Stile Maus (10 page)

‘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.’

‘Forgive me major but I wasn’t aware there
were
any enemy barracks located within the city.’

‘Who said anything about the enemy?’ the Major replied, shooting a questioning look towards the reddening face of Howard
Goetsch.  A moment of silence passed.

‘Your duties will be to investigate
German
military stations Mr Vilsmaier.  It is no secret that there has been a rise in the opposition and it has been discovered that recently...’ a bitter scowl latched onto his lips, almost as though a sour taste had settled against his tongue, ‘...recent efforts have been conspired by German parties. Previous attempts to quash this treachery have failed.  The next step is necessary.’

Tobias shuffled within his seat.  He felt as though the Major imagined himself upon a podium, bellowing before thousands of armed troops. 

‘There are two main German military stations in Paris.  Your duties will include reporting to the superior commander of each barracks.’ 

‘Reporting what exactly?’

‘Stats mainly, figures.’ 

‘You see my boy,’ Howard intervened, ‘you can’t just swan into a food hall filled to the brim with German soldiers and declare all schemers and plotter’s stand up and reveal themselves.’

‘But what you can do,’ proceeded Major Anaheim, ‘is linger around long enough until a secret is passed your way.’

Howard
Goetsch hummed in agreement.

‘Obviously eyebrows would be raised if someone of your stature were to just show up and start snooping around.  The same reason as to why this meeting was scheduled after office hours.’

‘That’s where this comes in,’ the Major muttered, raising a tall leather briefcase onto the desk. 

‘You will one of eleven operatives based in Europe.  The other ten are military men, high ranking officers.  They have been re-positioned, they will keep their identities.  You will not.’

A nervous glare appeared on the actors face. 

‘Inside this case is your new life, well, for the duration of your assignment anyway.’

Tobias was handed the briefcase and he set it over his lap.

‘The actual lock is of simple design,’ Major Anaheim declared, ‘however the mechanics are a little more complicated.  I’ll allow Mr
Goetsch here to explain everything to you to a further extent.  You will need to be at the headquarters tomorrow for your examinations.’

Howard rose and collected both the red folder and packed envelope within his large hands and then saluted, looking down at the seated actor until he followed suit.    

‘Welcome to operation
Stile Maus
,’ sneered the Major.

THE SABOTEUR AND THE STALLERS

He wasn’t sure how, but they had found him, probably even the others too.  They came without warning, barging into the old carpenters on 62
nd
street and pushing their way to the back of the store where they towered over the bemused owner, Mr Morel.