How could Max argue with that? Any food would make his rations last longer. He sat back on the settee and listened to Justine DeTrave’s feet pitter-patter down the hallway. Just having her in the room seemed to have warmed it up. He placed his tommy gun on the floor, and his gear. He stretched out. He closed his eyes, but he did not sleep. He imagined himself as he had Zoock with a café owner’s daughter. They would feast together. Drink wine. He thought he’d caught a twinkle in Justine’s eyes and he hoped it was not simply a reflection of the snow outside. If she demanded his secret in the heat of passion, he would admit that, yes, he was an American deserter, and she was all he had now . . . He smoked another Chesterfield. Who cared if they ran out? Women made the worst times bearable.
She was coming back. He sat up. The pitter-patter was faster, louder, more like a rumble. He grabbed his tommy, shoved the knapsacks under the settee and crawled behind the desk, crouching. Slowly, he released the safety.
“Lieutenant? Meester Price,” Justine was saying.
Max heard the jingle jangle of gear, and the heavy breathing of men. They were in the doorway. He stayed down.
“Lieutenant, you in here?” said a new voice. It sounded American, but refined. Max lifted the bottom hem of linen and saw the muddied, snow sodden boots of two Americans. A second voice said, “Sir? Can ya come on out? The good lady brought us up.” This other voice was twangy, the words leaning up against one another.
“Who goes there?” Max growled. “Password?”
A chuckle. “Shee-it. Sir, know you must be good and rattled, but you’re in good hands—”
“Stand up, Lieutenant,” said the refined voice. “That’s an order.”
Max rose, aiming the tommy. At the doorway, two Americans smiled at him. They had their hands up, but only halfway. One was a captain, the other a sergeant. A black pipe hung from the captain’s mouth and the sergeant smacked gum.
“All right, then,” Max said. What else should he say? Stock phrases swirled in his head.
“Had enough? Happy now?” said the sergeant.
“Boy, am I glad to see you guys,” Max said. He set the tommy down.
“Likewise,” said the captain.
“Sorry. Just can’t tell who’s who these days,” Max added.
“Ain’t that the whole truth?” said the sergeant.
Justine was peaking in from the hallway, rubbing her hands together. The captain smiled for her. “See now, Ms. DeTrave? Everything’s fine.”
“Yes, yes, I see,” Justine said, but her fingers were twitching—trembling with fear. That’s why she was rubbing them together. Odd, Max thought. The newly liberated don’t tremble. They hug, they sing, they kiss and dance, but they don’t tremble. Max was the one who should be trembling, and the very thought made his blood rush.
He put on the biggest grin he had. “No, just can’t tell who’s who,” he repeated as he strode over to the doorway, his arms out wide for handshaking.
Eighteen
“What was that about a password?” the sergeant said as Max, still grinning, shook the sergeant’s hand. The hand was cold—the sergeant had come in from outside.
“Nothing, nothing. I was only hoping to trick you off guard. Ha ha.” Max stepped over to shake the captain’s cold hand. “Name’s Price—Julian Price.”
The captain looked Max straight in the eyes. “Lost your way, Price?” he said. Max nodded. “Join the club, then. It appears we’re only a little less lost than you.”
Justine DeTrave had stopped trembling, yet her frown returned. “I come back,” she said and marched off down the hallway.
Max stuck his head out to her. “One moment, honey. Where’s the chow?—you know, the food?”
Justine held up a hand, her back to him. “Yes. I come back. You will wait in the den room.”
Max sighed and threw up his hands. He turned to the two Americans. The grin on his face felt silly, if not grotesque, yet it terrified him to let it fade. In this moment it might be the only thing keeping him American. The captain and sergeant stood shoulder to shoulder, eyeing him. They stopped smiling. “Boy, am I glad to see you guys,” Max repeated, and he patted the sergeant on the arm.
The captain shifted his pipe to the other side of his mouth. “Lucky man.”
“Yes. That’s me.” Max yawned, and let the sickly stupid grin fall away. He slapped his hands together. “All right. So what’s the latest?”
