. They returned smiling and grinning, holding their caps at their waists like wedding bouquets. They fended off all inquiries. “I can’t tell what it’s all about but just you wait and see,” Zoock said, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

  At evening mess cases of beer were set out and each barrack got enough for three bottles a man. They hauled off the cases, and back in the barrack, they settled down to long card games and talk of busty pinup girls. Max sipped from his second bottle, holed up in the darkness of his lower bunk. He was certain he’d get the call. Could it be his association with Pielau? Or his looks? Perhaps he was too handsome for the role.

  An hour before lights out, the door flew open and Captain Rattner filled the doorway, his hands on his hips and his cap set at a jaunty angle. “Kaspar! Come with!”

  About time, Max thought. Then his heart started knocking at his ribs and his legs went weak. The men helped him. They cheered and clapped as he passed, the cigarettes hanging from their mouths. Felix stomped his feet and hollered. At the door, Max gave them a merry bow. Hadn’t he been in this spot many times—the last act on?

  Outside, the wind pulled the door out of his hand and slammed it shut. The gusts stung his cheeks. All was dark. “Ready?” Captain Rattner said. He stood against the wall, slouched in a manner Max had never seen. It was almost, well, American.

  “Certainly, sir.” Max saluted.

  Rattner only tapped his heels together, as Pielau used to do. “Time to meet Doktor Solar,” he said and strode off.

  Was it a test? Max blocked out the response. He started walking. Waited a beat. “Who, sir?”

  Rattner pivoted and faced Max, waiting for him to catch up. He pulled two cigarettes and lit them in his mouth. “A crack answer,” he said, and inserted a cigarette between Max’s lips. “Just the sort of acting talent we’ll need in the days to come.”

  In a corner of camp, deep in a small wood, stood a stout villa with large ornate wrought-iron lamps and gate. Parked outside were the shiny command car and motorcycles. Max heard the crunching feet of guards but couldn’t see them.

  Rattner led Max through to the front steps. “On your own—for now,” he said and patted Max on the back.

  The front door opened. An SS adjutant in a white coat and gray gloves led Max through a marble foyer and down carpeted hallways with floral wallpaper and polished wainscoting. The adjutant left Max in a den lined with dark wood bookshelves. A fire crackled in a broad stone fireplace and deep, wide leather chairs sat before it. A standup antique globe in the corner. Orchids stood on a buffet and Max could smell them. He walked over and breathed them in.

  Footsteps. In the hall someone said, “Kaspar.” Max stepped away from the flowers.

  An SS officer—a lieutenant colonel—strode in and they shared a quick salute. “Evening, Corporal Kaspar,” the lieutenant colonel said and, to Max’s surprise, shook Max’s hand with both hands. He was well over six feet tall and Max had to look up to meet his eyes. His rugged face had a deep scar down one cheek, a line that ran from ear to mouth to chin. This was his Schmiss—his dueling scar. He could only be SS Lieutenant Colonel Otto Skorzeny, the crack commando who’d freed Hitler’s Italian ally Mussolini from a mountaintop prison. In Germany, now, men like this were the real stars.

  Skorzeny beamed at Max as if reading his thoughts. “Please, sit,” he said and they took the leather chairs by the fire. The dueling scars glistened orange as the fire’s warmth worked its way through Max’s crusty, coarse uniform. Only his fine clothes would really do here, he regretted. At least no women were here to see him like this.

  “So. Captain Pielau is out of the picture,” Skorzeny said.

  He’d said it like a producer announcing a casting change. It could mean anything. “Out?” Max said.

  “Dead. Yes. He’s dead.”

  Dead? The flames were warming Max’s cheeks, stretching them tight. He felt weary. He couldn’t think.

  “Went on leave, died in an air raid,” Skorzeny added plainly as if ordering a salad with his entrée.

  Max shook his head. He liked Pielau. Truly. And in the long run, Pielau might have made things easier. He might even have gotten Max out of this altogether, if things got too hot. “That’s t-t-terrible,” Max stammered, “Why, Captain Pielau, he—”

  “You mean ‘von Pielau’? Isn’t that what you mean? Eh, Herr Maximilian von Kaspar?” Skorzeny chuckled.

  Before Max could answer Skorzeny barked, “Arno! Make it two.” Skorzeny grinned for Max. “I do hope you like cognac.”

  “What? Oh, yes, naturally.”

  “The
problem with Pielau was the man was too naive. You mustn’t be too hopeful in life, even in your most private dreams. Mustn’t even be optimistic. You’ll start believing your own bullshit. You see?”

