September 1939. Germany invaded Poland—after being “attacked” by Polish border troops— went the official line. But most Germans did not cheer and shout in the streets as they had in 1914. They gathered around newspaper kiosks and spoke in hushed tones as if gossiping about a deceased relative. Max, for one, woke from his naps with deep worries. His acting aspirations had always seemed like a race against time. Would they now become a sprint to outrun death?
“This silliness will end,” his Liselotte assured him. “Germany is only rejoining its place among the civilized nations. The chaos of the last war will not return. My father assures me of it.” Her father was an influential staff general, from a long line of officer corps standouts.
If only his Mutti und Vati Manfred and Elise could see him—before it was too late. He wondered how much young Harry had grown. Max had to laugh. Suddenly he was sentimental? He told himself he would write them when he had really made it, but when would that be? It was happening so fast. He and his Liselottchen shared apartments in Berlin, Munich, Vienna. She held certain thoughts on the direction of his career. Here his stage name of von Kaspar would not work. The “von” modifier would have to go, since he wasn’t true nobility.
The agent Kunz loved her ideas for Max. “Germany is changing, and we must change with it,” he said. By the spring of 1940, Kunz was getting Max roles for a year in advance, and the actor now known as Maximilian Kaspar was becoming a moderate hit among directors, producers, reviewers, and informed theatergoers. His was a face you could trust for the role, they said.
At the same time, Max was no fool. Perhaps he was only an actor but his head was not that far in the sand. He saw how the Nazis were exploiting Germany, how they had been for a long time. The buoyancy and bustle masked scowls and perverse cravings. Take his agent, Herr Kunz. Kunz was the former assistant of Agentur Unger’s namesake, the legendary Julius Unger. An elderly Jew, Unger had been forced to leave Germany in the mid-1930s, first to Paris and then Switzerland. He left the business with Kunz under the gentleman’s agreement (in Germany Jews had lost their civil rights) that its name would never be changed. Yet in the spring of 1940, with times good and the business booming, Kunz changed the name to Agentur Kunz and transferred all remaining disputed royalty commissions to himself. And, not being one who simply danced to a tune when he could sing along too, Kunz joined the Nazi Party that same week.
Fall 1940. Germany had conquered France, and Great Britain was sure to be next. Max played Berlin’s Prussian State Theater for the first time—a small role, but it was still a boyhood dream come true, while Liselotte sang in Paris to rapt German and French audiences. Max tried to be sensible. He wasn’t the only actor for whom the goose-stepping and bully swagger were a solid bore. Still, a gig was a gig, and a well-paying one offered an income most could only dream of. Besides, where else was a German actor going to act in his own language? Certainly not in New York. As long as one was not “racially undesirable” or did not act “subversively,” the brownshirts left a man alone. Of course, it was sad what happened to their Jewish friends, the Socialists. Naturally it was humiliating for those dandies, salon contrarians, and anyone else who’d livened up their days and nights. One muted one’s shrill tone or one disappeared.
The more coveted the role, the darker Max’s mood grew. Success brings not alleviation, only new pains—hadn’t the old hands always said that? They were making deals with devils, every day, everywhere one looked.
At least he had had his Liselotte. She too was playing her share of kitsch. She let the thug SS officers and crass party bosses kiss her hand, escort her to dinner and functions. Yet she always came home to Max. To fall asleep she always snuggled his back, spooning him, her toes nestled into the bend of his leg.
Twenty-One
December 22, late afternoon. As the sun set, Max and Captain Slaipe kept watch up in the villa’s tower. The gray sky turned a pale violet, the treetops were skeletal silhouettes, and the snow fell in light flurries. Up here the captain looked fiercer than the intellectual warrior Max knew down in the cellar. He wore bulky tank goggles and a thick black scarf and carried German Army binoculars. Instead of his pipe he smoked unfiltered Camels. His mood had dimmed, too, and Max hoped it was only the cold.
They had their backs to each other, scanning the dark surrounding woods with their binoculars. “Buzz bomb,” Slaipe grunted as a V-2 rocket droned high overhead. The distant clatter of war had returned—thuds of artillery, cracks of tank battles, the snaps and burps of small arms—and now and then Slaipe called out the faraway weapons’ types.
