Stile Maus (12 page)

‘But
we are
soldiers of the German army therefore
we are
permitted to use the German army’s weaponry,
are we not
?’  A reply wasn’t offered, only another sigh and the distinct sound of footsteps trudging away across the field.  Stefan trembled.  Not just from the cold but from fear, a great fear that had squirmed its way into the depths of his bones.  A match struck.  Stefan could hear a cigarette pull away from the inside of its packet and then rest on the cold lips of a soldier.  Stale smoke circled the air.  The puffs were short and quick, impatient and edgy.  Stefan held his breath, trying with an intense desperation to slow the rapid beat of his heart.   

‘What are you doing back there, assembling the bloody thing yourself?’ shouted the disgruntled soldier.  A reply could have been offered but it was hard to tell, the truck was across the way, hidden in the distant darkness.

‘To hell with this.’ 

A pistol unsheathed and five, rushed shots filled the air.   

The end of the cigarette enflamed as the soldier chugged at its birth, tossing it amongst the grass as soon as the musky smoke had left the roll of his vicious tongue.  A barrel of hurried footsteps could be heard in the distance, gradually getting closer and closer until,

‘What was that?’ wheezed Kern, adjusting the shoulder straps fixed to his jacket in a hope that it would soothe his heavy breathing.

‘No matter,’ assured the gun welding Nazi, ‘their gone, I doubt anyone will argue about how it was done.’ 

A grin simmered across his face,

‘Come on now,’ he said, ‘get them in the truck…’  A beam of white light crept over the dew glistened field, forcing the soldiers to cover their eyes.  Tyres hit the path leading up to the knoll, crunching and snapping at the clusters of stones that lay ahead.  The monstrous set of headlamps rounded the bickering soldier’s truck, coming to a halt beside the rear cab. 

‘Who’s there?’ inquired private Blankenburg with a hefty yell, his fingers wrapped tightly around the trigger of his Luger.  A figure slipped away from behind the bubble of white haze and began trudging calmly across the dampened meadow, stopping just a few yards away from the guarded hunches of the bemused soldiers.  

‘I’ll ask you to lower your weapon, private,’ requested the stranger as he proceeded with a cautious trudge.

‘Forgive me, Sir,’ soothed the Luger bearing soldier, ‘I-I did not realise it was you.’ 

‘That’s absolutely fine,’ replied the smooth voice, ‘would either of you like to tell me what’s going on here.’  Tucking his pistol back into its holster
Blankenburg grinned before offering a chortle riddled answer,

‘It’s those
Stallers,
Sir... We were ordered by Colonel Herman,’ his words were lost within the evening chill.

‘And what have become of these
Stallers
, private?’ the shadowed figure said with hushed concern.  A band of silhouettes formed in the distance, just beyond the shadowed blur of the questioner.  Kern and Blankenburg glanced at one another and then back at the tall outline of their superior.  In that moment Blankenburg found himself torn between two reactions.

Firstly:
to move to one side revealing the bodies of the five young men he had just executed.

Secondly:
to yank at the Luger that was fixed to his waist and fire uncontrollably at the man standing before him.

The soldier took another look at his comrade, Kern.  His fingers twitched at his gun belt.  By the time his palm had felt the curve of his pistol three blasts met his chest.  Private Kern hit the grass first and the gun welding soldier followed, his eyes glazed with confusion and pain.  A figure loomed over him, his steady breath released in clusters of hot, silvery cloud.   

‘Y-You...’ A final shot sounded before private
Blankenburg could utter any more words.  The figure looked upon the field before him, studying those who lay against the grass.  The crowd of shadows had wandered down from beside the truck and now stood at the shoulder of the mysterious figure, machine guns strapped against their chests. 

‘Get looking,’ hissed the gunman, ‘we don’t have long.’ 

