Stile Maus

by Robert Wise

  ‘I see,’ Francis replied, concealing a great deal of worry and fret within his clenched fists which had fallen deep into his trouser pockets.

  ‘Judging by a distress call that was logged with the command centre sometime Tuesday evening it would appear the pilot’s lost control of the fighter a few meadows from here.’

  ‘Pilots?’ Francis retorted.

  ‘Yes,’ said the Lieutenant, a caution had developed in his voice, ‘there were two pilots.’

  ‘So you say this happened during the evening?’ Francis enquired, quickly disguising his outburst of foolishness.

  ‘Exactly,’ replied the Lieutenant.

  ‘I’m afraid my family and I sit down for supper at around six o’clock, Lieutenant, I doubt anyone would have seen anything.’

  ‘A plane plummeting through the quiet night sky is something you do not necessarily have to see,’ the Lieutenant implied.

  ‘You obviously haven’t sat at a dinner table with a handful of children,’ Francis quickly replied with a slight chortle. The two men laughed.

  ‘I apologise once more for wasting your time Mr Dubois, it was a pleasure,’ Lieutenant Jung snatched his hat away from the door handle, ‘and should you change your mind about that beautiful motorcycle, make sure I’m your first call.’

  ‘You can count on it.’ Their palms met for a brief handshake and then parted, allowing the young Lieutenant to place his hat upon his slick gathering of golden hair and poke the nose of his umbrella out into the flickering downpour. The umbrella twanged into a firm circular bend and was raised into the purple sky. After straightening the bill of his hat Lieutenant Jung thanked Francis before stepping out into the tumbling showers and then disembarked upon the rain swept path until his cloaked figure vanished behind the yellow blast of the stalling headlamps. Francis rubbed a sweat stained palm across the stubble that dashed across his chin. His worry wouldn’t settle. He looked towards the dark glow that settled upon the beams of the second floor. His time had run out.

  Francis could not eat. An unpleasant grumble stirred within his stomach. The visitor, the boy with two faces, had unsettled him to an extent where food had no taste, no place in the jittery confines of his belly. He wore Isabelle’s stare which was as cold as the supper that sat before him. She knew something was wrong. Francis looked around the table. Every plate had been scraped clean, all but his.

  ‘Come on children,’ mumbled Francis, ‘let your mother and I clean up, go to your rooms and play.’ One by one they shuffled away from their chairs and disappeared past the fire glazed living room, leaving behind a pile of sauce stained dishes and a heaped bundle of cutlery.

  ‘What is it, Francis?’ Isabelle whispered, resting a hand upon her husband’s arm.

  ‘The German’s,’ he sighed, ‘one of them came up to the barn.’ A bridge of tears formed in each of Isabelle’s eyes.

  ‘I told you, Francis, I told you this would happen,’ she pushed away from her chair, taking up her apron to dab at her sobbing face.

  ‘It’s okay my darling,’ assured Francis, ‘he suspected nothing.’

  ‘Twice I find myself weeping into a basin full of dirty dishes, please Francis, do what is right.’

  ‘Isabelle, the current…’

  ‘I do not care,’ she said sternly, ‘all I ask is that you do what is right for your family.’ She threw the apron down upon the counter and stormed out from the room, leaving Francis holding her tears in his hands. A sigh parted his lips.

  ‘She’s right,’ spoke Pierre as he rubbed at his tired eyes, ‘we can’t wait for the current any longer.’

  ‘I know,’ Francis conceded, his face fixed with thought.

  ‘What did they ask about,’ Pierre questioned, ‘the Germans, what was it they wanted?’

  Francis let out a worried simper,

  ‘They were looking for a plane that had crashed not far from here,’ his words were blanketed in concern, ‘and the two pilots that were inside it.’ Pierre’s gawp raised slowly from the bottom of his wine glass to the wide eyed stare of his brother.

  ‘Two?’

  Francis nodded, placing a hand over his furrowed brow.

  ‘What should we do?’ stressed Pierre. Francis rested his head against the age bitten frame that surrounded the kitchen window and stared out into the on-going cascade of glittering rainfall.

