The Losing Role (8 page)

And Braun? He nodded for Zoock and stammered in
English, “I will, yes, do my best, sir. I want you to make it out
in the one piece.”

Zoock cocked his head at Braun, smiling. “That’s
better. Okay.” He gave the kid a rub on the head.

The four stared at each other, breathing steam, in
silence. As if on cue, all felt for their blue SOS hankies, but
cautiously as if about to draw guns in a Western movie.

Espinoza and a crowd of prisoners were waiting for
Max, Zoock, Felix, and Braun in front of Barrack 13. On the front
steps were a bundle of baseball bats, a bucket of balls, and a
duffel bag. Espinoza had on an oversized leather glove that made
him look as if he had elephantiasis of the hand—it was a “baseball
glove,” Max realized. A prisoner was throwing a ball at Espinoza
fast and hard from about twenty feet away. The ball traveled in a
straight line. Espinoza caught it in his big glove with a slap and
flung it back for another go, and another, and another. They did
this mechanically, yet rhythmically, like automatons. One of the
prisoners made a clucking sound. As Espinoza turned to see Max and
the three walking up, the thrower accidentally released another
pitch—and yet Espinoza still caught the hardball with his bare
hand. Max and the three passed through the crowd. No one mentioned
the blue hankies on their arms. Not even a glance.

“Boys. Morning. Ready?” Espinoza said.

“You betcha,” Zoock said. “Let’s do it,” Felix
said.

“Nice catch,” Max said.

Espinoza tossed a ball underhanded at Max, who
ducked. In the same instant, Braun lunged—and caught the ball a
foot from Max’s forehead. “Thanks,” Max mumbled as Zoock and Felix
gaped in wonder.

“Top-notch, kid,” Espinoza said, and exchanged
glances with a couple of his most trusted prisoners.

The light morning snow settled over the icy ground.
The men slid and skated on the slippery powder as they trudged on
over to the
Sportplatz
, tossing balls and swinging bats. The
fog had cleared, revealing high clouds. A harsh white daylight
reflected off the snow and the ice. The
Sportplatz
occupied
a far corner of camp. Guard towers surrounded it on three sides.
Prisoners laid out the diamond-shaped baseball field. At each angle
of the diamond, frozen burlap sandbags served as the bases.
Espinoza clapped like a stage director, and the men gathered
around, shuffling their feet. He pointed to bases and said, “Okay.
That’s home, first, second, third. Outfield, all the way to the
fence . . .”

This
Spiel
called baseball was coming back to
Max—from home base, the “batters” hit at the “pitcher’s” throw,
sending the ball out into the “outfield.” There was one problem Max
saw. At the outfield’s far edge stood the so-called Warning Rail, a
one-foot high bar of wood that ran the length of the camp’s two
tall parallel fences of barbwire. The five-foot gap between the
rail and the fences was a no-man’s land. Signs along the Warning
Rail read:

ANYONE MOVING OVER THIS BARRIER WILL BE SHOT

“Questions later,” someone had scribbled on one of
the signs.

Espinoza was still shouting out instructions, his
voice a pitch higher in the cold air. At the edge of the crowd, Max
looked to Felix and nodded toward the Warning Rail. Zoock and Braun
were doing the same. All their eyes met. Zoock gave Max a
shrug.

One of the prisoners raised his hand high and
cleared his throat, as if on cue. Espinoza waved for him to speak.
“What if the ball goes past the Warning Rail?” the prisoner
said.

“Then you go an’ get it. Right? You know the drill.
Goons won’t shoot at us for fetching some measly ole’ Red Cross
baseball. What do they care?”

Was it really the drill? Zoock’s instincts were dead
on. This was more than a game, and everyone knew it—any real
American prisoner would already know how to handle the Warning
Rail.

Two thick-necked prisoners were standing next to
Max. One grinned at him and said, “That’s okay with the likes a
youse, ain’t it, pal?” The other one patted Max on the back. “Sure,
sure, okay by him,” this one said. Both wore arm patches for the
Second Armored Division, Max now saw.

“Okay by me,” Max said.

“Sounds good,” other prisoners were saying, nodding
along and trading smiles, “Sure thing,” and, “Checkaroo, Sarge.”
Others patted Zoock, Felix, and Braun on the back.

“Because the goons up there? They trust us. And we
trust them,” Espinoza said. Max looked up at the guard towers, one,
two, and three. He saw dark outlines of helmets, and made out the
long barrels of MG 34 machine guns.

