by Robert Wise
The inn was tucked into a back street, away from the bustle of the city. It wasn’t overly spacious or glamorous but it had a cosy quality that wasn’t hard to appreciate. Hansel settled into his room subsequent to a brief check in and stood at the window, looking out across a hillock of garden terraces. He took a lengthy shower, entirely aware of the boredom that awaited him. It wasn’t his first trip to foreign grounds and he always found the wait between landing and game could be tasking. Once dried, Hansel unplugged the charging camera and stepped into a fresh pair of jeans and thrust a t-shirt over his dampened hair. He sat atop the window sill and set one eye over the view, clipping and snapping at flocking pigeons and rooftops. Uninterested with that, Hansel fetched his jacket and pulled a rucksack from his overnight bag, stuffing it with the camera, his press pass and a notepad.
The city spilled away from the red sienna steps of the inn and Hansel found his frustration somewhat softened. It was hard to be so melancholy when walking amidst the streets of Paris and Hansel occupied himself with the affection shared by passing strangers and the laughter of the artists on the curbs. He ducked into a tavern that sat within the shadow of the stadium and took seat at the bar. Across the way, a bustle of Paris fans had taken to drinking, their slurred chants and incessant laughter a clear indication that they had been there for a while. Hansel waited patiently for the barman to come over and greeted him with an indecisive ponder.
‘Just a light ginger ale, please,’ Hansel said after a moments thinking.
‘German?’ smiled the barman.
‘Yes,’ Hansel grinned, ‘I work for a newspaper in Munich, I’m here to cover the game tonight.’
‘Ah,’ pried the tender, ‘a Bayern fan?’
‘Fortunately not,’ Hansel smiled, gesturing towards the rowdy horde of purple jerseys, ‘Dortmund.’
‘A good team,’ nodded the bartender, ‘though no match for Paris.’
The glass in front of Hansel slowly filled and he raised it to his lips, nodding appreciatively as the first sip went down.
The crowd across the tavern appealed for another round of drinks and the tender rolled his eyes before strolling listlessly towards them. Hansel leered and fetched the camera from his rucksack, flicking through the reel of new-fangled pictures. A bottle clunked down onto the red wood beside him. An old man staggered against the bar, flicking a few crinkled notes carelessly at the side of Hansel’s half glass of ginger ale. Hansel turned his stare back down to the slideshow of pictures and sipped at the ale, overlooking the visitor purposely. The group across the room had livened up considerably since their last round and had begun to recite an anthology of cheery hymns.
‘You’re a journalist,’ spoke a brusque voice. Hansel turned to see the old man staring down at the press pass dangling from his half opened jacket pocket. He didn’t want to be rude but the last thing he wanted to do right now was entertain a drunk, so he smiled, but did not reply.
‘Where are you from?’
Hansel sighed.
‘Munich,’ he muttered, ‘yourself? The old man leaned forward,
‘Ah, a fellow German.’
Meeting his old grey eyes Hansel frowned.
‘Sprechen Sie deutsch?’ he asked. The old man turned away and chuckled softly,
‘I’m afraid it’s been a while since I spoke in my native language.’
Hansel nodded.
‘What brings you to Paris?’ the old man said, shuffling onto the bar stool.
‘Tonight’s match,’ responded Hansel, wondering just how many times he would have to explain his visit.
‘You don’t seem too happy about that.’
Hansel looked at him, presuming his confident approach was the result of a hefty consumption of alcohol. Maybe talking to a complete stranger wasn’t such a bad idea. He prodded at the tiny buttons on the camera and set it down on the bar.
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ the old man sniggered, ‘we all have such stories. They are often the best ones.’
Hansel pondered that.
‘I guess…’
The old man stared him down, nodding kindly if and when Hansel faltered.
‘I thought I’d be further on down the road by now, you know, be somewhere at least.’
‘Well you are somewhere,’ said the old man. Hansel promised himself that if the next sentence out of the old man’s mouth was ‘You’re in Paris’ he would get up and leave. Thankfully it wasn’t.
‘Change isn’t always the best thing. You think it is, at the time, but that’s the way regret starts.’
Hansel found himself intrigued by the old man. Wrinkles sunk below his tired eyes yet he boasted a permanent half smile and his silver hair was tidily combed to one side.
‘I can’t say whatever problems you are having at the moment will soon disappear, but give it time.’
‘Right,’ Hansel groaned, ‘Patience.’ The old man glared at him.
‘No, not patience,’ he croaked, ‘more along the lines of belief. Remember that your path is yours only. And what is a man without a path.’ Hansel knew it wasn’t something he needed to reply to. And he chewed at the inside of his mouth and finished his drink.
The tavern soon fell quiet and the bundle of fans from before had left, most probably moving onto another pub in search of a livelier atmosphere. The old man had swayed across the bar and now sat within an enclosed corner, taking with him a few bottles of beer and the remains of a tattered, yet to date, newspaper. Hansel whipped out his phone and checked the time, not quite sure what to do with himself. Kick off was still a while away. The bartender appeared bored and stooped over the bar, pawing sluggishly at the wood with a wet flannel.