  ‘We stick to the original plan,’ Francis said, staring up towards the barn,

  ‘We send the German downstream, tonight.’

  SUNSET OVER LE HAVRE

  ‘Again,’ he spat as another slither of warm scotch slid down his throat. The bartender obliged, clinking the head of the bottle against the customer’s glass and smiling politely as more auburn liquor swirled out from within. The drink had barely settled before an impatient hand snatched at the glass and gulped down the smouldering contents within.

  ‘That’s your fourth already, Sir. Is everything alright?’

  ‘Everything’s fine my good man, couldn’t be better. Would you mind?’ A finger tapped against the hollow glass. The tender poured another shallow swill of scotch but not before looking over his customer with grand curiosity. He appeared young, though his face wore the pale mask of fatigue. His hunched shoulders sat beneath a medal glazed uniform, a mass of fabric that had endured many splashes of stray drink already this evening. The glass hit the bar again, bubbling with emptiness. The tender unfastened the scotch once more and set it against the brink.

  ‘You may as well leave that here,’ rambled the officer. Nodding graciously the bartender parted with the bottle, offering its thin content to his sneering customer. The bottle hit his lips.

  ‘What’s your name, my good man?’ said the officer, wiping a gathering of spittle away from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘It is Gustave, Sir.’

  ‘L-let me ask you something, Gustave,’ slurred the officer, ‘Do you know my name?’ The bartender shook his head, letting a nervous smile fall across his confused face,

  ‘I don’t believe we…’

  ‘No one does!’ cried the drunken officer, swinging the warm spirit to his lips as he steadied his chortle,

  ‘That’s the joke! That is the joke...’ The officer ran a web of fingers through his dark hair and smiled, leaving the bartender standing amidst a cloud of utter confusion.

  ‘Forgive me,’ the officer spat, ‘but what else is a captain to do other than enjoy the company of fine liquor while he is away from home?’ An empty bottle clunked down against the bar.

  ‘For your good service, Gustave,’ said the officer, fumbling a handful of coins out from his trouser pocket and chucking them carelessly onto the beer mat in front of him.

  ‘Good night, Sir,’ Gustave called out after him, smiling as he inspected the generous tip gathered within his palm.

  His arrival came in a flash of dazzling blue. A young valet was the first one to notice, breaking away from his chattering colleagues he skipped down the tumbling stairwell before standing to attention as the car came to a screeching halt beside his gloved hand. His fingers met the silver bleached handle.

  ‘Good evening, Master Linder,’ the valet said, snatching the travelling bundle of keys that had been thrown his way.

  ‘Good evening, squire,’ the officer declared as he emerged from the sparkling cabin. Their hands met, a tip exchanged. The valet hopped quickly into the front seat, inspecting his beaming reflection within the finely polished mirrors before stepping on the gas and steering the Prussian blue wonder around the corner and out of sight.

  ‘Captain Linder, I trust you had a pleasant evening, Sir?’

  ‘The best,’ the officer yelled, passing through the reception and into the pillar shadowed lobby. His gleaming loafers clacked extravagantly across the finely polished floor as he proceeded towards the elevator shaft.

  ‘Your suite, Sir?’ enquired the operator.

  ‘I can’t imagine where else I would be going at this time,’ joked the officer, planting a folded
note of appreciation into the ageing man’s top pocket. Music filled the small golden box as they rose through the hotel’s hidden chambers, joyful melodies that promoted and encouraged merriness. After a slight judder the elevator came to a halt, declared aptly by a loud ping.

  ‘Good night Captain Linder,’ said the operator with a rather large smile.

  ‘And to you my good man,’ the officer replied, disappearing behind the closing doors. The hallway was scarcely lit, appropriate for those sleeping inside their rooms, not so appropriate for a drunken officer searching for his highly luxurious top floor chamber.

