The Losing Role

by Steve Anderson

  Even Justine could see the party was stalling, so she called for Annette to break out the family stash of fruit beer. The fine beer helped the mood. For it Old Henry proclaimed Justine a “heilige Jungfrau”—a virgin saint, and Slaipe, amused, called the peach brew a splendid substitute for champagne. Justine then called for the Armagnac, and Old Henry proclaimed her an angel from heaven. Yet Justine hardly smiled. She refused to engage Slaipe in conversation, and Smitty glared as if this was Max’s fault.

  Max only smiled back. He was glad the talk had not turned to back home, where one was from, whom they loved. They were living in the moment, and he was through with the lies. Didn’t the Armagnac follow the fruit beer quite nicely? And he was feeling lighthearted. He was still alive, despite it all. He toasted to this, under the bland ruse of “Here’s to our continued good health—and to surviving this goddamned war.” All hoisted their glasses, even Martin, whose glass was a metal canteen cap of the blood and spit he kept coughing up.

  By now Annette and Old Henry had joined up at one end of the table, thick Annette perched on the little man’s lap, and they smooched, laughing and flirting in their peculiar pidgin of French and German. Admiring them, Justine moved closer to Max. Soon she was practically nuzzling up to him, her skin hot. As Slaipe watched her, his smile faded. He and Smitty shared a sobering glance. Max spread out, arms on the table, to give himself some room. This only brought Justine closer. She caressed Max’s leg under the table and began to whisper in his ear, in French.

  “I want to sing,” Max blurted to the group. “Wouldn’t that be nice on Christmas?”

  Justine pouted, folding her arms high on her chest, but Old Henry stomped his feet, saying, “Yes, yes, we sing. Who wants to sing?” and Martin banged his metal cup against the cellar stone.

  Smitty barked: “Sure, Price, let’s have a song.” Was he challenging Max? Just then, Max realized he didn’t know any Christmas songs in English. Luckily, Old Henry pushed Annette off him, stood on his chair, stretched out his arms and began a shaky rendition of In dulci jubilo—“Now Sing We, Now Rejoice.” He halted, began in again, but had to stop. Drunk now, he’d forgotten lyrics he’d probably known since boyhood.

  “Come now, come back down, Heinchen,” Annette said, her eyes glazed with sadness, and Henry slumped back in his chair, muttering.

  Silence. Max drank and stared into his glass. They all drank. Slaipe watched Max. Smitty watched Slaipe. Justine glared, at all of them.

  “Now, I like that you sing,” someone said. It was Young Martin.

  “Sorry kid, I’m not such a good singer,” Max said, eyeing Slaipe and Smitty. “Anyone else?”

  Martin opened his mouth to protest, but a horrid screeching cough hit him. It echoed in the cellar and left him shaking, sweating.

  Slaipe focused on the young soldier, his eyes glazed like Annette’s. “Go on,” he said to Max. “For the kid.”

  Singing could give Max away. Already Justine knew. Martin suspected him, and Annette and Old Henry had to have their suspicions. Yet if they all grasped, openly, that he was a German in disguise, then the balance was thrown completely. It would be just like Justine had wanted it—Slaipe and Smitty against the four of them (five, including Martin). Yet Slaipe was going to take his chances with Max? Max could not let him down.

  Justine was caressing Max’s knee again, keeping him still. He removed her hand, rose, and walked around the table. All watched. He stood near to Martin. He unbuttoned his tunic, took a deep breath, and began, in baritone:

  Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht

  Alles schläft, einsam wacht . . .

  “Silent Night,” in German. As Max sung, Annette and Old Henry’s eyes opened wider, and their faces lost color. Without background music it was clear Max was a native German. Max sung on, the third verse now. Old Henry looked to Smitty and mouthed, “Is it true?” Smitty nodded, grimly. Meanwhile, Justine’s eyes narrowed and her face went red—she had recognized Old Henry’s loyalty to the Americans. Down on the floor Young Martin was beaming, calm and unshakeable now, his shoulders squared high up against the brick wall. Max’s chest filled with warmth as he returned to the first verse, his voice rising.

