The Losing Role (20 page)

Max sighed and threw up his hands. He turned to the
two Americans. The grin on his face felt silly, if not grotesque,
yet it terrified him to let it fade. In this moment it might be the
only thing keeping him American. The captain and sergeant stood
shoulder to shoulder, eyeing him. They stopped smiling. “Boy, am I
glad to see you guys,” Max repeated, and he patted the sergeant on
the arm.

The captain shifted his pipe to the other side of
his mouth. “Lucky man.”

“Yes. That’s me.” Max yawned, and let the sickly
stupid grin fall away. He slapped his hands together. “All right.
So what’s the latest?”

“Good. Right. We’ll trade stories, compare facts,”
the captain said. The sergeant pulled the linen off the desk to
reveal a grand Empire replica. He whistled and felt the shiny,
gold-inlaid top, dropped his map case and helmet on it, and sat on
a corner.

Max remained standing, in case he had to flee.

“This isn’t an inquiry,” the captain said.

“Ha! No, of course, not.” Max’s grin was back.

“So have a seat, let’s rest our bones.” The captain
stretched out on the settee, letting one leg hang off the side. The
sergeant brought two wooden chairs from a corner. He and Max sat in
the hard chairs, their backs to the desk and the bright window
light in their eyes, so that the captain appeared almost in
silhouette.

“My name is Slaipe—Aubrey Slaipe,” the captain said,
sliding his pipe into a trouser pocket. He introduced the sergeant
as Smitty. Sergeant Smitty smacked gum and nodded. “What’s your
unit?” Captain Slaipe asked Max. Max told him, handed over his
papers. Captain Slaipe turned to the window and studied the
documents, cradling them in both hands as if they held gold
dust.

Sergeant Smitty shot Max a half-smile, as if to say,
sorry for taking up your time.

They kept to general questions about Max’s unit
makeup, sector, losses. Max answered as he was trained, sparing no
details. He reacted as the theater trained him, drawing from life
experience. His unit didn’t know what hit them, he said. He saw
friends die. They asked about his time lost behind enemy lines. He
told of hiding in dark woods and damp barns as roaring, clanking
panzers passed. He kept his sentences short. He mispronounced
French and German words on purpose. He mumbled the tough American
words and lost his train of thought on purpose, blaming it on the
shell shock. He kept his overcoat on, his scarf tight.

As they spoke, Captain Slaipe kept Max’s papers
tucked in his breast pocket. He removed his helmet to reveal the
balding, graying head of a middle-aged businessman, although he
must have been no more than Max’s age. And he was no mere
businessman. He spoke with the eloquence of diplomats and
professors. His pronunciation of nearby towns revealed he probably
knew French. His skin was pink and clean-shaven. Max wondered how
he kept it that way. Perhaps he could grow no whiskers, like an
albino? His eyes were large with lots of white. Yet the man was
also handsome in the same way a mentor or a philosopher was
handsome—he exuded wisdom and principle, but also detachment. In an
American movie, a dour sort like Fredric March would play him. As
for Sergeant Smitty, he was more the All-American type. He had a
round face, perfect white teeth, a ready smile. He was younger but
certainly no fool, and he showed a dark streak. Max imagined him a
crackerjack detective or lawyer in a small town. Captain Slaipe
called him his driver and German interpreter. Most likely, Smitty
was short for Schmidt or something longer—Schmidtbauer perhaps? Max
would have liked to inquire, but the more he talked and reacted,
the more they’d ask and the sooner he’d give himself away. Luckily,
they seemed little interested in who Julian Price was and what he
did back home. These were not average American soldiers. They
weren’t even hard-boiled. They were too smart for that.

“So. Enough about you,” Slaipe said. He told Max the
big picture. The Germans had advanced farther west than where they
were now. Yet the Americans were counterattacking and the situation
was volatile in every front-line sector for fifty miles north and a
hundred miles south. This sector, this valley, appeared to be cut
off, neither behind German nor American lines. It wasn’t even a
no-man’s land. It was simply ignored. It had no vital bridges,
crossings, or depots. From this Max deduced what he could. They
probably had a field radio, he thought, since they knew the present
situation far better than he. They might even belong to a type of
commando team, for he had noticed they didn’t wear unit badges on
their sleeves. Slaipe finished by scratching his pink forehead and
raising eyebrows at Max. “Any questions?”