  ‘Aha,’ he slurred, nudging his key clumsily into the lock and then shouldering the door once he had heard the distinctive catch loosen. Unbalanced, he fell against the wall, giggling to himself as he used a picture frame to support his lumbering sway. With a swiping hand he reached blindly for the door, pushing it closed as he advanced further into the shadowy room. Bottles clinked away from the toe of his shoes. Garments piled and crushed under his heels. He thrust open a pair of heavy set drapes spilling a glorious rush of moonlight onto the bed and surrounding furniture. A vast amount of bottled liquor suddenly began to sparkle. Champagne, scotch, bourbon… All of them flickering and teasing within a spectacular glare of silver musk. He snatched at the nearest, unscrewing its top and tipping its edge against his dry lips. Wincing at the sharp, spicy taste Captain Linder cranked at the toggle of a radio station that sat above a chest of tall drawers and waited for the hum of static to settle before switching it off again. He padded across the room and pressed his forehead against the cold glass door that separated his room from the balcony. Paris flickered in the distance. The tower glistened, the moon envied its blurry glow and the clouds, great and wicked in their hordes, did their best to corrupt its silver warmth. The backdrop vanished and his reflection bloomed. Just for a moment a surge of panic tingled within his chest. A sigh swiftly followed. He swaggered into the bathroom and jabbed at the light switch. His reflection gathered within the gigantic mirror.

  ‘There you are,’ he said, placing the bottle down upon the speckled granite surface that bordered the basin. For a moment he observed the man staring back at him with such concentration. A handsome yet tired face; hidden behind a bristly moustache that curled precisely at both ends and a circular set of golden brown spectacles stared back at him. He plucked the top button away from his collar and loosened the gun pelt that sat on his waist. With a frail grip he turned at the tap heads until a spatter of warm water began pouring into the pearl curve of the sink. He cupped a shallow puddle and splashed it against his face. Another followed. Steam now rose from the gurgling basin. His fingers met his damp cheek and with a pinch he began peeling away the disguise that had encased his face for almost two days now. The moustache came first, then the glasses. A swipe of fingers took to his slick hair, ruffling at the wax until the colour softened to a lighter, fuller brown. With his finger bent into a hook he reached inside his mouth, pulling out a handful of plastic guards, one from each side and then another that was lodged behind the top row of gin stained teeth. They clattered against the sparkling stone of the basin top. The cloud of growing vapour had clung to the mirror. His palm met its icy finish and with a gentle brush he started to reveal the face he had not seen for days. The soap soaked, mist glazed face of Tobias Vilsmaier, German movie star.

  The military enlistment of Tobias Vilsmaier had caused quite a stir within the German film industry, however there was one man above all who took the notion particularly badly. Howard Goetsch. A large man, rotund even, his great figure was never without the cloak of a finely made jacket and pristine white shirt. His films were legendary. There was no fixed genre, no predictability in his work. The audience expected him to shock and surprise them and he did so, every time. It wasn’t until his tenth production that he announced a new star would be joining his already esteemed cast. Vilsmaier. It was inevitable. The sharp dressing, flawlessly handsome Tobias Vilsmaier charmed the audience with his silver tongued, shy, charisma and soon enough he was a household name, capturing the hearts of many. The reviews of his first on screen performance in The Climb soared and his presence was almost instantly required at the highest gatherings of social get-togethers. Sunset over Le Havre would be his second appearance. This time Goetsch offered young Tobias a bigger role, a chance to grab the cords of the silver screen and steer the audience in whatever way he wished. He didn’t disappoint. The ending scene had been witnessed by many through tear swept eyes and past the dabbing point of a handkerchief. Vilsmaier’s character (a German pilot named Marius) plummeted through the skies, trapped within the fiery chamber that was his fighter jet cockpit. The plane’s tail end had been hit, mauled in fact and his death looked inevitable as the ground below became clearer and clearer. He glanced at the picture taped to his steering panel, a photograph of his beloved Lorelei, her gorgeous eyes alight with startling belief. His gloved hand met the ejector lever. He pulled and pulled but to no avail, the lever would not budge. The audience sat in silence, hoping that the hero would soon be blasted from the tumbling cabin of flaming carnage. Marius closed his eyes. The screen blacked out. The audience gasped. The credits rolled. A shocked bundle of spectators began nattering at the back of the theatre, wondering what had happened to the character they so zealously adored. The director’s name emblazed the screen in wonderfully big lettering. The curtains threatened to fall, however the entire cinema did not dare leave. And then suddenly the sound of a plane filled the auditorium, a plane going at a tremendous speed. Clouds whisked by, left behind within a smouldering bungle of black smog. Most of the onlookers grabbed at the person beside them, husband or wife or daughter or son, and closed their eyes. That’s what Goetsch wanted, he wanted them to feel like they were falling, plunging down and down and down. A sharp hiss sounded, like a gargantuan piston injecting a fresh bout of air into the room. Then came the wind, rough currents of flowing gust, delving between the listeners ears and tickling at the drums inside. Another rush of blustered extravagance boomed through the quaking speakers.

