Stile Maus (17 page)

‘Yes,’ Stefan said, his eyes suddenly glazing over as though they were temporarily blinded by some sort of horrific memory.  Francis didn’t push him.  He could tell that Stefan was searching for the words to reply so he lingered patiently.

‘My friends,’ Stefan began, ‘they’ve killed them.’  Francis recalled the gunfire.

‘The Germans?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know where this happened?’

‘No.’ Francis sighed.

‘How are you feeling?’

There was no reply.  Instead Stefan raised the bowl to his lips and swallowed the last few slurps of yellow soup.

‘There’s a glass of water there too.’  Stefan collected the warm glass within his blood scratched fingers and took a series of throat pulping gulps. 

‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘And thank you for... for this.’

They both glanced at his bare stomach.  The fleece that covered him had slipped aside and the knoll of shabby stitching was revealed. 

‘So you were a racer.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You said you were a motorcycle racer.’

‘You heard that?’

‘I wasn’t dead.’ 

Francis smiled. 

‘I know I haven’t got that long.’  Francis met Stefan’s languid gaze.  His eyes were big and teary and bold with fear.

‘Stefan I...’  A cold palm grabbed at Francis’ sleeve.

‘Francis.  I need to get home to my family.  I have to warn them.’

‘No, you have to rest...’  His sleeve creased under Stefan’s grip.

‘I
have
to get home.’

The boy stirred at the cot and kicked away the fleecy shawl.  A silhouette appeared from the darkness.  Francis half expected his brother to urge the boy to stay, to warn him of the dangers.

‘So you’re leaving already.’

Francis turned, his face burning with confusion.  Stefan scrambled towards the edge of the bed, his hands pressed against the bloody dressing that stretched across his stomach.  A set of keys hit the mattress.  The sparkling glinting from the key chain toyed with Francis and he dared to look. 
The keys to his motorcycle.  He understood what Pierre meant.  He watched the young man steadily get to his feet and returned Pierre’s watchful stare.  He knew what he had to do.      

MEANWHILE IN BERLIN

Private Schulze had just begun to drift off to sleep when the sharp shrill of the office telephone sounded in his ears.  It was late and he was finding it extremely difficult to keep his heavy eyes from closing.  The room had been empty for hours and he dared not sip at the cup of coffee that sat beside him as he assumed the dark liquid would take a cold nip at his tongue.  He collected the handset and pressed it to his ear.

‘Major Anaheim’s office,’ his tone was thin and he decided to clear his throat as soon as the words had left his dry mouth.  The desk offered a number of compact compartments and he pulled a pad of paper and a pen down from the closest shelf.  The voice at the other end of the line was fuzzy but loud.  He jotted down a few words and thanked the caller, finishing with a sarcastic ‘
Wunderbar.’  The receiver clicked back into place.  His hands suddenly felt clammy and cold.  The word fuelled paper snapped away with a pinch and Private Schulze clipped it against a thick red folder.  He shot a gaze towards a boardroom across the way.  A stretch of red carpet ran under a set of heavy oak doors.  The Major sat inside with a handful of officials and politicians.  Their discussions had lasted for hours.  The Private had been called in on two occasions.  The first to provide a flame for the cigarettes of two thin faced politicians and the second occasion had been a less awkward encounter with the Major requesting only a bottle of unopened bourbon to be fetched from his officer draw.  Voices neared the doors and Private Schulze sprang to his feet, saluting as a cluster of uniforms bundled into the lobby.  After whispering a final few words the meeting part disbanded leaving the Major to approach Private Schulze’s desk, his face weathered with exhaustion.         

‘A moment Private.’

Snatching at the paper conscribed with the caller’s note, Private Schulze tucked the red folder beneath it and followed the Major into his office and waited patiently as his superior unscrewed a bottle of scotch. 

‘I trust the list has been completed.’

‘Yes Major.’  Private Schulze stepped forwards and placed the crimson folder at the edge of Major Anaheim’s desk.  A nervous smile pressed against his lips. 

‘Good, that will be all.’

‘There was something else, Major.’

‘Yes?’ he replied with little interest.

‘A call reached the office while you were busy...’

‘And?’

‘I was informed that the radical group known by the French as
The Stallers
had been captured by the SS earlier today.’  Given the cautious manor that the information was being presented the Major nodded suspiciously.

‘Carry on.’

‘Well major, it appears that the officers who captured the group did not return to their barracks last night.’

Major Anaheim pursed his lips with curiosity.

‘Their superior commander reported that he instructed the officers to take each prisoner to a camp just outside of Paris.  When they didn’t arrive he called it in and sent a patrol squad out to investigate.’

Private Schulze’s words became scratchy and worn.

‘The division followed the road towards the camp and...’

‘And what did they find?’

‘Well, I’m not quite sure major.’

‘They didn’t say?’

‘No, they did.  I’m just not entirely sure how to put it.’

‘Try using the words that were said to you, Private.’

The suspense was beginning to irritate him.

‘They recovered the officer’s truck... and the bodies of four young me, dressed in civilian clothes, whom might I add, are yet to be identified.’

Major Anaheim took a seat.

‘I know that it is late and sleep has become something of a stranger to me but correct me If I am mistaken... doesn’t the French radical group named
the stallers
boast five members?’

‘That’s correct Major.’

‘What about the German officers, were they accounted for?’

‘No Major.  The commanding officer did state that his men would return in the morning to investigate further.’ 

