“Annette would not approve of a fire so late,” Max said, and they shared a mischievous smile.
Slaipe got a good fire going. It cracked and popped behind the oven doors, and Slaipe sat back down. He gazed at Martin, sleeping down on the bedroll.
The Armagnac had loosened Max up. Feeling the warmth, he unbuttoned his overcoat. “You’re not so tough, CIC,” he said to Slaipe. “You made that fire for the kid Martin over there. That kraut.”
Slaipe slapped at his chest. “Got me. I’m really just a soft touch. Then again, it’s not as if the kid’s Waffen-SS, is he?”
Max smiled. They stared at the oven, as if they could see the fire. Slaipe nodded toward Martin. “They’re forcing my hand, you know—Old Henry and his soldier boy. Yours too.”
Forcing one’s hand—Max guessed it was a poker term. He chuckled, and he shook his head. “Sure, sure,” he mumbled.
“You don’t know what I’m talking about,” Slaipe said.
“Come again?”
“Come again? Don’t you think you’re overplaying it a bit? I mean, really.”
Max opened his mouth, but nothing came out. “How’s that?” he said finally.
“The whole mediocre Yank act. You’re no more a Babbitt than I am.”
Max didn’t know Babbitt either. He stared. He raised his eyebrows. He drank.
“That first day here, you didn’t even salute me. Taking it a little far, don’t you think? Even for an Ami.”
Dread and shock were working its way up Max’s chest and neck, a rolling shudder that sent him into a shrill giggle. “A what? What? Hey, I was just happy to see you guys.”
Slaipe was frowning, his lower lip jutting out. He had one arm down low, under the table. Max was sure Slaipe had his Colt aimed on him.
“That wasn’t the only thing that tipped me off,” Slaipe said. “That first day, you referred to our ‘insignia badges.’ It’s called ‘unit insignia’ in American English. In this man’s army.”
“What? No, I’ve heard lots of Joes say badge—”
“And, how could you have heard—only heard—about krauts in American uniform, if you hadn’t been behind American lines yet? If you hadn’t seen any. You couldn’t have known.”
Max hardened his jaw. “Look. Captain. This is silly, and quite frankly it’s beginning to insult me. You’ve had too much to drink. Perhaps—dare I say, you’ve been out in the field too long.”
“Oh, of that, you can be sure.” Slaipe stared, into Max’s eyes. Max let him. He didn’t blink. Finally, Slaipe said, “You were thinking of the word ‘Abzeichen,’ weren’t you? Did I pronounce it right? The German word for insignia, Smitty tells me, but it’s most often translated as ‘badge.’ I’ve noticed about five other examples, not to mention the variations in accent. I used to teach linguistics, you see, in another age. Another life.”
“Thus the interest,” Max said. He placed his hands flat on the table so the captain could see them. Slowly, he reached for the bottle of Armagnac.
“An ampule is a vial of morphine, by the way. You’ve done a fine job, don’t get me wrong. I especially like the way you handled Smitty in the kitchen earlier. For a while you even had me, let’s say, misdirected. I knew there was something funny about you. But I thought maybe you were only light in your loafers.”
Max wanted to laugh at that—Felix would have loved it. He could only grimace. “I’m not that way,” he said.
“Of course not. Ms. DeTrave can see that. And so I see it.”
They sat still a while, saying nothing. Thinking. Max had nothing more to offer. No line. No gesture or prop. Nothing. He shrugged once. Slaipe sighed.
“I’m an actor, you see,” Max said.
“I figured it was something like that.”
“You don’t need that pistol.”
“I didn’t think I would. You showed me that up in the tower yesterday. Retching like that—such disgust—is no acting job. That’s why I’m letting Smitty stay up there now. Still, I had to be sure you’d react like a wise man, which you are.”
“I’m not going to fight this, captain. Lock me in a room if you want, but you don’t have to worry about me.”
“No. We’ll keep the ammo away from you. You can keep your empty tommy for pride—a provisional souvenir. How’s that?” Slaipe attached a sad smile.
“Smitty won’t like it.”
“Tough. I’m his superior, and I believe in constructive punishment. You know what he wanted to do when I first suspected you might be a German? Strip you naked and send you out into the woods.”
“He must be ashamed of Germans. Of being one.”