“Good. Right. We’ll trade stories, compare facts,” the captain said. The sergeant pulled the linen off the desk to reveal a grand Empire replica. He whistled and felt the shiny, gold-inlaid top, dropped his map case and helmet on it, and sat on a corner.
Max remained standing, in case he had to flee.
“This isn’t an inquiry,” the captain said.
“Ha! No, of course, not.” Max’s grin was back.
“So have a seat, let’s rest our bones.” The captain stretched out on the settee, letting one leg hang off the side. The sergeant brought two wooden chairs from a corner. He and Max sat in the hard chairs, their backs to the desk and the bright window light in their eyes, so that the captain appeared almost in silhouette.
“My name is Slaipe—Aubrey Slaipe,” the captain said, sliding his pipe into a trouser pocket. He introduced the sergeant as Smitty. Sergeant Smitty smacked gum and nodded. “What’s your unit?” Captain Slaipe asked Max. Max told him, handed over his papers. Captain Slaipe turned to the window and studied the documents, cradling them in both hands as if they held gold dust.
Sergeant Smitty shot Max a half-smile, as if to say, sorry for taking up your time.
They kept to general questions about Max’s unit makeup, sector, losses. Max answered as he was trained, sparing no details. He reacted as the theater trained him, drawing from life experience. His unit didn’t know what hit them, he said. He saw friends die. They asked about his time lost behind enemy lines. He told of hiding in dark woods and damp barns as roaring, clanking panzers passed. He kept his sentences short. He mispronounced French and German words on purpose. He mumbled the tough American words and lost his train of thought on purpose, blaming it on the shell shock. He kept his overcoat on, his scarf tight.
As they spoke, Captain Slaipe kept Max’s papers tucked in his breast pocket. He removed his helmet to reveal the balding, graying head of a middle-aged businessman, although he must have been no more than Max’s age. And he was no mere businessman. He spoke with the eloquence of diplomats and professors. His pronunciation of nearby towns revealed he probably knew French. His skin was pink and clean-shaven. Max wondered how he kept it that way. Perhaps he could grow no whiskers, like an albino? His eyes were large with lots of white. Yet the man was also handsome in the same way a mentor or a philosopher was handsome—he exuded wisdom and principle, but also detachment. In an American movie, a dour sort like Fredric March would play him. As for Sergeant Smitty, he was more the All-American type. He had a round face, perfect white teeth, a ready smile. He was younger but certainly no fool, and he showed a dark streak. Max imagined him a crackerjack detective or lawyer in a small town. Captain Slaipe called him his driver and German interpreter. Most likely, Smitty was short for Schmidt or something longer—Schmidtbauer perhaps? Max would have liked to inquire, but the more he talked and reacted, the more they’d ask and the sooner he’d give himself away. Luckily, they seemed little interested in who Julian Price was and what he did back home. These were not average American soldiers. They weren’t even hard-boiled. They were too smart for that.
“So. Enough about you,” Slaipe said. He told Max the big picture. The Germans had advanced farther west than where they were now. Yet the Americans were counterattacking and the situation was volatile in every front-line sector for fifty miles north and a hundred miles south. This sector, this valley, appeared to be cut off, neither behind German nor American lines. It wasn’t even a no-man’s land. It was simply ignored. It had no vital bridges, crossings, or depots. From this Max deduced what he could. Th
ey probably had a field radio, he thought, since they knew the present situation far better than he. They might even belong to a type of commando team, for he had noticed they didn’t wear unit badges on their sleeves. Slaipe finished by scratching his pink forehead and raising eyebrows at Max. “Any questions?”
“Not especially,” Max said. “I know your names. What’s your unit?”
“Special outfit,” Smitty said. “We’re doing recon,” Slaipe added. They had put their smiles back on. Smitty stretched his arms up behind his head and crossed his legs. He said, “Well. Where you think that woman run off too, anyways?”
“Search me,” Max said. How long could he keep this up? They drank from their canteens. They smoked. They talked about the villa and the state of modern architecture, which Max pretended to know nothing about. Slaipe knew his Le Corbusier. Smitty pronounced Walter Gropius like a native. Yet they kept their guns close, Max noticed. Smitty’s tommy was slung on his shoulder, while Slaipe’s Colt stayed on his hip in a holster.