Unfastening the first two buttons of his tunic Major Anaheim pushed away from the desk and marched lazily over to a small enclosure that sat beneath the window.  He tapped on the cage until the tiny grey mouse scuttled out from its shelter and raided a half empty food bowl.

‘You may go home now private,’ he said.

‘Danke Major.’ 

After the door had closed and Private Schulze’s silhouette had vanished Major Anaheim breathed a deep sigh.  He had a lot to ponder.  He poured himself a drink and slumped back into his armchair.  The leather oozed at the heavy push of his shoulders. 
The staller
file sat open on his desk.  He withdrew a pipe and puffed gently until a cloud of greyish smoke caused his eyes to flutter.  Sleep chased him.  Sleeping on bad news usually meant arriving at a more civilized, enlightened resolution the next morning.  That was the last thing Major Anaheim wanted. 

THE SILENT MOUSE

(Continued...)

There was a knock.

And then another.

He wouldn’t wake at first. It would take a few more raps on the door until his eyes finally opened.  The morning sun was cold and merciless, arriving through a set of detached drapes.  Tobias wiped away the musty gathering of sleep from the corner of each eye and sat up straight, resting his head delicately against the head board.  He sneered stubbornly, gazing at the empty sheets beside him. 

Another chain of knuckles hit the door. 

‘I’ll be right there!’ he croaked, unwrapping himself from the snare of silk sheets. 

He passed a mirror.  The disguise hung away from his face as though it was attempting to free itself.  He straightened up the moustache and shared a haughty nod with the dismantled reflection.

‘What is it?’ he yelled as he opened the door.

‘Good afternoon Mr Linder,’ beamed an overly eager bellhop.

‘What
is it
?’

The bellhop’s toothy grin diminished.

‘Sorry Sir, I...They told me...’

‘Wait,’ Tobias said holding up his hand, ‘what do you mean afternoon?’

‘It’s two-thirty Sir.  They told me to keep knocking until you answered.  The front desk has been trying to get through to you all morning.’ 

‘Just how long have you been stood there?’ Tobias sighed.

‘About an hour Sir.’ 

The door closed on the reddening face of the bellhop and the actor slumped back onto his bed.  The drunken antics of last night gathered within his forehead and every thought hurt to a different extent.  

His hand dug into his robe and felt at a pack of cigarettes.  Tobias wasn’t a smoker by nature.  Captain Niklaus Linder however, was partial to twenty a day.  He sat up and straightened his robe before crossing the room.  Smoke seethed through his teeth.  A draw opened beneath his clumsy pull revealing a pistol, a small tin can and a thin, red folder.  He pushed the other items aside and carried the folder to the table that was nearest to the balcony.  Page four.  His finger ran down the left hand side.  Tuesday, 3:00pm, Western barracks, mode of transport; arranged car.  Tobias cursed. 

TOBIAS VILSMAIER
, MEET CAPTAIN NIKLAUS LINDER

Tobias stepped away from the circuit and allowed a tall man wearing a lab coat to disconnect the wire plugs that were scattered around his chest and legs.  He was handed a towel and proceeded to dab the gathering of sweat swelling around his brow.  His muscles tingled.   

‘Head to the showers and we’ll proceed with the next stage once you’re done,’ said a tall and thin man holding a clipboard. 

Tobias offered an exhausted nod and headed for the showers.  The water was cold and he couldn’t wait to wrap himself in the heated towels that lined the changing room cupboards.  After throwing on a smart sports jacket and a pair of trousers Tobias combed his hair and headed for the lobby where he was greeted by another white lab coat who then led him into an office not far from the foyer.  Another man sat inside, his toothy smile instantly memorable. 

‘Please sit,’ he said, guiding the actor into a chair that had been positioned behind a white screen against the far wall.  The room seemed to belong to someone of high authority.

‘Face the lens please,’ requested the lab coat.  His clipboard bearing colleague collected an expensive looking camera from the desk and aimed it at Tobias who bore a serious expression as opposed to his usual poster grin. 

‘Excellent,’ he said after a few clicks.  Tobias signed a few papers and was told his identification and wardrobe would be sent through to Howard’s hotel room in Munich.  After exchanging goodbyes with the assessment team Tobias met with Howard who was waiting with a cigar in the lobby.

‘How was it?’ the director asked as they stepped out into the rare Munich sunlight. 

‘Exhausting,’ the young actor replied, undoing the velvet topped buttons on his jacket as he stooped into Howard’s Rolls Royce Phantom. 

Following a ten minute drive the car pulled up at the entrance of the hotel.  A valet appeared from nowhere and grabbed at the silver handle, accepting the bundle of keys and tucking away a band of folded marks with delight.  They took the elevator to Howard’s suite on the fourth floor.  The room was extremely well furnished, the couches boasting an impractical amount of vibrant cushions and the window sills embellished with flower packed vases. 

‘Take a seat my boy,’ coughed the director as he collected a few glasses and a bottle of fine looking champagne.  The red folder from the meeting with Major Anaheim sat upon the glass table amidst a scatter of wicker coasters.  A suit bag hung over one of the flowery armrests on a chair across the room.   

‘Is that my uniform?’

‘Yes,’ Howard replied, ‘the Major sent over a prototype for your approval.  We had better take care of this first.’  He set down the fizzing champagne glasses and reached for a briefcase that had been sitting beside one of the armchairs.

‘Right,’ said Howard, setting the case upon his lap.

‘Now Major Anaheim informed me that it is of great importance that we consult the documentation before attempting to open this briefcase.’  He leaned forwards and flipped open the folder, running a band of plump fingers through the first few pages before arriving on the correct page.