The Losing Role

by Steve Anderson

Espinoza stared. Now he needed more.

  “Drove the goddamn, mothersuckin’, thing,” Max added. “It was hot in there, boy. Steamy.”

  “Steamy. Right . . .”

  How long was this to go on? Max gazed over at the men dancing. “You probably got a theater in camp? I would like to help out. Keep my mind off things.”

  Espinoza didn’t answer. Someone had handed him a metal mug. He passed it to Max and nodded. Max drank. It burned and Max’s eyes welled up and his head became light, as if a woman’s hands were cradling it. Someone laughed, a piercing cackle—probably the cad who brewed this swill, Max thought.

  “Potato likker,” Espinoza said. “Well?”

  “Think it tastes of petrol,” Max said, swallowing hard. “But she’ll do the trick.”

  Espinoza drank. “Petrol? You mean gasoline.” He smoked and inhaled deep, and he leaned forward, across the table. He exhaled as he spoke, into Max’s face. “Here’s the thing, Petrol. We’re having a little ball game tomorrow out on the Sportplatz. Why don’t you play?”

  “Ball game?”

  “Baseball. That’s the kinda game for us tankers, all we ever played and I’m sure it was the same in your outfit.”

  Baseball. A small white ball and a club-like hitter called a bat. Some men hit the white ball and others stood around waiting to catch it. Lou Gehrig. Babe Ruth. Brooklyn Dodgers.

  “Your friends are in,” Espinoza added. “My pals are making sure of that right now. Fact, it’s something of a tradition here for the new Kriegies.”

  A crowd had surrounded the other three. New York Yankees. Home run. How many bases were run, Max wasn’t sure. But he knew one thing: Americans played their baseball in the summertime, not in the winter.

  He reached for the potato schnapps. “Baseball, hey,” he stammered, “That sure beats the dancing, doesn’t it?”

  Six

  The next morning after roll call Max, Zoock, Felix, and Braun used the cover of a heavy fog to meet outside behind the latrine shed. Icicles hung from the roof. Steam puffed out their mouths as they spoke, and they hopped in place for warmth—all except Braun. Dark thoughts must have oppressed him during the night. He moved lazily, as if a zombie, and his blond locks hung in his face, a truly wretched version of the model Hitler Youth he’d likely been once.

  “It’s no use,” he blurted in German. “These brutes had us fingered the minute we come through the gate.”

  Zoock punched him hard on the arm. “Where’s your English? What the fuck’s wrong with you? Don’t you wanna make it outta here in one piece?” Braun muttered something. Zoock lunged at Braun. Max and Felix jumped between them.

  “It’s not here I’m worried about,” Braun said, slumping against the gray, frozen planks of shed wall. “It’s what comes after.”

  “Gentlemen! We need whispering,” Max said in English.

  “All right, all right.” Zoock turned to Max. “So. What kinda questions that Espinoza ask you last night?”

  “The standard things, you know. Seems he only wanted to hear me talking—”

  Zoock spat. “He wanted confirmation, you mean—that there’s something fishy. Probably takes you for our leader. You got that look, sure. All spiffy-like. That’s why they isolated you. They’re targeting you.”

  “Me? My God.” Again, not what Max wanted. Obscurity was the plan. Yet he had certain gifts, and what can one do about nature? He threw up his hands.

  “Don’t give me that. It’s that way you talk, too—like the swell in some picture show.”

  “The what?” Felix broke a smile. Max gasped at him. Zoock took a deep breath and faced the three of them. His bushy red eyebrows had thickened with an icy frost. “Now look, boys, this baseball thing has gotta be a trick. A test. Luckily, I’ve played some ball in my time, so just do what I do. Got me?”

  “I got you, yes,” Max said.

  “Got ya,” Felix said, his beanie pulled down low on his forehead. He too knew baseball, he’d whispered to Max during the night. In America, with the circus, it was all the men did between shows besides drink, play cards, and make passes at the midget women. He’d said, “This baseball is strange, an agonizingly slow game marked by rare—and not nearly enough—moments of extreme excitement and panic. It’s a taunt and I despise it.”

  And Braun? He nodded for Zoock and stammered in English, “I will, yes, do my best, sir. I want you to make it out in the one piece.”