“You know about the krauts in GI uniforms, I take it,” Smitty said.
“What? I heard of it. Sure.”
“See any?” Slaipe said.
Max laughed—a little too loud and harsh, he thought. “How would I tell? Do I just ask them, which way to Berlin?”
“Fine. Just asking.”
“You have been lost in the woods, haven’t you?” Smitty said.
“Maybe. Maybe I have,” Max said. “I thought you said this was no interrogation.” He grimaced down at his boots in anger and thought of spitting but didn’t want to overplay it. Instead, he let his knee bounce in frustration.
“I believe my word was ‘inquiry,’” Slaipe added.
Max stood but sat back down, shaking his head. “This is what I deserve? A guy goes through what I have, then he gets a third degree?”
“Okay, pal,” Smitty said, “okay. Nobody’s roughing you up.”
“It’s just habit,” Slaipe said. “That’s all it is. We’re curious guys.”
The offended bit seemed to be working. The audience was in the moment, and Max milked it. He sighed and paced around the room, glaring out the window. “Maybe I should just push on, find some dogfaces who could use the company.”
“All right now. No need for that, Price.”
Slaipe was holding out Max’s papers. “Sorry. Okay?”
“Okay.” Max took the papers. “Who did you say you are? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you two are those phony krauts.” He added another laugh. “Heck, you don’t even have any unit badges on your sleeves.”
Slaipe and Smitty shared a glance.
“You’ve made your point,” Slaipe said. “Again, I apologize.”
“Fine, sir. Then I too am sorry.” Max slumped down on his hard chair.
They sat in silence, staring at their cigarettes. Slaipe emptied out his pipe, banging it against the wall.
Max had to find out more. Knowledge meant survival. He shrugged, exhaled. “I can say one thing, you guys know a great deal. Real up-to-the-minute. I’ll bet you even have a field radio.”
“I’m not a betting man,” Slaipe said. “Yes, we have a radio.”
“But, you can’t get through.”
“Comes and goes,” Smitty said.
Slaipe seemed to have lost interest. He’d laid back and closed his eyes.
“The captain said this valley’s forgotten,” Max said. “How do you know?”
“Scouting party,” Smitty said.
Max’s sick smile returned. “There more of you guys? That would make me feel better.”
Smitty looked to Slaipe. His eyes still closed, Slaipe said, “Had a team of GIs with us. Last time we sent them out, they never came back. It’s been hours now.”
“Oh. That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“We said this place is ignored. That doesn’t mean it’s safe,” Smitty said. He shook his head. “Who knows what’s out in those woods? Violent deserters? Hungry bear, and none too happy. Wild boar? Fierce SS stragglers bent on killing. Could be krauts left over from World War I, for all we know.”
They heard footsteps. Justine DeTrave charged in and, seeing the Empire desk, hurried to recover it. She heaved Smitty’s map case and helmet into his lap. “What is the meaning?” she hissed.
Slaipe sat up. “Please Madame, the sergeant meant no harm,” he said in excellent French. “He only wished a peek at your fine desk. It helps us feel normal, no? Like something akin to humans?” He added a comically French shrug, and said to Smitty in English, “Smitty here, he really wants to be a desk soldier when he grows up.”
Smitty and Slaipe laughed. Max joined in, though he didn’t get the joke.
Justine’s arms were crossed high on her chest. She had on a frilled apron, which, considering her personality and elegant dress, looked like something she would only wear at gunpoint. She said in French, “When you are finished with my den, I will provide food. Follow me,” and she turned and left, her taut ponytail swinging.
Max pretended not to understand. He stared at Smitty, who said, “I didn’t get all that—Captain?”
“She’s got your chow, Price,” Slaipe said to Max. He had his pipe and a bag of tobacco out in his lap. “You go on ahead. We’ll be down in a minute. How about it?”
“Starving,” Max muttered. He stood, grabbed his chair and set it back in the corner. Then he went to the settee and reached under for his knapsacks. That left only his tommy gun, behind the desk. It wasn’t there.
