The Losing Role (27 page)

“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.”

Slaipe nodded, slowly. Smitty was still, his eyes
locked on Justine.

Her gun was the deadly accurate new StG 44—the
“thousand-hole punch,” they’d called it in the East. Justine
shouted in French: “Now! Give him your guns.”

Smitty turned to fire. He got off one burst. Justine
shot and sprayed the alcove. Smitty tumbled back, down the steps.
Slaipe slumped.

Max jumped up. “Idiot, stop, what are you
doing?”

The recoil had knocked Justine back and she sat with
her legs spread out, squinting through the driving flakes. Holes
riddled the alcove, plaster everywhere. Smitty lay out in the snow,
on his back. Slaipe, heaving breaths, raised his arms.

“No, no,” Max muttered.

Justine stood. “Back inside, all of you! Grab the
guns,” she shouted to Max.

Smitty’s tommy lay on the bottom stair and Slaipe’s
loose at his feet. Blood ran from Slaipe’s upper arm. He stared up
at Max. He kicked his tommy over to Max’s feet.

“Hurry,” Justine shouted.

“Captain, it’s probably best I take your pistol, but
slowly,” Max said. Had he said this? Was this happening? It sounded
like a line from a script.

With his good arm Slaipe opened his holster, and Max
pulled out the Colt.

Out in the snow, Smitty’s chest had stopped moving.
Steam rose from rips in his tunic but none from his mouth. Red
surged out from his back, seeping into the snow.

“By the book,” Slaipe groaned, and turned to head
back up the steps.

Annette and Old Henry helped each other up. They
screamed at Justine in rapid French and German. Annette spat.

“Go then! On your own. To hell with you! I don’t
care,” Justine screamed back, her voice breaking now, and Annette
and Old Henry ran out into the blizzard holding hands.

Back down in the cellar. Justine kept the StG 44 on
Slaipe, who sat at the table, patiently, his hands in his lap. His
wound was a graze, from a ricochet, and he’d torn off strips of
blanket and wrapped his arm. Max pulled on his warmest
gear—overcoat, scarf, wool beanie, helmet, and Martin’s leather
gloves on his trembling hands. He kept Slaipe’s tommy aimed at the
floor.

Justine’s eyes filled with tears. Rather than lower
her gun to wipe her eyes, she let the tears roll down her face.
They twinkled in the candlelight.

“Where did you get that weapon?” Slaipe said to her,
in French.

Justine looked to Max. Max nodded. “Jean-Marie,” she
said. “He left it for me. He said he would be back. He hasn’t come
back.”

“And that’s your brother?” Max said. Justine nodded.
“Where is he?”

“
Légion Wallonie
—the Walloon SS.” Justine
sniffled.

It was like talking to a child. Max had made love to
this child. She was ridiculous. He was pathetic. “Go on,” he said,
his voice rising.

“Eastern Front. ‘Somewhere in the north’—that’s all
Jean-Marie said.”

A bitter taste rose in Max’s throat, like hot
mustard. “Then he won’t be coming back, will he?” he blurted,
grimacing. He knew it was cruel. He meant it to be. For the first
time in his life, he’d wanted to be. “He’s dead already,” he
added.

Justine gaped. Her chin quivered.

“And the radio?” Slaipe said. “Where is that
now?”

Justine scowled at Slaipe. Her tears had stopped,
and she grinned. “What do you think, you fool
capitaine
? I
shot it full of holes, didn’t I? That damned thing.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Slaipe said.

Only a ridiculous child would do such a thing. Max
closed his eyes to it, and felt his fingers, chest, and whole body
hardening up, like the metal of Slaipe’s tommy gun tight in his
hands. “Are you that stupid?” he shouted at her.

Justine gasped, a shocked laugh. “Stop that
nonsense, lover,
mon dieu
, screw your head back on why don’t
you?”

Max moved closer, a crazy grin spreading on his
face. He couldn’t stop it. It was like water, or an oily ooze. Oil
in a machine. It went where it wanted.

Justine stepped back, raising her gun. “Lover?
Dearest, what are you doing—”