My French Whore

by Gene Wilder

  “I’ll give you three guesses what I really want,” I answered.

  She beamed. “Now let me see ... the chicken?”

  “No. ...”

  “The spaghetti?”

  “No. ...”

  “Don’t tell me it’s the liver sausage?” she asked.

  “No!”

  “Well, I give up,” she said. “What in the world could it be?”

  “A haircut!” I answered.

  She laughed so loud that I almost choked. I had never heard her truly laugh since I met her.

  “Are you serious?” she asked.

  “Very serious. It was brought to my attention yesterday that I don’t exactly look like a colonel when I have this hair falling over my collar in the back.”

  “Come with me, please,” she said.

  She led me into the kitchen. “Take off your shirt, please.” She went into the bathroom and came out with a big towel, which she spread onto the kitchen floor. She placed a chair on top of the towel.

  “Sit down, please.”

  When I sat down, she gave me a quick kiss and began snipping away at my hair. “I thought you were going to ask for something else,” she said.

  “I thought of that too—but I think this is more important, don’t you?”

  “Well, I certainly wouldn’t want you to get into trouble with your generals. How would it look if Harry Stroller, the famous spy, had hair that was one centimeter too long in the back? They might make you a private again.”

  Careful, Peachy... don’t show it on your face. “That would be embarrassing,” I said. “They might also take away my visiting privileges.”

  Annie sat on my lap. “All done!”

  “Already?”

  “One centimeter doesn’t take very long to cut.”

  “All right,” I said, “now what can I do for you?”

  She smiled, gave me a loving kiss, and then said, “A haircut!”

  “Are you joking?”

  “No, I need a haircut, too—but just a little one. Eva, the lady who cuts my hair, has gone to visit her father for two weeks. So ... can you cut my hair, Monsieur?”

  “Yes! I happen to be a very good hair cutter. You can ask my dog. Please sit down.” She sat down.

  “Do you want music?” I asked.

  “Oh yes. Please,” she said.

  I began cutting her hair, very carefully, as I sang, “If you were the only girl in the world, and I were—”

  There was a knock on the door. Annie got up while I put my shirt on. It was Joseph.

  “I’m so sorry to disturb you, sir, mademoiselle—”

  “That’s all right, Joseph. Is something wrong?” I asked.

  “Colonel Steinig sent a messenger to me. He asks if you would please come to see him as soon as possible. It’s something urgent. I’m so sorry for interrupting you, sir.”

  “That’s quite all right, Joseph. Do you have any idea what the urgency is about?” I asked, as I finished tucking in my shirt and putting on my jacket as Annie helped with my tie.

  “I have no idea, sir. The messenger only asked that I give you the message.”

  “I’ll be down in a minute.”

  “Yes sir. Thank you. Good day, mademoiselle.” Joseph left.

  I turned to Annie. “I’ll see you soon.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  SEVENTEEN

  WHEN I WALKED INTO STEINIG’S STUDY HE ROSE quickly, wished me a “Good morning,” and said that it was time to put me to work.

  “What is it you want me to do?” I asked—“More Shakespeare?”

  “It’s a surprise, Harry. You’ll see,” he answered, with a quizzical smile.

  A little panic rushed by. “Did someone ask for me?”

  “They all ask for you, Harry. You’re famous now. That’s because you have a good manager.”

  “Maybe I don’t pay you enough,” I said, trying to disguise my nervousness.

  “Up until now I’ve indulged you, Harry. I’ve also been boasting about you to every officer in my command. But now I want to see the real Harry Stroller in action. No more showing off at dinner parties—I want to see the ‘Master’ at work.”

  “I hope I don’t disappoint you,” I said.

  “So do I,” Steinig said, “because I want you to meet a special guest of ours.”

  “Someone big?” I asked.

  “Not so big ... but he’s an American.”