  Zoock cocked his head at Braun, smiling. “That’s better. Okay.” He gave the kid a rub on the head.

  The four stared at each other, breathing steam, in silence. As if on cue, all felt for their blue SOS hankies, but cautiously as if about to draw guns in a Western movie.

  Espinoza and a crowd of prisoners were waiting for Max, Zoock, Felix, and Braun in front of Barrack 13. On the front steps were a bundle of baseball bats, a bucket of balls, and a duffel bag. Espinoza had on an oversized leather glove that made him look as if he had elephantiasis of the hand—it was a “baseball glove,” Max realized. A prisoner was throwing a ball at Espinoza fast and hard from about twenty feet away. The ball traveled in a straight line. Espinoza caught it in his big glove with a slap and flung it back for another go, and another, and another. They did this mechanically, yet rhythmically, like automatons. One of the prisoners made a clucking sound. As Espinoza turned to see Max and the three walking up, the thrower accidentally released another pitch—and yet Espinoza still caught the hardball with his bare hand. Max and the three passed through the crowd. No one mentioned the blue hankies on their arms. Not even a glance.

  “Boys. Morning. Ready?” Espinoza said.

  “You betcha,” Zoock said. “Let’s do it,” Felix said.

  “Nice catch,” Max said.

  Espinoza tossed a ball underhanded at Max, who ducked. In the same instant, Braun lunged—and caught the ball a foot from Max’s forehead. “Thanks,” Max mumbled as Zoock and Felix gaped in wonder.

  “Top-notch, kid,” Espinoza said, and exchanged glances with a couple of his most trusted prisoners.

  The light morning snow settled over the icy ground. The men slid and skated on the slippery powder as they trudged on over to the Sportplatz, tossing balls and swinging bats. The fog had cleared, revealing high clouds. A harsh white daylight reflected off the snow and the ice. The Sportplatz occupied a far corner of camp. Guard towers surrounded it on three sides. Prisoners laid out the diamond-shaped baseball field. At each angle of the diamond, frozen burlap sandbags served as the bases. Espinoza clapped like a stage director, and the men gathered around, shuffling their feet. He pointed to bases and said, “Okay. That’s home, first, second, third. Outfield, all the way to the fence . . .”

  This Spiel called baseball was coming back to Max—from home base, the “batters” hit at the “pitcher’s” throw, sending the ball out into the “outfield.” There was one problem Max saw. At the outfield’s far edge stood the so-called Warning Rail, a one-foot high bar of wood that ran the length of the camp’s two tall parallel fences of barbwire. The five-foot gap between the rail and the fences was a no-man’s land. Signs along the Warning Rail read:

  ANYONE MOVING OVER THIS BARRIER WILL BE SHOT

  “Questions later,” someone had scribbled on one of the signs.

  Espinoza was still shouting out instructions, his voice a pitch higher in the cold air. At the edge of the crowd, Max looked to Felix and nodded toward the Warning Rail. Zoock and Braun were doing the same. All their eyes met. Zoock gave Max a shrug.

  One of the prisoners raised his hand high and cleared his throat, as if on cue. Espinoza waved for him to speak. “What if the ball goes past the Warning Rail?” the prisoner said.

  “Then you go an’ get it. Right? You know the drill. Goons won’t shoot at us for fetching some measly ole’ Red Cross baseball. What do they care?”

  Was it really the drill? Zoock’s instincts were dead on. This was more than a game, and everyone knew it—any real American prisoner would already kn
ow how to handle the Warning Rail.

  Two thick-necked prisoners were standing next to Max. One grinned at him and said, “That’s okay with the likes a youse, ain’t it, pal?” The other one patted Max on the back. “Sure, sure, okay by him,” this one said. Both wore arm patches for the Second Armored Division, Max now saw.

  “Okay by me,” Max said.

  “Sounds good,” other prisoners were saying, nodding along and trading smiles, “Sure thing,” and, “Checkaroo, Sarge.” Others patted Zoock, Felix, and Braun on the back.

  “Because the goons up there? They trust us. And we trust them,” Espinoza said. Max looked up at the guard towers, one, two, and three. He saw dark outlines of helmets, and made out the long barrels of MG 34 machine guns.

  “Krauts ain’t even watchin’ anyways,” a prisoner said. “They hate baseball.”

