The Losing Role (26 page)

“You want to do penance, fine. But you didn’t
surrender right away, did you? To me, that’s shifty.”

What would a man like Smitty have done in his shoes?
“In any case,” Max said. “I had looked forward to helping you with
the Christmas tree.”

Smitty, staring, slid a Camel in his mouth. Max
offered his lighter, but the sergeant only stared at that, too.
“I’d like to think there’s a few krauts with common sense,” he
said, now in English. “Maybe you’re one of them. Maybe because you
were in the states. Or, maybe you’re just a chameleon, being an
actor and all. Truth is, I don’t know and I don’t care. So just
watch your step, every fucking step.
Alles klar?
” He mocked
a stiff Prussian bow and stomped out, up the stairs.

Max stayed in the cellar until his turn at watch,
playing more solitaire, watching over Martin, and helping Annette
and Old Henry attend to the young soldier. Martin’s face had grown
sallow and sunken, and he broke out in sweats. In his sleep he
mumbled, promising his mother he’d return from the war, unlike his
father and his brother. It made Annette glower with bloodshot eyes
and Old Henry swear and punch at his chest. And their distress made
Max think of Felix Menning, caged in, facing a firing squad at a
cold, stone wall. He had expected Felix to gulp down his poison
lighter before any interrogation. What if the sly little juggler
had confessed about killing the those MPs? In American eyes Max
would be no less guilty than Felix, or Rattner. Yet Max could still
make up for it. He only had to choose. Wasn’t that what Captain
Slaipe was really telling him?

Time for watch. Max climbed to the top of the
tower—still without his tommy. Cold air bit at his eyes and cheeks.
Some clouds had broken at the horizon and the sun was setting,
twinkling behind the treetops. Captain Slaipe smiled at him, his
cheeks red. “You made it. Still here. That’s a good start, Kaspar.
Sleep well? How’s our young soldier doing down there?”

Seeing Slaipe filled Max with a rush of emotions he
hadn’t expected. This captain was the only thing that stood between
him and a firing squad, and the man was smiling. Caring. Max
stammered: “Young Martin? Not so well, but, Frau Annette and her
Alter Heini
, they do what they can for him. Captain, I, just
want to thank you. If I may. You might have tied me to a tree and
let me rot in the cold, and no one could have blamed you. I think
you are a human man.” He did a little bow at the waist.

“Aren’t we all? I’d like to think so.” Slaipe
sighed. He took a long last look out and said, “I’m thinking we
won’t keep you up here too long. It is Christmas Eve after
all.”

The sun went down. More clouds broke now and then,
revealing black gaps in which Max saw stars for the first time in
what seemed like weeks. He heard no airplanes now. All battles
seemed to have ceased for the holiday, and the quiet was a joy. He
daydreamed of what might have been on a Christmas without war.
He and Liselotte up in the Alps, engrossed by winter scenes much
like these, holed up in a warm cabin . . .

A couple hours later Old Henry came clattering up
the ladder waving his cap. His cheeks were red like Slaipe’s and he
chirped in broken English: “Now you go under, Joe, yes? With us in
cellar. It’s the festively time.”

Captain Slaipe had called off watch for the rest of
Christmas Eve. Max thought this foolish but the captain knew better
than he did. Everyone was down in the cellar. Annette had decorated
the Christmas tree with whatever she could find—strips of torn
linen, a couple sticks of jerky, matchboxes, rotting turnip and
carrot stubs, empty cigarette packs, a headless doll for the top,
and, at Young Martin’s urging, photos of the young soldier’s
family. She’d also baked what she called her “
Noël
patisserie
” and Old Henry a “
Weihnachtsstollen
.” It was
a Christmas bread unlike any Max had ever seen, a dark brown oval
blob instead of a loaf or log, and it lacked a proper dusting of
powdered sugar. For spices she had only cinnamon, and she’d
apparently used it in bulk, for when she cut a few thick slices Max
caught an aroma that could only compare to burnt bacon fat. Lodged
in the slices were a few small hard raisins and chunks of apple,
some of which Annette had dyed red and green to resemble more
varieties of fruit (where she got the dye, Max didn’t want to
know). Annette explained she was doing what she could with the few
goods she had, and who was he to tell her how to bake?

They praised Annette’s efforts, lit all the candles,
and sat at the table except for Young Martin, who they propped
against the wall in the corner. The Christmas bread and candles
seemed to perk Martin up, which wasn’t necessarily a good thing.
Too much talking or laughing caused fits of coughs and blood to his
handkerchief. Next to Max sat Justine, now as withdrawn as when
they first met. Slaipe and Smitty faced them, Slaipe cheery but
Smitty just as grumpy. Old Henry and Annette each took an end of
the table as if they were the parents. They ate the bread, drank
their ersatz coffee, and played cards, conversing politely in a mix
of languages, each doing their best to stay clear of politics,
history, war, and their sorry fates that weighed on this cellar
like a thousand of these villas. Slaipe smoked his pipe. Smitty
averted Max’s gaze. Max felt silly acting like an American now. If
he could only be himself—he’d certainly translate better than
Smitty, who’d interpreted
Stollen
as “fruitcake,” or Justine
who, in her apathy, called the American Santa Claus “
Monseigneur
Noël
.”

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.”