“I suppose so. Your wars keep wrecking it for them back in the states. In our eyes you used to be something special. A little too literal and formal, but a classy folk. Now you’re looking far worse. You’re either Prussian Nazis or these poor refugees stripped of all dignity . . .” As Slaipe spoke he stood, the Colt in one hand, and moved around the table to Max. Max stood with hands up and Slaipe frisked him, slowly and thoroughly.
“So I’ve discovered,” Max said.
“This isn’t a stalemate, mind you. You’re done. I just don’t see any point in playing jail warden.” Slaipe emptied Max’s tommy clip and ammo bag and rummaged through Max’s knapsacks.
Max was still standing, though Slaipe had let him lower his hands. “How do you know I don’t have a weapon stashed somewhere?” Max said.
“Because you just mentioned it. There’s that and the fact that you could have tried it earlier and didn’t. Plus, I can tell you’re not stupid. It would get you nowhere.”
Perhaps there was another way to get to America, Max thought. He could provide intelligence to the Americans. Other captured Germans were doing it. He didn’t know much, but he had fought the Russians, who the Americans were sure to face someday. It didn’t have to be so bad. A few days of interrogation and then a modest sentence back in America. “You’re not stupid either, Captain Slaipe,” he said.
“Thanks. Now, why don’t you take a seat?” Max sat. Slaipe sat across from him and topped off their glasses. “So. A few questions, if you don’t mind. You mentioned being in America. About discovering things.”
Max told Slaipe everything. He told him his real name, Max Kaspar. He revealed his stage name of Maximilian von Kaspar and he and the captain shared a laugh over that. Max told the American more than he’d probably told even Felix Menning. America chewed him up, he admitted, because he didn’t adapt. He’d been too rigid. You have to be a chameleon to make it, but he wouldn’t turn the right color. He couldn’t get the roles because of that. Worst of all, he’d made a grave mistake by leaving America in ’39. If he could only have a second chance, knowing what he did now, then he would make it right. That was why he went on the mission. It wasn’t to defeat Americans. It certainly wasn’t to kill American generals. Odd as it sounded, it was for freedom. To make a new start.
Captain Slaipe said he believed Max. He had worked with émigré artists’ relief organizations in New York State. They might have even run into each other before the war, he said. So he understood Max’s plight. Max had not been a persecuted German, that was his problem. He hadn’t fit in. Wrong place at the wrong time.
“Yes, yes, that’s it exactly,” Max said. “You understand it better than my agent.” He had dropped the casual American bit—the carefree speech, the ready smiles and the hanging of his arms and legs off every ledge in sight. He even let his accent slip. “And then to think that such a crude and silly secret mission would help me come back to America? This was my little plan, Herr Kapitän—cross over the Meuse. And how close I was. But what a fool I am, too.”
Slaipe was frowning. He didn’t seem to enjoy the real Max. “Well, here’s a bitter pill for you,” he said. “You can’t go back. You can’t because that part of your life is already gone and you can’t bring it back. Even if there wasn’t a war on. You’re a different person now. We all are. The Meuse is more than just a river, K
aspar. No, the main thing now is, to make this right. For what you have done. All of you. And that’s not about place. It’s about deeds.”
Deeds? Max didn’t want to hear it. All his life he’d been preached to about proper deeds, conduct, performances. He was tired. He just needed to think.
“Yes, I understand, captain,” he muttered.
Annette had left out a second bedroll, in the corner across from young Martin. Justine’s blanket sat on top, neatly folded. Max heaved himself up, shuffled over, and unrolled his new roost. “Now, if you don’t mind, I think I’d like to retire. And then I will think about what you say.”
“Of course, of course. But first I’m afraid I have more details to go over.”
Max nodded, wearily, and sat up, his back to the rough old bricks. Slaipe had a notebook out on the table, and a fine Parker pen. Max knew what Slaipe needed now—intelligence, the nuts and bolts. He told the captain about his jeep team and about Felix Menning, and even Zoock. Still, he left out Rattner and the incident with the MPs.
“All right. What about Malmedy?” Slaipe said.
“What about it? We were never there. You think I could do something like that?”
“They’ll think you were involved. You’re SS, officially.”