  ~ The sound of a blossoming parachute ~

  The wind became cool and soft. The crowds cheered, got to their feet, yelled and wept. The white blaze of the screen blinded some as it reappeared. A breath starved pilot unravelled himself from the twines of a giant parachute. Vilsmaier’s character clutched at his sweethearts crinkle torn picture. He kissed her black and white lips and a smile blazed over his soot darkened face. And then he was gone, lost behind the darkness of two tall velvet drapes. Tobias Vilsmaier’s performance would be the talk of the drive home. Of course, the scene had been Goetsch’s idea but he wasn’t the one on the screen, he wasn’t the one that could be seen and felt and related to. After that night Tobias Vilsmaier became a legend of the silver screen. There was not a corner on earth in which he could hide.

  ‘Major Anaheim will see you now.’ His eyes pulled away from the newspaper.

  ‘Fantastic,’ he replied with a grin. He wondered why he found himself sitting inside a lobby hidden deep within the Gestapo headquarters and he wondered even more why he found himself here after 08:00pm.

  He rose from the arc of his seat and followed the messenger through a small hallway before arriving at a smaller foyer.

  ‘Here we are,’ announced Private Schulze as they came to a set of tall oak doors.

  ‘Thank you,’ responded the film star, pushing at the decorated handle until his footsteps met the fine wooden flooring of the Major’s office.

  ‘Come in,’ spoke the cigar flavoured words of Howard Goetsch, ‘come on my boy, take a seat.’ The director stood within a cloud of smoke, chugging smugly at the burning birth of a faltering cigar. Gestapo Major Heinrich Anaheim looked upon his guest with an inquiring curiosity. He shot the actor a false grin, and waited until Tobias had filled the seat facing his paper strewn desk before he began to speak.

  ‘Mr Goetsch has informed me that you find yourself in somewhat of a predicament.’


  Tobias offered nothing but a shy gesture.

  ‘Well,’ continued Major Anaheim, ‘It just so happens that on this particular occasion our interests collide.’ Tobias turned towards the large frame of Howard Goetsch and the director nudged his glasses up onto the bridge of his sweat drenched nose.

  ‘Yes, I have informed the Major of the situation at hand and he has been so kind as to offer us an alternative.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Tobias returned. His curious gaze a gesture for either superior to go on.

  ‘Normandy,’ said the Major, prodding his finger upon a large map that covered much of the surface of his desk, something Tobias had not noticed when he sat down.

  ‘The frontlines, the recommended position of a newly enlisted infantry officer.’ A smile creased across his lips. He appeared to enjoy toying with the young actor.

  ‘Fortunately for you,’ he began, dragging his finger across the map, ‘myself and Mr Goetsch have been able to negotiate a suitable alternative.’ His point stopped around a cluster of entwined blue and red vines.

  ‘Paris. Where you will be stationed.’

  Howard Goetsch smiled and nodded, stroking his beard as he fumbled at his inside jacket pocket. A thick envelope slapped onto the desk.

  ‘You’ll need to sign a few documents. It’s all very official.’

  ‘Indeed,’ agreed the Major, ‘you will also have to undergo a series of physical examinations before we can give the go ahead but I trust everything will be in order.’

  He reached gingerly into one of his desk drawers. A folder slid candidly towards the intrigued actor.

  ‘The operation you are about to embark on should not be discussed with anyone except the names listed on the second page.’

  Tobias longed to flip open the front layer of thin red print but decided against it as the Major continued.

  ‘Your objective is simple, investigate all military divisions within the city of Paris.’