“Wonder where it’s heading,” Max mumbled, unsure how to answer. This was the first time Slaipe had joined Max on watch. Max was used to being alone up here. He could keep his mouth shut. He had his thoughts to himself. Sometimes he hummed and sang, in a whisper. A couple times he’d watched Smitty or Slaipe trudge through the snow below, making the short trek to the villa guesthouse that stood off to one side of the classical gardens, within a ring of trees. Max had been in there. He’d expected to find their field radio but only saw old pine furniture, a stone fireplace, maps and briefcases, and a couple US Army bedrolls.
“I have some bitter news,” Slaipe said.
“Oh?”
“You’ve heard of Malmedy? The town? Your unit probably passed through it.”
“Of course. It’s not too far from here.” Max pointed out, westward.
“You haven’t heard what’s happened there. No, of course, you couldn’t know.”
“What? What’s happened?”
“I don’t know if ‘happened’ is the word for it,” Slaipe said. He groaned a long, slow sigh. “About fifty of our boys were withdrawing down a road, but they ran right into Waffen-SS—the First SS Panzer Corps, to be exact. Our boys surrendered, but these SS thugs—these unholy pigfuckers, they didn’t keep them prisoner. They herded our GIs into a field and gunned them down. In cold blood. Murdered them.” The captain’s voice was cracking. He paused, what must have been a full minute, and then he cleared his throat. “Battery B, 285th Field Artillery Observation Battalion, 7th Armored. Only a couple got away, by playing dead. Rest? Frozen corpses, in the snow.”
First SS Panzer Corps was the spearhead force Max had ridden with into battle only days before. “Horrible,” he said, his chest tightening. “War is war, but . . . who could do such a thing?”
“Any German in SS uniform, it seems. Vicious gangsters basically. First SS Panzer has been on a rampage. Cutting down civilians too, we hear.”
It must be true. The offensive was to move fast and instill terror, and far more soldiers than Felix Menning and Captain Rattner would have discovered a passion for butchery. Better men. Scared men. Max shook his head. “It’s mad. There are no words for this.”
“Yes, well, there might be a silver lining. The word on Malmedy’s traveling faster than small-town gossip along our lines, from the far rear to the front foxholes. Calling it the ‘Malmedy Massacre.’ Our boys are mad as hell now, which is exactly what we’ll need for the counterattack.” Slaipe’s voice lightened, and he said, “Wouldn’t be surprised if we’re taking less prisoners ourselves. War being war.”
“Still, it’s no excuse. There can be no justifying it.”
Max squeezed at his binoculars and tried to concentrate on his watch, but the woods were blurring in the dim light. They heard the muffled screeches of missile launchers. “Nebelwerfer,” Slaipe said. A couple minutes passed.
Slaipe said, “Remember those Germans posing as Americans? Smitty asked you about it.”
“Yes. I didn’t run into any as far as I know.”
“No, but others have, and some are seeing a connection between the Malmedy Massacre and the Germans posing as GIs. Think about it. Both appear to be SS ops. And the fake GIs we’ve tagged so far? They were wearing SS uniforms underneath. Some even ran with the First SS Panzer, we’re hearing.” Slaipe lit a cigarette. “I can tell you, Price, we needed a big wake-up call and now we
got it. Security is the new priority all along the line. Every platoon’s using passwords. No one’s above suspicion. Real GIs with accents have even been shot, on accident.” Slaipe gave a sad chuckle. “Some say a select few Germans in GI uniform want to assassinate our generals, but I say it’s bunk. I just don’t think they’re up to it.”
Max chuckled, stalling. Why was Slaipe telling him this? What was his game? Was there even a game? Max lowered his binoculars. It was getting too dark to see even with the naked eye. Yet he kept his back to the captain. Anything but face him.
“And you want to know why?” Slaipe continued. “About two months ago, the German High Command, in its infinite wisdom, sent out a Wehrmacht-wide request for English speakers—and for volunteers at that.”
“They what? Idiots. They might as well have sent you—us—a letter.”