“I discarded my tunic. I was never in the SS. They made me wear it. Said we wouldn’t be shot as spies if we wore them underneath.”
Slaipe nodded along. He probably knew all this. “Doesn’t matter. It’s in your sector,” he said. He scribbled notes and stared at them, for what seemed like minutes. “So, let’s go over this. This sailor, Zoock. If he’s as clever—and harmless—as you say, and his American English that good, he might be the only one who could make it. Not a problem there. Now, I’ve heard of your comrade Menning, I have to tell you. Hauptgefreiter Felix Menning, right?—a.k.a. Corporal Herb Fellowes. He’s to be shot. Firing squad. Today or tomorrow. As soon as they’re done questioning him.”
It was a bluff. The captain was trying to spook him. Menning would never let himself be caught. “How do you know this?” Max blurted.
“I have a radio, remember? We do get through now and then. They caught Menning near Spa, trying to infiltrate First Division HQ. You’re all being shot. There’s a farmhouse, just north of Spa. It has a good and tall stone wall for it . . .”
“The little devil,” Max grunted in German, “that skinny goddamn juggler.” He jumped up and marched around the room, his neck and head hot, his hands balled into fists. He kicked at the table bench. “Why are you telling me this? I might do something stupid now. Isn’t that right? I could. Kill you. Kill them. Anyone.”
“No. Not you. Listen. Sit down. I saw the first of the firing squads, you know that? On my way here. Four men—from your Jeep Team E, I think it was. Have you seen one of these things? How they do it? A grisly act, to be sure. They stand you up against a post, tie your hands behind your back. Pin a little round white piece of paper to your heart as a target. Offer you a cigarette, if you’re not jittering too much to keep the thing in your mouth. A priest asks you, do you have any last words? That was the turning point. All four of those men’s heads were high until then. Then, in an instant, three of them cracked. Vomiting, shrieking. Crying for his mother, one of them. And the fourth? Shouted Heil Hitler, of all things. What a sap.”
“Please, captain, get to your point.”
“My point being, none of them saw it coming—not one of those men had a clue how this game is really played. But then again, they were a bunch of amateurs, weren’t they? Chefs, and dancers, and writers . . .”
Max slumped over the table. “Very well, captain. So you want something. What is it you want?”
“That’s just the thing. I’m not sure I have any leeway here. They’ll want your head just the same.” Slaipe tapped his pen at the notebook, and his chin. “But I’m working on it, and I’ll be sure to let you know if I find a way.”
As Slaipe spoke Max, out of the corner of his eye, spotted Justine DeTrave’s immaculate blue loafers planted at the top of the stairs. He stood. “Who’s there? We’re fine here. Everything’s fine,” he shouted in his best American English.
Finally, Slaipe left Max alone to sleep. Max left one candle flickering, crawled onto his bedroll, and closed his eyes, taking deep breaths. How could he sleep? He turned on his side and watched the young soldier, Martin. Martin snored a bit, and he groaned at times. His eyelids twittered. His eyes opened. He stared.
“I thought you were an Ami,” he said in blunt schoolboy German.
“I am,” Max said in English.
“Weren’t you speaking German?”
“What? No. Forget it. It’s the morphine. You’re dreaming.”
The kid blinked, twice. “You changed sides? Is that it?”
Max sighed. “I never took sides,” he said in German. “Not ever. Perhaps that’s my problem.”
“I never did either. So, how can we change sides then? If we’ve never taken any?”
“I don’t know. You tell me. Now go to sleep. And keep this our secret, clear?”
Martin nodded and turned over.
Some time later, Max woke—to fingers on his lips. Soft, warm, lean fingers. Justine DeTrave was hovering over him.
“Me, I become cold now,” she whispered in French. She let loose her hair, and it tickled Max’s forehead. Even her hair was warm. Kissing him, caressing him, and murmuring in French she worked her way in, and down, under his borrowed old blanket.
Twenty-Two
After, they slept. Max woke once. He had never been so warm since being drafted. He lay on his stomach. Justine DeTrave was snoring, lightly, like a cat purring. She had curled up behind him, grasping at him, with one leg up around his waist and the other tucked under him, her toes in the bend of his leg. Of course, she’d used the same maneuver as Liselotte. If only this were Liselotte. Together they would have worked this out. He would come up with a grand scheme and Liselotte, ever the composed diva, would follow it through. She’d appeal to Captain Slaipe in language he understood. How many auditions, roles, and engagements had they landed each other this way? She was the one who had made Hitler’s New Germany bearable. It had been an even harder trick to pull off, and yet she’d managed it until well into 1941.