  “Yes. Yes,” Max said, stalling for the right line.

  “One must be rational. Work things out. Wait and see. Give nothing away. And shut his trap, for God’s sake.” Skorzeny’s lips tightened as if he wanted to spit. His big hands met and folded into each other and he held them there, like a priest considering a misbehaved acolyte. “The most perplexing problem with Pielau was he wanted others to believe his own bullshit.”

  “One should keep one’s own bullshit to one’s self,” Max said.

  “Precisely. It’s a personal matter. Spiritual, if you like.”

  Max nodded, shifting in the warm leather. When was that cognac coming? Perhaps this was the famed Skorzeny’s unique brand of torture—offer a thirsty man a fine drink and then watch him suffer when it never comes. Max’s thoughts were piling up fast, colliding. Pielau was probably put up to a firing squad, if he weren’t in some Gestapo prison. Skorzeny himself had probably ordered it. Though you could never tell from the way the lieutenant colonel was entertaining Max in this bourgeois villa. His nasally Vienna accent didn’t fit his brutal physique in the least. His eyes sparkled as he spoke. A definite charmer. Yet so was the Marquis de Sade. “Spiritual,” Max added. The fire seemed to grow hotter. The sweat itched under his hair.

  “Feel free to unbutton your tunic, Corporal.”

  “Right. Thank you.” The unbuttoning helped. Max also took his cap off and hung it on a chair to warm—that would come in handy in the cold barrack. Good thinking. He was coming around.

  Skorzeny continued, “We cannot—will not—tolerate leaks or dissension from within the unit. Traitors could be anywhere. Turncoats. American spies. The mission must be protected. Certain types, they resort to their own ways, and ends. Think they know better.”

  The adjutant was standing over Max, offering him a cognac. The glass was oversized and warmed. Max drank from it. It went down as fine as he imagined, all fumes and caramels. He wiped the sweat from his forehead.

  “Let’s get you away from this fire,” Skorzeny said and stood. Max followed him across the room cradling his glass. Skorzeny opened wall-to-floor red curtains, revealing French doors. They looked out at the black night full of twinkles from snow falling. “Most men here, they volunteered,” Skorzeny said. “But you? They say you can act and sing in English. You did just that in America. So you see we had to send for you, find you at all costs. You’re our German Chevalier, what?”

  “Ah, if only . . . Let’s call me our German Kaspar for now.” Max fought a blush. “In any case—had I seen the order for volunteers, sir, I certainly would have—”

  “You’re one of the few who didn’t see it.” Skorzeny slapped at the door glass, his face hard and his eyes black with rage. “An uncoded order goes out to all German units, on all fronts, soliciting English speakers? What were those twits thinking? Surely Allied intelligence saw it. Might as well have put an ad in The New Yorker Time.”

  “New York Times,” Max blurted in English. “—Sir,” he added in German.

  “Certainly. Now here’s the thing, Kaspar—I’m putting together a special unit culled from the troops here. Cast, if you will, with the best American speakers. Sort of a spearhead force. Most of the sailors are in. Get the picture? Just the production for you. Sort of a, shall we say, a touring show. Ha ha. You’re in, of course?”

  It wasn’t really a question, of course. How could it be? Max was the one who’d auditioned, yet he didn’t even know the script. A special unit, Skorzeny said. It was already top secret. If Max said no, he could very well end up like Pielau—on leave and caught in the next air raid. Still, he had to admit it couldn’t hurt the plan he had in his head, the one he’d been developing in the dim obscurity of his lower bunk. It had him sliding through on just enough ability, and then? Perhaps, somehow, he could get far enough behind the US front lines. Get to New York if the role had any legs at all. That was where he belonged. Hadn’t he told himself that so many times? Germany had fooled him. The Fatherland was a trickster. Promised success and a grand life but delivered the Grim Reaper and a Götterdämmerung. He could go AWOL. Defect. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to fire a shot. It was to be the greatest role in his life. It was indeed true what the masters said of the best performances—they had to be lived.

  Max’s eyes had filled with wet heat. He glared off toward the fire.

  “I can see you’re moved.” Skorzeny was rocking on his heels. “What if I was to tell you what’s next, eh? Give you a taste. Could you keep it mum?”

  Max’s head and shoulders rose up, with fervor. “You forget, I’m an actor, sir.”