“Looking for this?” Slaipe said. The gun stood below the window, behind the settee. Like magicians, Slaipe and Smitty had somehow managed to move it.
“If you think I should take it,” Max said.
“Oh, I would. I don’t trust that woman.”
“No, I guess you’re right.” Max slung the tommy upside down on his shoulder and backed out of the room. At the doorway he stopped himself from straightening to attention and saluting. “Well, see you soon,” he said and turned out into the hallway.
Justine was waiting for him down around the first corner, her hands on her hips. “Come with me. Never will you find your way through this maze when I don’t help you.”
You got that right, Max thought in German. “Ain’t that the truth,” he said in English. They passed through two of the rooms, down short stairs, and then up again.
Max grabbed her by an elbow, pulled her behind a semicircular partition and held her by the shoulders.
“Why didn’t you tell me those two were here?” he whispered.
Justine opened her mouth, surprised. “Tell you? But they were not here, not right here in this house,” she said. “They were hiding outside, in the guesthouse.” She smiled, and it brought lovely dimples to her cheeks. She writhed her shoulders just a little. Max released her, but stood close. She held her chin high, to meet his, and said, softly, “I must confess, Meester Price, I was not sure what I do. I thought it better simply to throw all you men together and comprehend what happens.” She was whispering now. She peeked around the partition. “There is something different about those two, do you not think? They are not the average American. But then again, you are not. Somehow. Mystérieusement. As you say, one just cannot tell who is the who.”
Nineteen
Max followed Justine DeTrave through a bare modern kitchen of chromium counters, Bakelite knobs, and linoleum flooring. She opened a pitted iron door, and they descended a steep stone stairway so old the steps were bowed from use. They emerged in a cellar with an arched ceiling and walls of thick red brick. Max’s eyes had to adjust to the dim yellow light. Candles in iron sconces illuminated the rectangular main room. In the middle ran a wooden table. At the far end was a hallway with more rooms (for food and wine storage, Max hoped), and at their end stood a wide, black fireplace stove. The oven doors were closed, but the crackling sound and the warmth on Max’s cheeks meant a good fire was roaring inside. Justine could not have made that fire. Her apron was as spotless as ever.
“So. This, below earth, is from the original maison,” Justine said. “Is comfortable, no? The Germans say ‘gemütlich.’ Sit now.”
“Cozy, do you mean? It certainly is that.” Max sat at the table, unbuttoning his overcoat. The cellar was warm but also damp, and it reeked of soot and mold.
Justine lit the fat candle on the table and shouted in a singsong voice: “Allo Annette, allo, the first one is here.”
An old woman appeared from down the hallway wearing a thick black knitted shawl and white hair pulled back tight like Justine’s. She had a purple splotch across her forehead that had to be a birthmark. Max smiled as she shuffled past. She raised a hand and grumbled in French: “Don’t tell me—I suppose you’re hungry, Monsieur.”
Max, pretending not to understand, grinned at Justine. “This is all quite Old World, don’t you think? In a fine way, I mean. It’s quaint.” Medieval was more like it. But he was playing the new world innocent now, and not without irony: Quaint, Old World—how many times had New Yorkers slapped such naive labels on him?
“If you like,” Justine said with a shrug. Annette set down battered pewter plates and silverware, a bowl of soup, porcelain pot, a loaf of dark bread, and then she waddled back down the hallway. A door creaked shut. Watching her, Justine said, “How do you say? Annette is domestic staff. She is the only one now. What am I to do? Release her out, into the snow? So go on. You eat.”
“It’s very kind of you,” Max said. He had been dreaming of a meaty Belgian stew with frites. He got a soup that tasted like salty milk. Justine said it was supposed to be buttermilk soup with apples—a Belgian specialty, but they had no butter and certainly no apples. In the pot was sweet red cabbage and on a plate poached eggs in aspic with parsley. Not bad there. He tore at the bread with difficulty. The crust had turned tough, but the middle was still soft. He couldn’t complain. He wanted to tell her he’d been a baker but wouldn’t that be revealing too much of himself?
The Losing Role Page 15