  “. . . Slee-eep in heavenly peace,” Slaipe began, singing in English. Annette and Old Henry joined in, with French and German. Smitty was swaying to the melody; he took a big gulp of brandy and began in English. Then even Justine sang, in French. Young Martin grinned and mouthed along to the words. Smitty sang the German, and tears ran down his cheeks that he rubbed with his thick fingers.

  Third verse again. Max ended, and the chorus died out. More silence. Eyes met around the room. “You’ll want an explanation,” Max said in German. “All of you. I’ve been found out, you see. Yes, I am a German. I was sent out undercover. But my mission is over. And make no mistake—I’m not sad. I think this might be the best thing that ever happened to me.” As Smitty interpreted for Slaipe, Max lifted his glass from the table and held it high, as in toast.

  Slaipe nodded a thank you and lifted his glass. Old Henry and Annette hoisted theirs and clapped and hooted and Young Martin banged his cup.

  “Never mind all that—how about another song?” Old Henry roared, and Max could only oblige. He did some classics in German—“The Faithful Hussar,” “Lili Marleen,” of course, “Mack the Knife” even, and he busted out the American standards. Smitty of all people requested “Mairzy Dotes” and Max let him lead. Then, Max took a chance. He did his old Hitler impersonation just as he’d done on the Eastern Front. He pranced around and shook his fists and played up the Austrian dialect. He spat and stomped and sweated. Annette and Old Henry, Slaipe and Young Martin loved it. Smitty laughed out loud. “Not bad,” he said, clapping. “Chaplin’s is better, but I gotta say it’s nicht schlecht.”

  Justine DeTrave sat in shock, her face taut. She stood and marched up the stairs, mechanically, her arms stiff at her sides.

  After Midnight. It was Christmas Day now. Annette and Old Henry had retired to their cellar room down the hall, and Young Martin slept. Smitty had taken the tower watch, where he’d sleep off the beer and Armagnac. Justine had not returned. Only Max and Slaipe sat at the cellar table. Slaipe, weary yet content, had been asking Max about the German lines to “Stille Nacht,” comparing the English to the German, Latin and French versions, but now they sat in quiet, with a couple candles left flickering. Max said:

  “I’m not fooling myself. I understand that your trust—however much I appreciate it—does not simply come from your heart. It comes from the mind, also.”

  “That’s right, Kaspar. I’m making an investment.”

  “Certainly. And, you have something in mind for me.”

  Slaipe placed both elbows on the table. He reached for the empty Armagnac bottle, and set it among the empty bottles of beer and uneaten pieces of Annette’s horrid Christmas cake. “You could go back,” he said.

  “Back. Back?”

  “Across the Rhine. Back into Germany. Your homeland. Return. This time, it’s for us. You’d be working for us. Contact underground resistance if there is any. Then, after, who knows? All the doors might reopen for you. Your crimes forgotten.”

  Max hadn’t considered this. He forced out a chuckle.

  “I can’t promise it, of course,” Slaipe added.

  It was the last thing Max wanted. America was supposed to be all that was left to him. Slaipe knew it. “Captain, this is quite a surprise. I did have hopes for providing intelligence to you, but not in this manner . . .”

  As Max spoke, Slaipe rearranged the bottles like pieces on a chessboard. He popped a chunk of the cake in his mouth, chewing slowly. He swallowed and said, “The main problem with that is, we already have scores of VIPs—Nazis far more important than you—who are ready to talk. And when Germany surrenders? Our lists are just too long for a small fry like you. No offense. You just don’t have much to offer there. And you owe us a great deal.”

  “I see. No, no offense taken. Though I
’m not a Nazi.”

  “Of course not. Just a figure of speech.”

  “Fine. So there’s that. There’s also the fact that I’m an actor.”

  “Exactly. You can pull it off. You’ve proved it to us here—passed your first audition, so to speak. Others would buckle. Or they sell us out.”

  “I wouldn’t sell you out.”

  “Good. I thought so.”

  “Nowhere else to go,” Max muttered. He stared into the table’s knotty planks, stalling, the wood so worn it shined.

  “It has to be done. It’s your only hope. I’m not even sure I can pull it off, as I said. Have to clear it with higher brass. They might want you at that firing squad. I’ll do what I can. In any case, you won’t have much leeway. You’re ours now. Though we always welcome suggestions.” Slaipe added a tired smile. He reached for another piece of cake and offered it to Max.