  “Yes, I was just thinking that . . .” Skorzeny studied Max, tapping a thick finger at his cognac glass. “Despite that, I think I’ll trust you. We start with a test run. Any day. We’re running a number of you out in teams. Various speaking levels. Could be dangerous.”

  “Teams?” Max said. It was the only word that sounded harmless.

  “That’s right. Teams of four. You’re probably a good judge of abilities, by the way. Anyone you’d like along?”

  Max thought a moment. Stalled. “Is Captain Rattner going?” He was taking a chance here, but he had to find out.

  “Who? God no. Man can barely say thank you in English. Besides, I need him here getting the men in shape. More than a few butts need kicking—”

  “In that case—I propose Corporal Menning. He’s in my barrack. Spent time in America. Physically, he’s got it down. He was once a circus performer, so he understands the American body language like few here do—”

  “Ah, yes. The Americans, they’re always slouching, yes? Hands in their pockets and such?” Skorzeny chuckled again. “Very well. Anyone else?”

  “Zoock. One of the sailors.”

  “You’ll have him.” Skorzeny grinned again.

  Max wanted to grin too. In another time, they might have got on well. Skorzeny would have made a bulldog producer of the first class.

  Instead, Max looked up somberly. “Permission to speak, sir?”

  Skorzeny nodded, the grin fading.

  “What are we up to? We’re not doing Babes in Arms, I take it?”

  Skorzeny laughed, as Max anticipated—even soldiers liked the show biz talk. “Don’t they wish, some of the hams we’ve attracted here. You’ll see soon enough. We’re aiming to put the fear back into the Americans. And with any luck, might just make them shit their pants.”

  “Excellent. That’s genius, sir.”

  They drank in silence. Skorzeny opened his mouth as if to say more. Instead, he held up a finger and pressed it to Max’s chest pocket. “There is one matter. This old army kit of yours is a shambles. I’m putting you in Waffen-SS uniform—if we pull this off, it might just be good for propaganda.”

  Waffen-SS? So what if the pay was better. This was not part of the plan at all and certainly not good for the role. There was nothing more feared and hated than the SS, even within Germany.

  “But sir, the army treats me fine,” Max muttered. Think, Max, think.

  “Nonsense. We’ll do the swearing in if—when—you get back.” Skorzeny clicked his heels and gave the full Hitler salute, his arm ramrod straight. “Corporal Kaspar, you are hereby inducted.”

  No choice. Max clicked his heels and returned the silly salute, and yet he added a little bow for the memory of Maximilian von Kaspar. Cognac splashed on his wrist. What a waste, he thought.

  Five

  Two mornings later at 3:30 a.m. sixteen of them crammed in the back of an Opel troop truck and headed out on their test mission. They kept the rear tarp closed tight and huddled for warmth as the road jostled them, black figures in the dark, yawning at the floorboards, in and out of half-sleep. At least I’m off the Eastern Front, Max thought. At least he was keeping Germany’s gruesome end at arm’s length. As
long as he did that, hope lived for him. His deliverance would reveal itself.

  They’d go in as four teams of four. Max got Felix, the sailor Zoock, and a young army orderly named Braun, who had floppy ears and a fleshy nose he hadn’t grown into. In their fifteen-minute briefing the previous evening, Captain Rattner had called out their American disguise names:

  “Kaspar! Your name is—Mike Kopp. First Sergeant. You drove a tank.”

  “Zoock! Your name—Jim Zook. Technical Corporal. Artillery.”

  “Felix Menning? Fred Musser. Private First Class. Infantry.”

  “Braun!—for you it’s Roger Braun. Private First Class. Infantry.”

  The German-American names would explain any language problems, Rattner had assured them. They got dog tags, American uniforms, and blue handkerchiefs.

  Max, for one, could not play a part without some understanding of the character. In all his time in America he’d never even seen an American soldier. So he held up a hand. “I think I can speak for all when I say that we’ve got some questions. Where’s my character from? America’s a vast land. And what does he want, this Mike Kopp? Need. Crave? Does this Mike Kopp have a wife and child back home? A farm? A pet fish perhaps—”

  “Spare us the thespian jerk-off,” Rattner snarled.

  “What about these blue hankies, sir?” Zoock said.

  “I’m getting to that. This is crucial. If it gets too dicey you’ll use the signal—your blue handkerchiefs—to extricate yourselves.”

  Extricate? It made them sound more like guinea pigs than some spearhead elite. “Sir, I don’t know the first thing about a tank. Really, how can I be expected to play this?”