Tears ran down his cheeks.  He lay against a bed of fallen leaves and twigs, sniffling into the cloth that covered his bloody mouth.  For the first few minutes Stefan had found himself wandering around the dark dorms of the unconscious, grabbing at strands of rare light, hoping that they would guide him back to life.  It was only when he finally came around that he regretted that request instantly.  His shoulder throbbed with an excruciating pain, a pain that rang in his ears and pulsated through his teeth.  With the bickering German voices circling the packed ballroom of his mind Stefan had rolled onto his stomach and proceeded to dig the cuffs that imprisoned his wrists into the mud beyond him, edging closer and closer to the dense blur of immaculate black that sat in the distance.  When the second storm of gunfire had sounded Stefan refused to stop.  For all he
knew the German duo were going from man to man, making sure the job was done from close range.  It was only when his hands filled with a bunch of damp leaves that he rolled onto his back and wept as silently as he could manage.  He tried to raise his arm so that he could pull away the sack that enclosed his face.  At his chest he could feel a stray wrangle of fabric, dissimilar to the tight cling of his shirt.  He pulled and found the stretch of cloth across his tongue come away and fall into his clenched hands.  He tried to go for the mask next.  The pain tormented him.  The slightest movement plundered his already wasting energy and provoked bouts of incredible agony.  He tried again and again, raising the arm which wasn’t wounded in hope that it would act as some kind of pulley for the other.  It failed.  His painful struggle across the field had drained him of all his might and everything else.  The sack over his face had become soaked with tears.  He knew he had to move.  They could be looking for him.  He scrambled at the carpet of leaves until he stood.  With his chain shackled hands fixed to the bridge of his belt Stefan began to walk, guided only by the constrained stretch of his dirty fingertips.  The bottomless gloom of the sack covering his tear pruned face would not give him any answers, yet as he embarked blindly through the forest that lay ahead Stefan couldn’t help but ask himself how he had ended up here, wandering without direction, entirely alone in the dark.       

THE STORY OF THE STALLERS

It began with a briefcase.  A finely stitched briefcase of French manufacture, brown leather, golden latches, the faint scribble of two initials on the side, a crest embossed upon one of the corners, the type of suitcase you found shelved within a low lit store, made purely for the luxury of those who could afford it.  Well, that was more than enough to capture Michel’s attention.  He glanced at the shuddering hands of his timepiece and smiled.  Unattended for more than two rounds of beer meant one glorious thing.  The briefcase and whatever happened to be inside, was now his.  It sat beneath a table just beside the entrance of the terrace, propped against the wooden spindle of a chair, its latches flickering in the warm glow of afternoon sun.  Now, if he could just...

‘Don’t even think about it,’ spoke a voice beside him.  Michel’s teeth grit into a tight bond and he let go of the glass of beer before him, rubbing his dew glazed fingertips against the prickly stubble that dashed across his face.   

‘I saw it first.’      

‘Afraid not,’ retorted Gerard, ‘It’s been mine ever since I sat down and I do believe I got here before you.’  Desperately trying to not let Gerard’s smugness bother him, Michel grabbed a pocket of toothpicks away from the linen cloaked table before placing one upon his tongue.

‘I don’t see your hand on it,’ he replied, pushing the toothpick to one side.

‘I take it you didn’t see who left it either?’  Every word was beginning to feel like a firm, irksome prod on the centre of Michel’s nose.