  Max shook his head.

  “I don’t blame you,” Slaipe said. “Awful, isn’t it? All her grand intentions aside.”

  Twenty-Four

  The middle of the night. Slaipe had gone upstairs for a short few hours of sleep. Max waited up for Justine, but she never returned to the cellar. He lay awake, on his bedroll, agonizing over his dwindling prospects. He would have to concede yet again, it seemed. Slaipe had made that clear enough. And yet his whole point in getting west—to America—was to cut no more deals, make no more compromises. His worst sins began when he’d returned to Germany. He’d done deals with devils, and he’d paid by losing Liselotte. He was too genial and too obliging, that was his problem. Letting Justine DeTrave under his blanket was certainly proof of that. He rolled on his side, facing the wall, and pulled the blanket tight to his neck.

  Hours later. He lay awake again. At the top of the stairs, white lines of light showed at the edges of the old iron door. The sun had come up on Christmas Day, 1944. He turned and faced Young Martin, a dark mass in the corner opposite. The kid had not wheezed or coughed for hours, and Max told himself it was a good sign.

  “You awake, Junge?” Max said in German. “You had it right the whole time, didn’t you? I’m a German, just like you. And now I can tell you, from my heart, Merry Christmas.”

  Martin had not moved. “Hey, Kid,” Max said. He shouted it. He scrambled across the stone floor and pulled at Martin’s shoulder, flopping the kid onto his back.

  Martin’s chest was still. A smile had set on his face, and his eyes remained half-open. Max touched a cheek. It was cold and hard.

  “Of course you are,” Max muttered, recalling the strange, rough gurgling noise he’d heard in the night. He thought Martin was clearing his throat. It was his death rattle.

  Max drew Martin’s blanket over Martin’s head. He felt around in Martin’s pockets, as cold as the stones beneath them. He found fine leather gloves, which he pocketed, and the kid’s letters. All had the return address of a Frau Widmer in Freiburg. Taking only one—the rest could go with Martin, he went over to the Christmas tree in the corner and snatched the photos of Martin’s family from the branches. He would write to Frau Widmer and send back these photos. Her boy lived his last days as a caring lad who’d rather hear more songs than sleep a wink. This was the truth and Frau Widmer was going to get it.

  He turned to put on his overcoat—and stopped. Something wasn’t right. He pushed the tree aside.

  His tommy gun was gone. He searched the room, went down the hall, into Annette’s room, and found nothing, no one.

  He sat at the table and took a deep breath. Think, Max. Slaipe or Smitty must have taken the gun. That was all. Besides, the thing wasn’t even loaded. He only had to check upstairs and everything would be okay.

  What if it wasn’t them? How could he tell them the silly gun was missing? Would they believe it? Would Slaipe believe him?

  He stood, he sat back down. Wait. If it wasn’t the Americans, it had to be Justine. She probably had no clue the thing wasn’t loaded. The first thing to do, before anything, was get to Justine. He could set her straight before it was too late, put the gun right back where it was. If that didn’t work, the best thing was to be honest, Max told himself as he pulled on his boots. And he trudged up the stairs.

  Up in the kitchen, the clatter of footsteps and gear clanging. Max stopped to listen. They were coming his way. “Show yourself, Kaspar,” Slaipe shouted as he and Smitty charged into the room wearing helmets and full battle gear. Smitty aimed his tommy gun, Slaipe his Colt pistol.

  Max’s hands went up. “What? What is it?”

  “Keep ‘em up,” Smitty barked and kept coming. He kicked Max’s legs out wide and frisked him, panting, the sweat steaming and rolling down his face, and Max smelled Armagnac and Christmas cake. Annette and Old Henry followed them in, waddling and hunched with humility, their faces ashen. They had coats and hats on. All four had snow on their heads, shoulders.

  Smitty pulled out Martin’s letter and tossed it. He pushed Max backward, into the counter. “Now where is it? Huh? Where?” He pushed at Max’s chest.

  “Where is what? Please.” Max looked to Annette and Old Henry. They stood back, squeezed together in the doorway. He looked to Slaipe. “What?”