  Were they watching? Max couldn’t tell. He didn’t see any binoculars. He peered around the ground in desperation, his shoulders tensing up, not caring if his fear was obvious. Out on the grounds, there were no guards anywhere near them. And Max found it tough to swallow, as if one of those hard baseballs were lodged in his throat.

  If only the four of them could meet again, come up with a plan. Behind the home base another crowd of prisoners gathered to watch, no more than thirty. Max looked for other undercover GIs but saw none. Even Zoock seemed seized by shock. He stared at his feet, his hands deep in his pockets.

  Espinoza split up teams. Zoock and Felix ended up on the team batting first, while Max and Braun ended up on Espinoza’s team. Espinoza was their pitcher.

  Max’s throat was constricting as if filled with a swelling, sticking yeast. Desperate acts blazed in his brain. This was no place for him to try to defect. What if one of them feigned illness? Or simply started running and calling for guards? What could happen? The problem was, Max and his three weren’t the only undercover fools in camp. Someone could catch a knife or a poison in the confusion. Max’s whole abdomen area rolled and thumped, great big butterflies in there flapping and scraping at his ribs, stomach walls, intestines.

  He had to get a hold of himself. As he always did before going on stage, he closed his eyes a moment and breathed deep. The tower guards would see the blue hankies, he told himself, sure they would. Probably already had.

  In the duffel bag were more of the baseball gloves—some made from pillows cut up and re-sewn. Espinoza passed them out. Max and Braun each got one. The other team led Zoock and Felix away, and Max’s team huddled around Espinoza, hopping up and down for warmth and punching fists into gloved hands. It was all happening too fast. Espinoza barked orders and plays in words that Max couldn’t understand.

  “Kopp, Braun—you got outfield too,” Espinoza was saying, “Kopp center and Braun the left.”

  Max nodded, his big glove hanging off his trembling hand.

  “Okey-doke, coach,” Braun said and slapped at his glove.

  Espinoza went to the duffel bag and pulled out jersey tops dyed blue. “Looks like we’re the blue team again,” he said and handed them out. And he winked at Max.

  In the harsh white snow light, the blue tops would wash out the blue hankies completely. Max thought of running now, but Braun nudged him and took him aside. He helped him with his jersey, pulling it over his head for him. The kid’s heroic change of attitude was astounding. He had pushed the hair out of his eyes, he was smiling now, and he gave Max a rub on the shoulder. “I played this game, too—one of the few things I like from America,” he whispered in German. “You’re going to be all right, Kaspar.”

  Over near home base, Zoock and Felix’s team were pulling on red jerseys and swinging bats. Zoock and Felix made no moves to run. They were all on their own.

  Max and Braun followed the third outfielder far out past the bases, yet they stopped far short of the Warning Rail. About 75 yards stretched between Max’s back and the Warning Rail. Quite a distance, he thought. He hoped.

  First inning. Max watched from his spot, the snow crunching cold under his feet. The blue players around him murmured a strange chant—“eh batta eh batta eh . . .”

  Espinoza threw. A red player swung at pitches and missed. One out. Next up. This red player hit the ball low. It skipped past a diving Espinoza and right for Braun, who, again to Max’s wonder, scooped the ball up and flung it straight to the first base as the running hitter slipped and fell on a patch of ice.

  A cheer went up from the crowd. Braun gave a little bow and doffed an imaginary cap for Espinoza, who gawked from the pitcher’s mound, his arms slack at his sides. So this kid Braun was a ball player. It could save them. He could prove they were Americans. Max punched his fist in his glove and shuffled his feet.

  Another red hitter—this one Felix. He swung, missed. One strike. He hit the second pitch but poorly, yet the ball skipped and jumped across ice and snow and Felix ran safe to first base. More cheers.

  “Eh batta eh batta eh . . .” Another red hitter struck out. That made two.

  Another hitter. This one missed two of Espinoza’s pitches, but he struck the third with a great crack and the ball soared high over Espinoza and then Max, losing itself in the snow white of the sky.

  It showed up again at the other side of the tall barbwire fences, bouncing to a halt. Great cheers now. “Outta da park!” someone yelled.

  Max’s heart tightened. This “home run” was proof the Warning Rail was well within range.