Hansel glanced towards the old man. There was something strangely enticing about him. An aura seemed to present itself, hovering above his stooped form like a musky cloud.
Ah what the hell, Hansel thought.
He edged over and set his backpack down on the chair beneath the table.
‘Mind if I join you?’
The old man peered up from his glass and smiled kindly.
‘Not at all, please, take a seat.’
‘So, you’re looking for a big story?’ The old man guessed, tipping the bottle to his lips.
‘I’m Sorry?’ Hansel replied.
‘This place you said you’re trying to get to, seeing as you’re a journalist I presume you need some kind of story.’
Hansel retrieved the small black note pad from his bag and placed it on the table, flipping it open to the first page. He raised it to reveal a sequence of squiggles and random phrases.
‘Four years and all I’ve got is a few thousand words on a laptop and a handbook of pointless notes.’ The old man watched him throw the book down and sit back against the cushioned chair.
‘Well what’s it about?’
Hansel felt his eyes begin to roll but fought the temptation. The old man was clearly interested, or so overly drunk that he would commit to any kind of conversation.
‘It’s a period novel, a thriller, romance set within the 1940’s. A young couple find love in the heat of the war.’
Hansel chuckled to himself.
‘Doesn’t sound like a comedy,’ said the old man.
‘No, no,’ Hansel apologised, ‘it’s just – I’ve had that intro rehearsed for about three years.’
‘Sounds good,’ the old man nodded.
‘Nah, I can’t even string together a book full of nonsense.’
‘1942, the year I enlisted in the German military,’ said the old man, thoughtfully.
Hansel leaned forwards.
‘You were in the Wermacht?’
‘You could say that.’
The old man rubbed his neat stubble and Hansel caught sight of his watch, an enchanting silver timepiece with a face of solid white and two slender hands, each styled with a smouldering Prussian blue.
‘That’s a beautiful watch,’ Hansel said.
Wit
h a sorrowful glower the old man set his other hand over the watch and then smiled.
‘How many pages are left untouched in that notebook?’
Hansel puffed, flicking through the thin sheets.
‘A few hundred I guess.’
‘Alright,’ the old man croaked, coughing away a bout of brief hiccups.
‘Just before the Second World War, the German military was ripe with betrayal. The German people were in disarray, blind sheep led by a blood lusting wolf who portrayed his power with acts of sheer cruelty and chaos. It was no wonder why the people wanted to stage some kind of rebellion.’
Hansel slowly reached for his notepad and unclipped a pen from its bind.
‘Anyway, as the nation prepared for another war, the Gestapo employed the services of a young and ambitious officer who was eager to banish the treachery carried out by enlisted men. Heinrich Anaheim. A cold man, driven only by results and statistics. He changed the Gestapo in many ways, devised many plans.’
Hansel dithered for a moment before scratching another few words across the page.
‘Nonetheless this story begins with one of those very plans and the act that quickly became the final catalyst. You see, this last act, the assassination of Milo Haas, sent Anaheim into complete darkness. He began to seek out a way that would reveal the nations betrayers, and an operation was formed, something that was only divulged to a select few. It’s rumoured that Adolf Hitler himself was kept in the dark.’
Hansel risked a sip of his ale and continued writing.
‘The Major’s deepest fear was that these growing acts would soon result in his demise or even worse, the assassination of the Fuhrer himself.’
‘So what was his plan?’
The old man swigged back his beer and wiped his mouth with his sleeve,
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got another notebook in that rucksack, do you?’
THE BEGINNING
1941. A mass horde of crows circle the great hall.
For a moment or two the newcomer paused and leant over the banister, staring down into the masses of nattering Nazi’s from behind the guise of his carefully positioned mask. The High Command’s highest rollers danced and drank and bellowed with laughter, peeling away at their impermanent faces as the alcoholic heat began to snag. He spotted Jürgen Ralphs at the centre of it all, a rather rotund man who was wrapped tightly within the ballooning bloat of his sea-green uniform. Ralphs was short and boasted a sweep of thin greying brown hair and podgy black eyes. A mask hung beneath the swell of his many chins, a reddish veneer fashioned in decorative crests and brightly coloured sequins, and it swayed as he walked. The hall was colossal. Mountainous waves of red fabric flustered against the towering walls, each of them bearing the twisted Nazi star. The newcomer laid eyes on a grand piano that sat beneath the purple twirl of the staircase. An officer’s wife was perched at its helm, stroking each key lethargically as she entertained a stalling waiter, and he followed her performance with careful eyes, ready to serve an encore of champagne after every sitting. Lattices of sliced chandelier light stretched across the swerving shoulders of each guest. It was impossible to tell the crows apart. And Milo Haas was nowhere to be seen.
Beneath the hide of his mask, the newcomer was not seen, though he was not entirely invisible. It was strange, he thought, to walk amongst a nest of crows as they squawked and flapped and went about their drunken social hokum. He brushed past polished collars, careful not to challenge a masked stare for too long. With a craning sweep he latched his index finger beneath the curve of his velvet mask and wiped away a gathering of sweat. The warmth had flourished following his descent from the stairwell.