“Not especially,” Max said. “I know your names.
What’s your unit?”

“Special outfit,” Smitty said. “We’re doing recon,”
Slaipe added. They had put their smiles back on. Smitty stretched
his arms up behind his head and crossed his legs. He said, “Well.
Where you think that woman run off too, anyways?”

“Search me,” Max said. How long could he keep this
up? They drank from their canteens. They smoked. They talked about
the villa and the state of modern architecture, which Max pretended
to know nothing about. Slaipe knew his Le Corbusier. Smitty
pronounced Walter Gropius like a native. Yet they kept their guns
close, Max noticed. Smitty’s tommy was slung on his shoulder, while
Slaipe’s Colt stayed on his hip in a holster.

“You know about the krauts in GI uniforms, I take
it,” Smitty said.

“What? I heard of it. Sure.”

“See any?” Slaipe said.

Max laughed—a little too loud and harsh, he thought.
“How would I tell? Do I just ask them, which way to Berlin?”

“Fine. Just asking.”

“You have been lost in the woods, haven’t you?”
Smitty said.

“Maybe. Maybe I have,” Max said. “I thought you said
this was no interrogation.” He grimaced down at his boots in anger
and thought of spitting but didn’t want to overplay it. Instead, he
let his knee bounce in frustration.

“I believe my word was ‘inquiry,’” Slaipe added.

Max stood but sat back down, shaking his head. “This
is what I deserve? A guy goes through what I have, then he gets a
third degree?”

“Okay, pal,” Smitty said, “okay. Nobody’s roughing
you up.”

“It’s just habit,” Slaipe said. “That’s all it is.
We’re curious guys.”

The offended bit seemed to be working. The audience
was in the moment, and Max milked it. He sighed and paced around
the room, glaring out the window. “Maybe I should just push on,
find some dogfaces who could use the company.”

“All right now. No need for that, Price.”

Slaipe was holding out Max’s papers. “Sorry.
Okay?”

“Okay.” Max took the papers. “Who did you say you
are? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you two are those phony
krauts.” He added another laugh. “Heck, you don’t even have any
unit badges on your sleeves.”

Slaipe and Smitty shared a glance.

“You’ve made your point,” Slaipe said. “Again, I
apologize.”

“Fine, sir. Then I too am sorry.” Max slumped down
on his hard chair.

They sat in silence, staring at their cigarettes.
Slaipe emptied out his pipe, banging it against the wall.

Max had to find out more. Knowledge meant survival.
He shrugged, exhaled. “I can say one thing, you guys know a great
deal. Real up-to-the-minute. I’ll bet you even have a field
radio.”

“I’m not a betting man,” Slaipe said. “Yes, we have
a radio.”

“But, you can’t get through.”

“Comes and goes,” Smitty said.

Slaipe seemed to have lost interest. He’d laid back
and closed his eyes.

“The captain said this valley’s forgotten,” Max
said. “How do you know?”

“Scouting party,” Smitty said.

Max’s sick smile returned. “There more of you guys?
That would make me feel better.”

Smitty looked to Slaipe. His eyes still closed,
Slaipe said, “Had a team of GIs with us. Last time we sent them
out, they never came back. It’s been hours now.”

“Oh. That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“We said this place is ignored. That doesn’t mean
it’s safe,” Smitty said. He shook his head. “Who knows what’s out
in those woods? Violent deserters? Hungry bear, and none too happy.
Wild boar? Fierce SS stragglers bent on killing. Could be krauts
left over from World War I, for all we know.”

They heard footsteps. Justine DeTrave charged in
and, seeing the Empire desk, hurried to recover it. She heaved
Smitty’s map case and helmet into his lap. “What is the meaning?”
she hissed.

Slaipe sat up. “Please Madame, the sergeant meant no
harm,” he said in excellent French. “He only wished a peek at your
fine desk. It helps us feel normal, no? Like something akin to
humans?” He added a comically French shrug, and said to Smitty in
English, “Smitty here, he really wants to be a desk soldier when he
grows up.”

Smitty and Slaipe laughed. Max joined in, though he
didn’t get the joke.

Justine’s arms were crossed high on her chest. She
had on a frilled apron, which, considering her personality and
elegant dress, looked like something she would only wear at
gunpoint. She said in French, “When you are finished with my den, I
will provide food. Follow me,” and she turned and left, her taut
ponytail swinging.