  We drove for about twenty minutes and arrived in Birkenfeld, a small and not very attractive town. We walked past the town square and into a prison that must have been a hundred years old. We stopped at the reception booth, where the sergeant on duty saluted us both, and then we walked down a flight of stairs into what seemed like a cellar.

  It was fairly dark inside, cold and damp, and smelled terribly. It took awhile for my eyes to adjust. Then I saw a short, comical-looking man in a major’s uniform, standing next to what appeared to be a wounded prisoner who was slumped over in a chair. A well-built guard stood behind him, holding a rifle. When the prisoner looked up, I saw that it was Captain Harrington.

  “Peachy,” he said in a hoarse voice, unaware, I think, that he had spoken. He seemed as startled to see me as I was to see him. He looked so thin and his hands and face seemed slightly blue.

  Feeling panic in my throat, I shouted, in English: “NOT A WORD! DON’T OPEN YOUR MOUTH—BECAUSE I DON’T WANT TO HEAR IT!”

  He looked confused, but I had to keep him from saying anything else, for both our sakes.

  “THEY WANT YOU TO SPEAK—I DON’T! SO IF YOU WANT TO LIVE—KEEP YOUR GODDAMN MOUTH SHUT!”

  I turned to the major and spoke in German.

  “Was he alone?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “What has he told you?”

  “Nothing, sir—he hasn’t spoken a word—not even his name. He must have been shot in the leg when the Americans attacked two weeks ago. Two of our soldiers found him lying unconscious in the middle of all the dead and wounded bodies between our trenches and theirs. When they saw that he was a kapitan they dragged him across the field to our trenches. Either his dog tags broke off as they dragged him or he threw them away, but they thought that if he really was a kapitan they should bring him in.”

  “That was smart. Has he had medical attention?” I asked.

  “One of our doctors treated his leg wound, but that’s all, sir,” the major answered.

  “Why do you have him in this rotten cellar?” I asked.

  “For interrogation only, sir—otherwise we keep him in a cell upstairs, in the main part of the prison. It has guards on duty at all times.”

  “Good.”

  “There has been a general attack in the region for the past three weeks, sir,” the major said. “Our Intelligence believes this is only a diversion—just to draw our reserves away from the area of their main attack—but we don’t know where or when that will be. That is what we were hoping this prisoner would tell us.”

  I walked up to Captain Harrington. He looked weak, but I could see that the spirit was still in his eyes and so was the little black hair coming out of the wart on his nose. I had no idea what to do. I tried to keep my pity from showing, so I started to babble away, in English, stalling for time until I could think of something.

  “You’ve had your hair cut recently, Captain,” I said, remembering very well when we all had our last haircut because the young barber nicked a piece of my ear and made it bleed.

  “Your hair is still uneven on the right side of your head—probably because you had it cut by some fool private who wants to be a barber.”

  Steinig had a strange look on his face, trying to figure out what the hell I was doing. I was trying to figure that out, too.

  “I would guess that your hair has only been cut once since you’ve arrived in France,” I said, “probably the Sunday before last, since I understand that all of you like to get your haircuts every other Sunday, after supper. You have more rituals in your army
than we do.”

  I glanced at Steinig, who looked terribly disappointed.

  “So,” I said, having found my inspiration, “since your regiment couldn’t have been at the front for more than three weeks ... that means ... that you must have sailed from New York at 6:30 a.m. on the 14th of May ... and landed at Saint-Nazaire at noon on June 1st.”

  I thought Major Heintz’s jaw was going to fall off of his face. Steinig looked on with wonder.

  “To my knowledge, the only American Division that landed in France in the last three weeks is the 2nd, commanded by Maj. Gen. O. for “OK” Barker ... and the only regiment in the Second Division—close enough to where you were captured—is the Ninth Regiment ... and the Ninth Regiment has made up a song—which I have heard— about one of it’s company commanders who has a small black hair coming out of a wart on his nose. So—I advise you to keep on your toes, CAPT. JOHN HAIR NOSE’ HARRINGTON FROM RHINELANDER, WISCONSIN!”