“Exactly. We intercepted it, of course. And what does that tell you, this request? Germans were desperate for the qualified English speakers. Still, they were lucky if they found enough to fill a few jeeps, I’m guessing. I know I wouldn’t volunteer, but that’s beside the point . . . They probably got few true soldiers. Ended up with English teachers, writers, artists, most likely. Few of whom are capable of assassinating a general, let alone a fly.”
Max had trouble breathing, and he started to wheeze and shake. “I’m sure it’s true,” he muttered. “They’re hopeless. Has-beens. Washed-up. Yet I wonder, Captain . . .” He started to ask what happened to the fake GIs who were caught, but his stomach burned and swelled in waves. He steadied himself on the rampart’s edge.
“Price?”
Max couldn’t swallow or feel his throat, a cold sweat smeared his lower lip and forehead and a hot flow gushed up and out his mouth, right over the edge.
“All right, get it all out, all right,” Slaipe was saying, a hand on Max’s shoulder.
Max hugged the rampart and heaved again, the steam rising, and again, not even bothering to wipe his mouth.
“Sorry to shake you up,” Slaipe said when Max had finished. “Go on downstairs. I’ll take over.”
“All right. Yes. Thank you . . .”
Max scrambled down the ladder and stumbled through the house. Down in the cellar he stripped to his SS tunic, tore the thing off and threw it into the oven’s fire and slammed the doors shut. He was alone here. No one could challenge him. He only hoped the foul wool didn’t pollute the chimney’s smoke—how sick and horrid it probably reeked, if one had the nose for it.
December 23. The next day. In the morning Max overheard Smitty reporting to Slaipe that the clouds above the Ardennes were starting to break. In their secluded valley, however, the same dim gray weather persisted, a stubborn pocket of snow flurries and chilling wind. Max stood outside and could hear American airplanes beyond the clouds, spotting the reckless German advances and seeking new targets. The American counterattacks would soon be launched just as Slaipe predicted. Max went back down to the cellar and sipped his coffee. He could not flee, not yet. Timing was everything now. It was true he had shed his SS tunic, but if he fled and was caught in an American uniform—amid the fury of an American counter—he was certain to be found a spy to be shot on site. And if he stayed? His only hope was that one big break. He’d certainly paid his dues.
In the afternoon, as he was pulling on his gloves and overcoat to relieve Smitty from watch, he heard yelling and stomping upstairs. He grabbed his tommy, threw on his helmet, and rushed up the stone steps.
In the foyer stood a small old man. A half-conscious German soldier leaned on his shoulder. Slaipe and Smitty had tommy guns on the two, but the old man was more concerned about getting the soldier off his shoulder. He yelled and they yelled, a clash of languages. Justine was there, shouting for Annette.
“Everyone—calm yourselves,” Max shouted and helped the German soldier off the old man. The soldier was heavy, so Max set him down on a linen-covered sofa in the next room, which made Justine swear in French and throw up her arms. The soldier was regular army, not Waffen-SS, and so young he could have been Hitler Youth. He was wet and muddy, and bleeding from a chest wound that was dressed with ragged scarves.
Slaipe and Smitty searched the old man in the foyer, and Justine hurried off to find Annette. Max had Armagnac in his canteen. He let the soldier smell it and his eyes fluttered open, glaring wide as they focused on Max’s American uniform. “I am surrendered, okay? No problem,” he said in thickly accented English, and wheezed and coughed with a horrid screech that smelled even worse. He continued in rapid German: “Komme aus Freiburg . . . In der Ecke, nahe der Schweiz . . . Mein Name ist Widmer—Martin Widmer . . .”
He was from Freiburg, he’d said, from down in the corner of Germany near Switzerland. His name was Martin Widmer. Max shrugged as if he didn’t understand. “You surrender. I accept. No problem,” he said in English, pointing and gesturing.
Yet young Martin wouldn’t quit with the life story. He had wanted to go into seminary, he said, but the war came. Then he’d wanted a French girl, but they shipped him out too soon.
If only Max could speak to him in German—he’d tell him to shut his trap. “It’s okay, okay, it’s okay,” he said, chanting it, and finally Martin passed out.