  Running past second base on the way to home, Felix glowered at Max with hard eyes and wagged a finger as if to say, Don’t go after any ball past the Warning Rail. It’s not worth it.

  Max nodded. He looked to Braun, but Braun only winked and slapped his fist into his glove once more.

  Another red batter—Zoock. He swung hard at Espinoza’s first two pitches and missed mightily. He’d done it on purpose. Brilliant.

  Before the third pitch, Espinoza turned and looked to Max and Braun. He stared a moment, his face stiff and blank. Then he threw. Zoock went to swing hard again, but the ball struck him in the thigh and he dropped. Jeers went up now. Some of the men in red shouted at Espinoza, raising fists. But Espinoza had outfoxed Zoock. A prisoner acting as referee walked Zoock, limping, to first base.

  Another hitter, one of the thickset Second Armored men. Espinoza wound up but released a soft throw, and the hitter struck it hard and low.

  The ball lifted and sailed high over Espinoza, over Max, and over Braun, traveling between them. It landed before the Warning Rail and then bounced under and through into no-man’s land.

  Men cheered. Max looked to Braun. Braun was already gone, sprinting for the Warning Rail. But the hitter had not taken off to run the bases. He stood and glared, as did Espinoza, his hands on his hips.

  More cheers. A few jeered. Max ran toward Braun yelling “No, wait, no.”

  Braun slid to a stop before the rail, and he turned. He looked back at Zoock and Felix behind home base, and then at Espinoza, and finally at Max.

  Men stopped cheering. Silence now.

  Something had changed in Espinoza. He dropped his glove and took a step forward, his face as gray-white as the ice.

  Braun stepped over the rail, moving backward, still facing them.

  “Don’t kid, don’t, it’s okay,” Espinoza shouted. “All right now.” He raised a hand.

  Braun smiled, and then gave his little bow once more. He walked to the fence and picked up the ball.

  “Halt!”

  From the towers, the machine guns cocked.

  “Nicht bewegen!”

  Max jumped and waved his hands and tugged at his blue jersey. “No, don’t shoot don’t!” he screamed in English, and Espinoza started in with the same, the whole game yelling now, Zoock and Felix and the fans and the referee, “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!”

  Braun lunged to throw back the ball.

  The machine guns burst out from three towers, ripping the air and twisting and turning Braun in a crazy dance, and he fell, a dark lump on the snow. A
n elbow stood at a bizarre angle, pointing to the milk-white sky.

  Seven

  The steam rose from Braun’s mangled body in shimmering billows as if released from some snowbound mineral spring. Max had dropped to his knees. The baseball glove slid off his hand, into the snow. Prisoners rushed past and swarmed the Warning Rail and the guards descended, their guard dogs barking and howling.

  Soon after, Max, Zoock, Felix and the other phony Americans found themselves abandoned out on the ground. Prisoners kept clear of them. Guards gave them the cold shoulder despite their blue hankies, which were out and clear to see now. They were lepers. Nonpersons. Max, Zoock and Felix regrouped on the deserted Sportplatz. They spoke little, the cold scraping at their cheeks. A foul heaviness ached in Max’s chest.

  “What’s this shithead Kommandant going to do?” Zoock sputtered in German.

  A half hour later the Kommandant ordered a lockdown but didn’t call in the undercover Germans. Max, Zoock and Felix ended up in Barrack 13, where at least it was warm. Inside, the American prisoners spoke with hushed voices. Espinoza sat alone, in a dark corner, and read from a thick old book. Perhaps the American had pity for them. Perhaps he thought them part of some twisted Nazi experiment. Zoock and Felix took the double bunk: Zoock up on the top, his eyes moist and puffy red; Felix down below sitting with his hands clenched in his lap and his face taut with hate. Max sat at a table alone. After a while a prisoner set a metal cup of potato schnapps before him. Max nodded thanks and sipped, letting the swill burn all the way down. And his thoughts began to darken and distort. Good Pielau was gone, and now young Braun. And what had Max done? When that hard white ball bounced into no-man’s land, he had frozen. He might have reached the rail at the same time as Braun. Surely he’d have thought of something there. He’d always been able to improvise on stage. And yet he left the trap wide open. All he did was hop up and down and shout in English. Still in character. Never showing his true self.