  Now Steinig was stunned. The major covered his mouth with both hands.

  As I looked at Captain Harrington I tried to develop a nervous wink in my left eye.

  “Now listen to me carefully, Captain Harrington, if you want to live. For three weeks there has been a general attack in this region, but this is only a diversion, am I right?”

  Captain Harrington rose to the occasion. “Yes,” he said, with a very serious face.

  “The main attack will be in quite a different place—is that not right, Captain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  The major and Steinig leaned forward slightly.

  “Switzerland,” Harrington answered.

  I was so shocked at his answer that I blurted out, “SWITZERLAND??”

  “Yes,” he said.

  The major said, “Sir, General Hoffman always insisted that we could outflank the French line by driving through Switzerland, but no one took him seriously.”

  Recovering from my near disaster, I said, “Hoffman is a good man. You had all better start listening to him.” Then I turned back to Captain Harrington.

  “Captain, this is only the beginning. I’ll be seeing you again very soon.”

  “Major!” I called out as I walked over to him. He quickly came to attention.

  “Sir!” he said.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Heintz, sir.”

  Then I spoke in a soft voice, almost a whisper, as if I didn’t want the prisoner to hear us. “What have you been feeding this man?”

  “Mostly hard biscuits and water,” Heintz whispered. “We thought that if he were hungry enough, and tired, he might start talking. It usually works, sir.”

  “Wrong!” I whispered, as if I were talking to a nincompoop. “That’s just what he wants. He’s trying to be a hero, don’t you see? The only way to reach a man like this is to soften him up, put him off his guard.”

  “Yes sir,” he said, with a questioning look. “Give him some hot soup tonight.” “Yes sir.”

  “And some duck.”

  “Duck?” Heintz whispered, unbelievingly.

  “Yes, duck—of course,” I whispered, “with red cabbage and some of those tiny roast potatoes. And give him very cold Champagne, even if he doesn’t want it, but you have to insist. Even force it on him. Is that clear?”

  “Yes sir.”

  I put my arm around Heintz’s shoulder and whispered, as if to a young student, “You understand what I’m trying to do, don’t you, Heintz?”

  “Oh yes, sir,” Heintz said with a smile.

  “If I should want to interrogate him again, which cell is he in?” I whispered, even more softly.

  “Cell number fourteen, sir,” he whispered.

  “What time do you go off duty, Heintz?”

  “At nineteen hundred hours, sir, when they change guards. But of course, if you should need me—”

  “No, no—nothing now—only when a good idea strikes me. Let’s wait a few days—then we’ll see what he has to say.”

  “Yes sir.”

  I returned to my normal voice: “All right—I’m finished!”

  I walked over to Steinig, who greeted me with a big smile and said, “Harry—if I hadn’t seen it, I wouldn’t have believed it.”

  “I know how you feel,” I answered.

  As we left the cellar, I took one more look at Captain Harrington. I thought I saw a hint of a smile on his face.

  My legs were trembling when we walked into the sunlight. I was so tense when I saw Captain Harrington, and so afraid of making some horrible error, that all my muscles tightened into knots. I tried to hide my nervousness on the ride back, making small talk with Viktor Steinig, even ridiculing what a simpleton the prisoner was.

  When we returned to his schloss, Steinig said he was going to have a working lunch with his staff and that I was welcome to join them, but he thought it would be a little boring after what he had just seen this morning.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” I said, and thanked him.

  I went up to my room and tried to think of some plan to save Captain Harrington, but the only ideas that came to me were bad ones and completely unrealistic. I couldn’t overpower two or three guards. I couldn’t overpower even one of them. I knew that the best time to do anything would be just after Heintz left, at 1900 hours—seven o’clock—but no ideas came. I decided to take a walk in the woods, hoping that without distractions, other than the birds and the deer, some inspiration might come.