“Krauts ain’t even watchin’ anyways,” a prisoner
said. “They hate baseball.”

Were they watching? Max couldn’t tell. He didn’t see
any binoculars. He peered around the ground in desperation, his
shoulders tensing up, not caring if his fear was obvious. Out on
the grounds, there were no guards anywhere near them. And Max found
it tough to swallow, as if one of those hard baseballs were lodged
in his throat.

If only the four of them could meet again, come up
with a plan. Behind the home base another crowd of prisoners
gathered to watch, no more than thirty. Max looked for other
undercover GIs but saw none. Even Zoock seemed seized by shock. He
stared at his feet, his hands deep in his pockets.

Espinoza split up teams. Zoock and Felix ended up on
the team batting first, while Max and Braun ended up on Espinoza’s
team. Espinoza was their pitcher.

Max’s throat was constricting as if filled with a
swelling, sticking yeast. Desperate acts blazed in his brain. This
was no place for him to try to defect. What if one of them feigned
illness? Or simply started running and calling for guards? What
could happen? The problem was, Max and his three weren’t the only
undercover fools in camp. Someone could catch a knife or a poison
in the confusion. Max’s whole abdomen area rolled and thumped,
great big butterflies in there flapping and scraping at his ribs,
stomach walls, intestines.

He had to get a hold of himself. As he always did
before going on stage, he closed his eyes a moment and breathed
deep. The tower guards would see the blue hankies, he told himself,
sure they would. Probably already had.

In the duffel bag were more of the baseball
gloves—some made from pillows cut up and re-sewn. Espinoza passed
them out. Max and Braun each got one. The other team led Zoock and
Felix away, and Max’s team huddled around Espinoza, hopping up and
down for warmth and punching fists into gloved hands. It was all
happening too fast. Espinoza barked orders and plays in words that
Max couldn’t understand.

“Kopp, Braun—you got outfield too,” Espinoza was
saying, “Kopp center and Braun the left.”

Max nodded, his big glove hanging off his trembling
hand.

“Okey-doke, coach,” Braun said and slapped at his
glove.

Espinoza went to the duffel bag and pulled out
jersey tops dyed blue. “Looks like we’re the blue team again,” he
said and handed them out. And he winked at Max.

In the harsh white snow light, the blue tops would
wash out the blue hankies completely. Max thought of running now,
but Braun nudged him and took him aside. He helped him with his
jersey, pulling it over his head for him. The kid’s heroic change
of attitude was astounding. He had pushed the hair out of his eyes,
he was smiling now, and he gave Max a rub on the shoulder. “I
played this game, too—one of the few things I like from America,”
he whispered in German. “You’re going to be all right, Kaspar.”

Over near home base, Zoock and Felix’s team were
pulling on red jerseys and swinging bats. Zoock and Felix made no
moves to run. They were all on their own.

Max and Braun followed the third outfielder far out
past the bases, yet they stopped far short of the Warning Rail.
About 75 yards stretched between Max’s back and the Warning Rail.
Quite a distance, he thought. He hoped.

First inning. Max watched from his spot, the snow
crunching cold under his feet. The blue players around him murmured
a strange chant—“eh batta eh batta eh . . .”

Espinoza threw. A red player swung at pitches and
missed. One out. Next up. This red player hit the ball low. It
skipped past a diving Espinoza and right for Braun, who, again to
Max’s wonder, scooped the ball up and flung it straight to the
first base as the running hitter slipped and fell on a patch of
ice.

A cheer went up from the crowd. Braun gave a little
bow and doffed an imaginary cap for Espinoza, who gawked from the
pitcher’s mound, his arms slack at his sides. So this kid Braun was
a ball player. It could save them. He could prove they were
Americans. Max punched his fist in his glove and shuffled his
feet.

Another red hitter—this one Felix. He swung, missed.
One strike. He hit the second pitch but poorly, yet the ball
skipped and jumped across ice and snow and Felix ran safe to first
base. More cheers.

“Eh batta eh batta eh . . .” Another red hitter
struck out. That made two.

Another hitter. This one missed two of Espinoza’s
pitches, but he struck the third with a great crack and the ball
soared high over Espinoza and then Max, losing itself in the snow
white of the sky.

It showed up again at the other side of the tall
barbwire fences, bouncing to a halt. Great cheers now. “Outta da
park!” someone yelled.

Max’s heart tightened. This “home run” was proof the
Warning Rail was well within range.