Annette rushed past Max. Max followed her to the foyer. She squealed something in French dialect and lunged at the small old man, hugging him with so much force he stumbled back. He wore a worn tweed cap that was too big for him and a fur-lined overcoat that reached his ankles, reminding Max of an overage paperboy. Justine, smiling now, told Slaipe the story: This was Annette’s husband, Alter Heini—Old Henry. He was from the borderlands between Belgium and Germany, just east of here, and belonged to the ten percent of Belgians who spoke German.
“More German? Jesus, we’re surrounded,” Smitty blurted to Slaipe, who could only grimace. The surprise arrival had shaken them. They kept their tommys raised and, despite Annette’s protests, led old Henry into the kitchen and had him sit up on the counter, like a child. Max stood just beyond the doorway, listening and peeking in as Smitty interrogated and translated and Slaipe paced back and forth. Old Henry stammered with fear but told them what he could. He’d walked straight from Waimes, the nearest village to the east, where he’d been working for another family. He’d passed no recognizable front lines on the way, only a few Germans and a few Amis—all of them lost, hungry, in shock. He found the wounded German in the forest and couldn’t let him die. He didn’t mean any harm.
“Please, please,” he said in clanging Belgian German, clasping his hands together. “I only wanted to see my dear wife for Christmas, you understand?”
“Understand,” Slaipe said in rough German.
Max stood in the doorway, showing himself.
“In der Patsche sitz’ ich nun. Sie sprechen Deutsch, oder?” Old Henry said to Max, rubbing at his little hands—“I’m in the soup here. Don’t you speak German?”
“Uh-uh,” Max said, shaking his head.
Smitty glared at Max, aiming his tommy. “What are you doing here? Huh? What?”
“I, I thought I could help—” Max remembered he was a lieutenant. He straightened. “Sergeant, remember whom you’re speaking to. I don’t care if you’re CIC or, or . . . Ike’s son—you respect the rank.”
Smitty lowered his tommy. “Sorry, Lieutenant, sir. It’s the nerves.” He gave a half-salute.
Max’s presence seemed to have the reverse effect on Slaipe. He stopped pacing, and he set his tommy on a counter. “Point well taken, Price. But I think what the sergeant meant was, one of us should be up on watch. Who knows who might have followed. So, why don’t you go up in the tower? All right? One of us will relieve you.”
Smitty relieved Max hours later, well after dark, and took great and humble care to apologize once more. Down in the cellar they’d put Martin, the wounded German, on Max’s bedroll. The young soldier was sleeping, on his back. Slaipe sat at the table.
“Evening,” Max said. Slaipe nodded. As Max pulled of
f gear and set down his tommy, Slaipe poured him an Armagnac. Max sat opposite the captain. They drank, saying nothing.
Slaipe set down his glass. “Annette and Old Henry are down the hall in their room. Reunited. I’m happy for them.”
“Me too. And Ms. DeTrave?”
“Up in her room. Sleeping, I hope.” Slaipe shook his head at Martin. The young soldier’s peach fuzz glowed in the candlelight. “Poor kid, keeps muttering German. It’s a decent language I’ve always thought, German. Solid, Latin-style rules. Logical. No room for ambiguity. Not like English at all.” Slaipe lifted his glass in an imaginary toast. His eyes were glazed over. He might be drunk, Max realized. “Wish I could say something to that kid,” he added.
“It seems you know a lot about languages,” Max said, lifting his glass.
“Even when I don’t know them?” Slaipe chuckled. “Maybe we could teach the kid English, me and you. God knows he’s going to need it if he survives this. They’re all going to need it.”
“You don’t think he’d try something? Become desperate?”
“And what then? Where would he go? No, kid’s going nowhere—couldn’t if he wanted to. I gave him what I had left of an ampule.”
Ampule—Max had never heard such an English word. He nodded.
“Tough wound,” Slaipe said. “Near the lungs. And no medic in sight.” He drank.
Max drank. Annette had left jerky sticks and bread on the table, but for the first time in days—weeks—he didn’t feel hunger. Slaipe refilled Max’s glass, even though it was still half-full. Then the captain crouched over before the oven and began to build a fire, clumsily, rocking back and forth.
The Losing Role Page 17