  On my way out of the schloss I saw Steinig’s staff arriving—captains, majors, and colonels, along with their aides. The colonels were getting out of motorcycle sidecars, which were driven by their aides, mostly corporals, who were wearing long, beige riding jackets. The inspiration didn’t hit until I saw some of them taking off their goggles. All the aides were standing together, waiting, as they gossiped and smoked cigarettes. One of them noticed me and started to throw his cigarette away.

  “No, it’s quite all right, Corporal,” I said—“I was just admiring your motorcycle.”

  “Yes, sir. It’s an Alba, sir,” he said. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”

  “She certainly is.”

  As I walked around his Alba, pretending to be an expert, I remembered my passion for motorcycles from my teenage days. I had wanted one so badly, but I couldn’t afford to buy one. My best friend, Artie, used to let me ride his. He had to work every other Saturday, so on those days he let me take his cycle on long trips in the country.

  “Do you need a key for ignition or just a pedal?” I asked.

  “With the Alba we just have to pump the pedal a few times and off we go.”

  “Wonderful! Where do all of you park these beautiful machines when your work is done?” I asked.

  “Just north of here, sir—about a kilometer—just behind the old church,” he answered.

  “Please, relax now—enjoy your smoke. I shouldn’t be bothering you—this is your time off.”

  “Thank you, sir. Very kind of you,” he said.

  I rushed back to my room, put a pair of military trousers in my briefcase, took the pistol out of my underwear drawer and placed it in my briefcase. Then I walked outside again.

  I passed Steinig’s aide, who was standing on the steps, ushering in the last of the staff.

  “Lieutenant,” I said.

  He saluted. “Sir!”

  “Would you tell Colonel Steinig that I’m going for a walk this afternoon and that I’ll be dining with Mademoiselle Breton this evening?”

  “Of course, sir,” he said.

  I walked away, heading north toward the old church. When I saw it, I couldn’t understand why the corporal referred to it as the “old” church, since all the churches in Karlsruhe were ancient. This church was only a short walk from Annie’s apartment. I remembered hearing the church bells only too well, as they rang loudly every fifteen minutes, sometimes at the most intimate moments.

  I walked a little farther and saw a sign that read:

/>   MOTORRAD PARKHAUS

  I walked onto the grounds and saw three or four cycles parked there, but only two of them had sidecars. The other cycles must have been at the staff meeting, resting near the drivers who were waiting for their colonels to come out.

  An overweight guard with mustard on his chin hurried out of a small cabin and saluted me. He had a napkin tucked into his uniform. I told him I was a newcomer to Karlsruhe and was just inspecting the grounds. “Please, don’t disturb yourself,” I said. “Enjoy your lunch.”

  “Thank you, Colonel,” he said, saluted me once more and went back into his cabin to finish eating.

  As I walked around the grounds I came across what looked like a locker room. When I walked in I saw that there were toilets, showers, bottles of shampoo, towels, colognes, and even mats on the floor so that the drivers wouldn’t have to walk barefoot on the cement. Everything was spotlessly clean. Then I saw what I was looking for—a rack containing goggles, drivers’ caps, gloves, and the long, beige riding jackets that all the drivers were wearing at Steinig’s schloss. Everything seemed to be communal, because there were no names or numbers printed above them.

  I quickly took a pair of goggles, tried on a few caps until I found one that fit me, took a beige riding jacket and a pair of gloves, and squeezed all of it into my briefcase, with my Lugar resting on top. I walked out, slowly. When I was back in my room I took a pair of black socks from my drawer and, with my razor, cut out a crude eye patch that I hoped would look like the ones that so many German officers were wearing to cover an eye that they had lost in battle. I think they also thought that it was a sign of distinction, like a medal.

  Early that evening Joseph drove me to Annie’s apartment. I was wearing my dress uniform and carried my precious briefcase. I told Joseph to take his time and have a leisurely dinner; then come back and wait for me outside of Mademoiselle’s apartment.

  “I may be a very long time tonight, Joseph,” I said with a little smile.

  “I understand, Herr Stroller,” he answered, with a slight twinkle in his eyes.