Max pretended not to understand. He stared at
Smitty, who said, “I didn’t get all that—Captain?”

“She’s got your chow, Price,” Slaipe said to Max. He
had his pipe and a bag of tobacco out in his lap. “You go on ahead.
We’ll be down in a minute. How about it?”

“Starving,” Max muttered. He stood, grabbed his
chair and set it back in the corner. Then he went to the settee and
reached under for his knapsacks. That left only his tommy gun,
behind the desk. It wasn’t there.

“Looking for this?” Slaipe said. The gun stood below
the window, behind the settee. Like magicians, Slaipe and Smitty
had somehow managed to move it.

“If you think I should take it,” Max said.

“Oh, I would. I don’t trust that woman.”

“No, I guess you’re right.” Max slung the tommy
upside down on his shoulder and backed out of the room. At the
doorway he stopped himself from straightening to attention and
saluting. “Well, see you soon,” he said and turned out into the
hallway.

Justine was waiting for him down around the first
corner, her hands on her hips. “Come with me. Never will you find
your way through this maze when I don’t help you.”

You got that right, Max thought in German. “Ain’t
that the truth,” he said in English. They passed through two of the
rooms, down short stairs, and then up again.

Max grabbed her by an elbow, pulled her behind a
semicircular partition and held her by the shoulders.

“Why didn’t you tell me those two were here?” he
whispered.

Justine opened her mouth, surprised. “Tell you? But
they were not here, not right here in this house,” she said. “They
were hiding outside, in the guesthouse.” She smiled, and it brought
lovely dimples to her cheeks. She writhed her shoulders just a
little. Max released her, but stood close. She held her chin high,
to meet his, and said, softly, “I must confess, Meester Price, I
was not sure what I do. I thought it better simply to throw all you
men together and comprehend what happens.” She was whispering now.
She peeked around the partition. “There is something different
about those two, do you not think? They are not the average
American. But then again, you are not. Somehow.
Mystérieusement
. As you say, one just cannot tell who is the
who.”

Nineteen

Max followed Justine DeTrave through a bare modern
kitchen of chromium counters, Bakelite knobs, and linoleum
flooring. She opened a pitted iron door, and they descended a steep
stone stairway so old the steps were bowed from use. They emerged
in a cellar with an arched ceiling and walls of thick red brick.
Max’s eyes had to adjust to the dim yellow light. Candles in iron
sconces illuminated the rectangular main room. In the middle ran a
wooden table. At the far end was a hallway with more rooms (for
food and wine storage, Max hoped), and at their end stood a wide,
black fireplace stove. The oven doors were closed, but the
crackling sound and the warmth on Max’s cheeks meant a good fire
was roaring inside. Justine could not have made that fire. Her
apron was as spotless as ever.

“So. This, below earth, is from the original
maison
,” Justine said. “Is comfortable, no? The Germans say
‘
gemütlich
.’ Sit now.”

“Cozy, do you mean? It certainly is that.” Max sat
at the table, unbuttoning his overcoat. The cellar was warm but
also damp, and it reeked of soot and mold.

Justine lit the fat candle on the table and shouted
in a singsong voice: “
Allo
Annette,
allo
, the first
one is here.”

An old woman appeared from down the hallway wearing
a thick black knitted shawl and white hair pulled back tight like
Justine’s. She had a purple splotch across her forehead that had to
be a birthmark. Max smiled as she shuffled past. She raised a hand
and grumbled in French: “Don’t tell me—I suppose you’re hungry,
Monsieur.”

Max, pretending not to understand, grinned at
Justine. “This is all quite Old World, don’t you think? In a fine
way, I mean. It’s quaint.” Medieval was more like it. But he was
playing the new world innocent now, and not without irony: Quaint,
Old World—how many times had New Yorkers slapped such naive labels
on him?

“If you like,” Justine said with a shrug. Annette
set down battered pewter plates and silverware, a bowl of soup,
porcelain pot, a loaf of dark bread, and then she waddled back down
the hallway. A door creaked shut. Watching her, Justine said, “How
do you say? Annette is domestic staff. She is the only one now.
What am I to do? Release her out, into the snow? So go on. You
eat.”