‘Arguing again?’ spoke Ludivine as she appeared from within the cafe, her dark hair carried by a rare flow of warm breeze.  The suitcase became lost within a rushed blur; a blur that swerved towards Ludivine’s approaching figure.  Michel’s sour faced growl loosened into a smirk as he watched Ludivine set down her drink and then slide onto Gerard’s lap.  Her cold hands met his neck and a kiss grazed his cheek.  Staring past a vast fall of gorgeous chocolate hair, Gerard shot Michel a defiant glare, superfluously declaring himself out of the duel.  A wink was returned and Michel quickly diverted his gaze back towards the suitcase.  There it sat, propped up against the leg of a chair.  The table above it sported a range of beer bottles and glasses and half empty plates with blemished cutlery.  If he was quick enough Michel figured he could slip onto one of the chairs, pass off that the collection of glassware resting against the linen tablecloth was his and snatch the mysterious briefcase away without anyone noticing.  He reached for his drink and let the liquor swill around his teeth rather than swallow it.  Through the wash of creamy froth Michel studied the faces that sat around his table.  Gerard and Ludivine sat as one, engrossed in one another’s presence, barely coming up for air.  Patrice sat opposite, his leather sleeves resting upon the back of his chair as he attempted to sweet talk a dark haired girl seated behind him.  That left Jacques.  A notebook lay beneath his green stare.  The notebook, the book of a thousand names and dates and places, a book treasured by its holder, a book that was flaunted at every gathering, new additions or not.  Jacques touched at the crown of his hair, patting it gently yet not so much that it would flatten the waxed crest of slick brown.  His finger returned almost instantly to the page where his eyes fell.  It was safe to say that no one on this table would be competing.  Straightening his collar with a confident flick Michel rose from the bed of his seat.  A hand flicked against his jacket. 

‘Here,’ said Jacques, ‘here, Michel, take a look.’  Prying his gaze away from the golden cuffs of the briefcase Michel glanced towards his book bearing friend and sighed,

‘Huh?’ he murmured testily, his eyes fixed to the case once more.  Jacques raised his notebook until Michel had no choice but to study the tiny words etched across the double page.  He scanned the first two rows in a rush, then the third and fourth with little interest, his eyes longing to return to his newly found prize. 

THE BRIEFCASE

‘Super,’ he said, swatting the book away dismissively.  His eyes met the terrace once more.  Tan loafers and light crème pumps scuffed at the paved flooring as a bustle of hungry customers passed.  Michel peered through the gaps in their strides.  His attention blazed, noticing that the illustrious briefcase had vanished from its original spot and was now nowhere to be seen.  Remaining seated Michel glanced from table to table, from chair to chair.  Nothing, not so much as the brass glint which had captured his attention so ruthlessly in the first place.  It had disappeared, entirely, without a trace.  Michel took to the air, pushing away from his seat and edging past a warren of rounded tables before finding himself out on the main street.  To him, in that moment, Paris had never looked so alive, the roads barely visible beneath a patter of shoes and market carts.  It could have been anywhere.  He couldn’t decide if it was the frustration of losing it or the frustration of never knowing what was inside.  It could have had anything in there.  He couldn’t help but let his raging imagination run loose, delving into the most luxurious items before the rest.  A batch of quality watches, a vast amount of gold or jewellery, an expensive pendant crested with a crown of emerald teal?  The list wouldn’t stop there, he returned to his seat and snatched angrily at his drink, mulling over his missed opportunity and what could have been. 

‘Never mind,’ Gerard said, patting a hand condescendingly upon Michel’s shoulder.  Though Michel didn’t turn to look, he knew his friend wore a smile. 

‘Right,’ Patrice said as he rose from his chair, ‘let’s go and pay the carpenter a visit.’  Reluctant to follow the others, Michel edged away from the table slowly, his eyes scanning the terrace once more, hoping that the briefcase would appear at the foot of a spindle or table stem.  With a final gruff he threw back the remainder of his beverage and left, nursing the sanctimonious hum of curiosity in his ear.

Stefan blew the dust away and stepped back.

‘So, what do you think?’ 

‘Perfect,’ clapped Mr Morel, slapping a dust soaked hand against Stefan’s back, ‘just perfect my boy.’

‘We got there in the end,’ Stefan grinned, raising his apron over his head before dabbing a corner of its navy fabric against his tired eyes.  Old Mr Morel stumbled over to the wooden chair which was still encased in a shower of rising dust and ran his frail fingers across one of the arm rests.