Spring 1941. April 8. The first dark hours of a rainy Tuesday in Hamburg. Max, in bed, heard a droning from far above. He’d heard it many times since the Battle of Britain began—another wave of German bombers heading for England. He rolled over, pulled a pillow over his head. Yet the droning didn’t pass. It grew louder, rougher. This wave was roaring low and coming their way. Above the city, the flak bursts cracked and popped.
Max jumped from bed. The windows shook. Dust fluttered from the ceiling. He yelled for Liselotte. She was long gone. She’d risen well before sunrise to hit the open-air markets down by the wharf as she so often did, to connect with the “real folks,” as she called them. Max grabbed his dressing robe, stumbled down the stairs and out, joining the stream of neighbors into the new air-raid shelter two streets over, asking—shouting—again and again had anyone seen Liselotte Auermann? No one had. They huddled down there as the upper world boomed, rocked, hissed. People slapped their hands over their ears and hugged children they didn’t know. Minutes became hours. The air turned stale and hot with the stench of sweat, worry, hungry breath. Max did his part. He’d helped the old folks down, and when the bombing and flak ceased, he sang for the children. His dear Liselottchen would have done the same, he was certain of it. She was probably doing it for the fishmongers’ Kinder down in a shelter by the harbor.
Three hours later Max returned to their building. The apartment was intact. Liselotte had not returned. Out their window, their lovely harbor view was a hell scene. Rampant fires and black pillars of smoke rose into the dim clouds, which reflected red and orange and seemed to churn like hot lava. Ships had strayed about the harbor and the water shined black, slick with oil. The silhouettes of familiar buildings had vanish
ed, replaced by storms of dust; and even with his windows closed a reek of soot, burning rubber, and what smelled like rotting meat had settled into the room. The phone lines were down. He tuned their radio to the BBC, not caring who heard him. London was reporting that almost 300 British bombers had hit Hamburg, the first major air raid on Germany in retaliation for months of major German strikes suffered in the Battle of Britain. Over in Piccadilly and on Trafalgar they sang and danced. In his apartment, Max sat on the floor and waited. After two hours he left a note and headed for the harbor wearing only an overcoat over his robe and boots he borrowed from the concierge.
On the way he checked with friends and acquaintances, their restaurants and bars. No one had seen Liselotte. He headed toward the smoking harbor district with his silk handkerchief pressed to his mouth, tiptoeing around the wild flowing streams of sewer water and oily mud. The closer he got to the harbor, the more horrific the scenes. Firefighters had laid out rows of corpses. He sidestepped them, looking away. When he pressed on, climbing over rubble when he had to, he saw the corpses were everywhere, half-buried some of them, roasted brown and purple and black. Tiny blue flames flashed from them, and puddles of their own melted fat began to firm up like jelly. Deep under the rubble people screamed and moaned, their genders unintelligible. Then Max heard gurgling sounds. Boilers had burst, leaving steaming bubbling pools in which flesh and bone cooked, bobbing at the surface like noodles and dumplings. Was he really seeing this? This was the war the party fat cats wanted? Goebbels would later proclaim this madness “Total War”? Apartments fire-bombed, the children boiled in their own bath water? And the Allies, they called it “Strategic Bombing”?
The harbor district was off-limits. It was far too dangerous, the guards told Max. The British bombers had hit everything—the open-air markets, rows of apartments, even two bomb shelters. Max hurried on, the handkerchief now tied over his mouth. At the nearest hospitals they could tell him nothing. They were sorry but he would just have to wait. He returned to the apartment after midnight. The phones were still down, but the electricity worked. Yet he didn’t bother to switch on a lamp. He sat in the dark, on the bed, and waited for first light. The clouds reflected red and orange well into the next day. The carnage created a stench that smoldered and shifted with the wind. Down at the harbor Max joined the “rubble gangs” who cleared debris and bodies. He worked there for days, from dawn until dusk. He extracted many bodies. They never found hers.
The Losing Role Page 18