Running past second base on the way to home, Felix
glowered at Max with hard eyes and wagged a finger as if to say,
Don’t go after any ball past the Warning Rail. It’s not worth
it.

Max nodded. He looked to Braun, but Braun only
winked and slapped his fist into his glove once more.

Another red batter—Zoock. He swung hard at
Espinoza’s first two pitches and missed mightily. He’d done it on
purpose. Brilliant.

Before the third pitch, Espinoza turned and looked
to Max and Braun. He stared a moment, his face stiff and blank.
Then he threw. Zoock went to swing hard again, but the ball struck
him in the thigh and he dropped. Jeers went up now. Some of the men
in red shouted at Espinoza, raising fists. But Espinoza had
outfoxed Zoock. A prisoner acting as referee walked Zoock, limping,
to first base.

Another hitter, one of the thickset Second Armored
men. Espinoza wound up but released a soft throw, and the hitter
struck it hard and low.

The ball lifted and sailed high over Espinoza, over
Max, and over Braun, traveling between them. It landed before the
Warning Rail and then bounced under and through into no-man’s
land.

Men cheered. Max looked to Braun. Braun was already
gone, sprinting for the Warning Rail. But the hitter had not taken
off to run the bases. He stood and glared, as did Espinoza, his
hands on his hips.

More cheers. A few jeered. Max ran toward Braun
yelling “No, wait, no.”

Braun slid to a stop before the rail, and he turned.
He looked back at Zoock and Felix behind home base, and then at
Espinoza, and finally at Max.

Men stopped cheering. Silence now.

Something had changed in Espinoza. He dropped his
glove and took a step forward, his face as gray-white as the
ice.

Braun stepped over the rail, moving backward, still
facing them.

“Don’t kid, don’t, it’s okay,” Espinoza shouted.
“All right now.” He raised a hand.

Braun smiled, and then gave his little bow once
more. He walked to the fence and picked up the ball.

“
Halt!
”

From the towers, the machine guns cocked.

“
Nicht bewegen!
”

Max jumped and waved his hands and tugged at his
blue jersey. “No, don’t shoot don’t!” he screamed in English, and
Espinoza started in with the same, the whole game yelling now,
Zoock and Felix and the fans and the referee, “Don’t shoot, don’t
shoot!”

Braun lunged to throw back the ball.

The machine guns burst out from three towers,
ripping the air and twisting and turning Braun in a crazy dance,
and he fell, a dark lump on the snow. An elbow stood at a bizarre
angle, pointing to the milk-white sky.

Seven

The steam rose from Braun’s mangled body in
shimmering billows as if released from some snowbound mineral
spring. Max had dropped to his knees. The baseball glove slid off
his hand, into the snow. Prisoners rushed past and swarmed the
Warning Rail and the guards descended, their guard dogs barking and
howling.

Soon after, Max, Zoock, Felix and the other phony
Americans found themselves abandoned out on the ground. Prisoners
kept clear of them. Guards gave them the cold shoulder despite
their blue hankies, which were out and clear to see now. They were
lepers. Nonpersons. Max, Zoock and Felix regrouped on the deserted
Sportplatz
. They spoke little, the cold scraping at their
cheeks. A foul heaviness ached in Max’s chest.

“What’s this shithead
Kommandant
going to
do?” Zoock sputtered in German.

A half hour later the
Kommandant
ordered a
lockdown but didn’t call in the undercover Germans. Max, Zoock and
Felix ended up in Barrack 13, where at least it was warm. Inside,
the American prisoners spoke with hushed voices. Espinoza sat
alone, in a dark corner, and read from a thick old book. Perhaps
the American had pity for them. Perhaps he thought them part of
some twisted Nazi experiment. Zoock and Felix took the double bunk:
Zoock up on the top, his eyes moist and puffy red; Felix down below
sitting with his hands clenched in his lap and his face taut with
hate. Max sat at a table alone. After a while a prisoner set a
metal cup of potato schnapps before him. Max nodded thanks and
sipped, letting the swill burn all the way down. And his thoughts
began to darken and distort. Good Pielau was gone, and now young
Braun. And what had Max done? When that hard white ball bounced
into no-man’s land, he had frozen. He might have reached the rail
at the same time as Braun. Surely he’d have thought of something
there. He’d always been able to improvise on stage. And yet he left
the trap wide open. All he did was hop up and down and shout in
English. Still in character. Never showing his true self.