  Slaipe stared, his jaw set hard. “The radio. Our field set.”

  “Your radio? It’s missing?” Max had lapsed into German.

  Smitty jabbed his tommy barrel into Max’s gut. “Don’t give me that. How’d you know it was missing?”

  Max sputtered a laugh. “How? The captain, he just asked where it was—”

  “Shut up.” Smitty turned for the cellar. Slaipe cocked his Colt.

  “No,” Max shouted. “Young Martin, he couldn’t have done it. Not . . . anymore.”

  “Why not?” Slaipe snapped and in the same moment must have read the answer on Max’s face. He bowed his head, lowering his tommy gun. Annette buried her face in Henry’s chest, and the old man squeezed his eyes shut. Smitty leaned against the counter. “Aw, hell,” he said.

  “In his sleep,” Max muttered. He couldn’t give up Justine just yet. Even if she had both the radio and his machine gun, she was still only a naive, spoiled aristocrat. She probably had no clue she could be shot for this. He glanced at Slaipe.

  The captain holstered his Colt and lapsed into thought, staring at the linoleum floor. “Well, that leaves only our host,” he said, in a monotone. “This could be a misunderstanding. God knows there’s enough of those going around.”

  “One too many, I say.” Smitty gnashed his teeth, clenching his gun.

  “If I may,” Max said, lowering his hands. “Perhaps something spooked her. You mentioned a brother, Captain. She may even be helping us. Has anyone even seen her?” He repeated this in French.

  “She has not been in her room all morning,” Annette said from the doorway.

  Smitty was scowling at Max. “And what about last night? Eh, Kaspar? Or the night before?”

  Max said nothing. What could he say? She was only keeping warm?

  Slaipe glared at Max, his eyes pinched. “Sergeant,” he said to Smitty, “seems we should’ve been playing by the book all along.” He heaved the tommy gun off his shoulder. “You, and you,” he said to Annette and Old Henry, “get over with the prisoner,” meaning Max, and the couple huddled around Max with their arms up. “Now get going. Move.”

  Slaipe and Smitty marched Max, Annette and Old Henry through the villa at gunpoint. “Gentlemen, look,” Max said, “if we only locate Ms. DeTrave, I’m sure there’s an explanation—”

  “Shut it,” Smitty said.

  They reached the foyer. Slaipe cocked his tommy and said to Old Henry, “Only one option left, Mein Herr. We’re pulling out. Wir gehen. Verstehen? Break out if we have to, and we’ll release you two just as soon as we’re in the clear.” Smitty translated, careful to emphasize the “you two,” and Old Henry nodded along.

  “Merry Goddamn Christmas,” Smitty added for Max.

  As Smitty opened the front doors the wind yanked them free and they banged
against the walls. Wind and snow whirled in and struck their faces like sawdust. A blizzard had found their valley. Yet the light was golden, as if the sunshine could break through.

  “Captain, perhaps you’ll allow me to fetch my greatcoat,” Max said, but Slaipe nudged him on with his gun barrel.

  The front steps were recessed in an alcove. The five squinted and shuffled down the slippery steps, stooping as if navigating an Alpine precipice. Smitty shut the doors behind them.

  Max’s missing tommy gun lay about fifty feet out. Footsteps spread out from the gun, so new the snow hadn’t covered them. Max tugged at Slaipe’s sleeve. “Captain, look there—”

  Smitty saw it. “Get down,” he shouted and he and Slaipe crouched about five feet apart, using the alcove’s corners as cover. Max dropped to the steps between them and Annette and Old Henry ducked back, cowering near the shut front doors.

  The wind shrieked. The snow swirled, dusting Max’s tommy.

  “What d’you got?” Slaipe shouted at Smitty. “Anything?”

  “Nothing here. Nothing but white.”

  “Back inside,” Slaipe shouted.

  The wind shifted, sucking snow into the alcove.

  The front doors swung open. Justine knelt in the open doorway aiming a machine gun. Annette and Old Henry lay prostrate before her.

  Smitty and Slaipe had their backs to her, their guns aimed in the opposite direction.

  “Free him! Let him go,” Justine shouted.

  “Me? Free me? No,” Max shouted, and to Slaipe: “Captain, I’m no part of this. She’s acting on her own.”