‘Champagne, Sir?’
A waiter bowed before him, suddenly offering a mirrored platter of fizzing champagne. The masked stranger thanked him and hooked at a glass by its stem. Then he moved on, searching the crowds for the unmasked. The room was now warming, hot almost and he was starting to see more red faces than diamond crested masks. He raised the glass to his lips, wincing as the bubbles fizzled over his tongue. The taste was bitter and short lasting and he coiled his tongue around the inside of his mouth in an attempt to quench the pungent flavour. A masked officer patted his blazer and the guest turned with an automatic smile, shaking the offered hand and moving on. He wondered if Haas had already been and gone. The thought pricked at his heart, although he couldn’t figure out if it was a thorn of anger or relief. Brushing past an elderly clan of officers he set down the champagne and searched the room for a better vantage point. No such luck. The staircases were laden with servants and waiters and chattering officers and the floor buzzed with impossible conversation. Slinking past another troupe of tipsy officers the masked man embarked upon the velvety red carpet of one of the conjoining staircases, carefully observing the social activities that bustled noisily below. He rested his blazer shrouded elbows upon the banister and took a breath. A bead of sweat seeped at the clefts of his mask, begging to taste fresh air. He pulled at the bow that was fixed to his collar, loosening the grip around his neck. His eyes jittered across the enormous room, trying to make sense of the societal disharmony. It was all pompous officials buttered down with expensive champagne and cheap swill. Their slurring voices battled over one another, fighting for respect. The medals that lined their tunics spoke volumes but the opportunity to better a fellow officer whilst in the company of a pouting wife could not be missed. The drink proved helpful. Uniforms and tux’s swayed under its heavy, free influence and the masked guest sat back and watched, taking in every stumble, every excused mishap. It was only a matter of time before he could single out those who tripped and fell more often than others. One of those people was Milo Haas. At first his ashen face was just another dash of red, mixed deep within a canvas of bubbling paint, eager to sober and eventually dry. Then came the clarity, as if that one single uniform of olive green and face of warm pink had been neglected by the travelling brush and now flourished against the crowds. His mask rested on his forehead, manoeuvring a seemingly forever empty glass around a hooked beak had proved difficult. He didn’t stay put for more than a few moments, passing from group to group, drowning lower ranked officers with boorish babble. The observer’s attention was diverted for a second as an officer brushed past his shoulder, apologising briefly before stumbling a few steps and then settling into a conversation at the foot of the staircase. He returned his gaze only to find that the red faced Haas had disappeared, a ghost among ghosts. His desperate stare searched the crowds, the masterpiece that had held Milo Haas was no longer a perfect picture but a dissembled blur. Doors were held open on either side of the grand floor, doormen welcoming dozens of guests as they passed from room to room. He gritted his teeth and began to leave the balcony when the corner of his eye tinged with optimism. Milo Haas stood only a few feet away, his arm wrapped around a colleague, same rank judging by the stripes across his collar. Spinning back towards the dark wood of the banister the stranger waited for the pair to continue on down the hallway. After a quick pardoning, Haas embarked through a set of golden doors leaving the other officer to wander off in search of another drinking partner. The outsider gave it a second before following.
He strode through the hallway, advancing between the dimly lit corridors of soft almond stretch. His breath refused to steady as he pulled the pistol away from its holster. The interior grip almost snubbed his attempt, desperately begging the cold steel nose to stay pressed against the curved leather. He came to the door. His fingers curled around the handle, jolting it upwards slightly to ensure that his entry was muted and unexpected. It twisted within his palm, slipping against the canals of sweat that ran through the crinkled creases of his grip. A heat surfaced from underneath his mask, a hotness of certain dread and inescapable fear. He glanced towards one end of the gloomy hallway and then to the other. The dark emptiness amplified caution. A blast of dainty light oozed from the widening gap as he nudged open the door and proceeded into the bathroom with the pistol hid
den but quaking at his waist. His cold fingertips coiled around the trigger.
The unspoiled marble of the pearl speckled floor welcomed the toe of his boot. He stood in the doorway behind the half opened door, leering carefully into the room. A block of emerald granite lined the walls beneath a set of huge golden framed vanity mirrors, boasting embedded sinks that shone brighter than the starry lights crowding the high ceiling. Just as he was about to enter he halted, his eyes fixed upon a small object balancing by one of the basins. A mask, the mask Milo Haas had been wearing in fact. A faucet gushed continuously within the sink bowl alongside it, splashing the attire with tiny hot specks. He frowned at its faceless expression and glanced towards a row of cubicles that were huddled together across the room. He edged a little further inside, wary of the fact that a frown had developed beneath his velvet disguise.
‘Stop where you are,’ the voice couldn’t have been more than two feet away yet to the visitor it resounded in his ears for seconds, rattling and toying with the rapid beat of his heart that was already present. The latch of a trigger clicked to the ready.
‘I recommend that you work on your tailing skills, Lieutenant. I can’t say that they are very virtuous.’ He knew the voice. Cold, precise and bitter, the breath in which the words travelled flourished against his hot skin.