The Losing Role (11 page)

“Name’s Lucy,” she said and walked off down the
street, rocking her hips.

Max watched her. He could watch this a long time. He
would have given his last ten dollars to watch her cross the next
intersection.

She stopped and turned to him. “That was my bus too.
You coming or not?”

Lucy Cage was one of the few Americans who spoke to
Max while looking him straight in the eye. The others were always
moving too fast, looking for the next street corner, or thinking of
the next three things to say.

For Lucy, Max tried harder. He avoided the dark
coffee houses full of his melancholy émigré friends. For lunch, he
gave the automats a go. He strolled into one on Eighth Avenue and
gazed at the bright chromium and Bakelite—a wall of clear plastic
doors. “How does it work?” he asked a passing attendant.

“See the little doors? Reach in one, grab yourself a
sandwich, piece a pie, anything you want we got it.”

“Pie?” For lunch—Max never understood it. There was
a time and place for treats.

“Sure, an’ add a slice of cheese if you want. Any
door you like.”

Max got a piece of blueberry pie. It put a bounce in
his step, but an hour and a half later he was hungry again and he
needed a nap. He complained to Lucy, but she only shrugged. “A
guy’s gotta adapt,” she said.

Max kept trying. He changed his stage name to
Maximilian von Kaspar. He thought this would help. That’s what you
do in America, keep changing the game—one of the more successful
émigrés had told him this. It helped little. His agent could only
get him parts playing silly continentals in off-off Broadway
shows.

“If I wanted that, I might have stayed home,” Max
complained.

“But that’s what you are,” his agent shot back. “The
continental. Look at the name you gave yourself, for God’s sake. So
work with it. Work with me.”

That agent lasted another month. The next one could
only get Max roles in B-Movies playing insipid Prussians wearing
monocles or crude Nazis with hate burning in their eyes. All they
saw was a Hun. A Heini. The worst part was, they required that Max
move to Hollywood—half a world away. Hollywood? One émigré called
it that “candy-coated hell.” Many Germans who tried it fled back to
Manhattan broken, hobbling, alcoholic. To them, and to Max, America
was New York City. The rest was just a colony. Yet he too was
somewhat of a colonial, forgotten in Germany and unknown to
America.

Nine

December 15, 1944. Night had fallen around
Münstereifel, a forest-bound town near the intersection of Germany,
Belgium, and Luxembourg. Deep within the forest, Max, Felix and
Zoock sat perched on crates next to their American jeep, smoking
and shivering as they waited for the attack launch—set for 5:15 in
the morning.

If only Max could have known that leaving America
would someday lead to this. Their crates and jeep sat on a vast
clearing of cold mud. Above them, the branches hung so densely
intertwined Max couldn’t make out the stars in the sky. It was a
dim catacomb of pine and birch. The forest dripped and trickled.
The constant pit-pat pounded in Max’s head. He closed his eyes and
imagined he was sleeping in a grand high bed, with a feather bag a
foot thick, and he was wearing silk pajamas. A young warm maiden
cuddling up to him . . . His eyes popped open. If only it were
true. These woods housed an armed camp. It reeked of freshly
churned mud, acrid like a salt, and the bitter fumes of blackened
exhausts. Then there was the constant racket of guns being cleaned,
of wrenches clanging, of boots sloshing mud. Soldiers coughed and
sputtered nervous laughs. Engines roared alive, then cut out just
when Max got used to their drone.

He’d even stuffed paper in his ears. It did no good.
He’d sleep sitting up if he could. But who could sleep? So much had
happened that day. At the Münstereifel train station Special Unit
Pielau was split into teams and attached to the various regular
units that would escort them into battle—and cover their
infiltration behind American lines. Max, Zoock, Felix and their
jeep ended up here in this clearing with the First SS Panzer Corps.
They were one small cog in a monstrous wheel. It seemed the whole
German army had ended up in this remote border region of Northwest
Germany. The latest rumors told that tent cities and masses of
tanks, half-tracks, and artillery had filled every forest. Even
Max’s most unmilitary mind could grasp what was about to go down.
For months the Allies had been racing toward Germany. They
controlled the air. They had the troops and unending supplies. Then
the weather turned worse for the winter. The thick fog, clouds, and
snow would make fighting a grind and air superiority moot. For
American and British commanders, it was the perfect time to let
supplies catch up and the fighting men rest. Their armies were
hunkering down in Belgium, Luxembourg, and pockets of Northwest
Germany. Besides, they need not hurry. Germany was practically a
corpse, and corpses weren’t going anywhere. The Allies could afford
to be complacent in victory. So Hitler and his band of generals
cooked up a wild plan. Beyond the Münstereifel woods loomed
Belgium’s mighty Ardennes Forest, through which German armies had
marched into France both in 1914 and in 1940. France had been taken
by surprise, and the Allies had buckled. So, why not once more into
that breach? It would have to be the West’s largest offensive since
1940—a massive, surprise drive through Belgium and on to the coast
of France seizing Allied posts, depots and bridges along the way.
As in 1940 they’d push the Allies to the English Channel, which
left Paris open to them on the left flank. The window for
opportunity had to be small, Max also knew. The victories of 1914
and 1940 required good weather. With its narrow muddy roads,
rushing rocky streams, and tight confining ravines, the Ardennes in
winter would be a cramped route at best. Hitler’s band of lackey
goons probably had less than a month to get it right. Still, as all
good Germans knew, Hitler and his lackey goons always got things
right on the money.

After midnight now. December 16. Less than five hours
until the attack. Felix passed Max his GI canteen. He’d filled it
with something called Jägermeister, a sweet and sticky herbal
liquor that, Felix said, had kept noble German hunters warm for
centuries. Another Felix fib. Even Max knew that the stuff had only
been around since about 1935.

“Better drink that up,” Felix said. “Not too many
GIs around with herbal liquor in their canteens.”

Max wiped the opening with his sleeve and took a
tidy sip. “Thanks, Joe,” he said, practicing his best American.
“Thanks lot.”

They still sat on their crates, surrounded by the
muck. Felix had calmed down a great deal. When they’d first showed
up in this forest with their American jeep and uniforms, the
regular soldiers of the First SS Panzer Corps only stared and shook
their heads. What these fake
Amis
were up to with their
tricks and subterfuges they didn’t want to know—and Max, for his
part, didn’t want to be asked. SS Lieutenant Colonel Otto Skorzeny
had called their mission Operation
Greif
. Fitting name, Max
thought. A
Greif
, or Griffon, was a mythical monster with
the body of a lion, the head and wings of an eagle, and a back
covered with feathers. In other words, a sideshow freak. Which is
exactly what they were. Felix, on the other hand, had probably
expected an ovation. He had glared at the soldiers and refused to
juggle anything.

Now it was Max who’d fallen into a grim mood. His
own private little production was looking like a total rewrite. He
had planned to make contact with the Americans carefully,
correctly, and without malice. Anonymity and self-reliance were the
keys to a stellar performance. Talk about a hopeless run. At first
Skorzeny had kept him in the uniform of the feared and hated SS—and
underneath his American garb at that. Nevertheless, he was hoping
to be made a lowly GI corporal or private. When they arrived in
Münstereifel Captain Rattner had issued him the uniform of a US
lieutenant. Everywhere Max turned his plan was coming unhitched. He
had intended to sneak off into the woods and go it alone once the
mission was underway. Yet they were to be crammed into a jeep,
riding at the spearhead of a massive surprise assault that would
panic and enrage the Americans. And to top it off? His jeep team
included Felix and Zoock. How was he to shake his good
Kameraden
without betraying them?

As midnight neared, most of the regular soldiers
left for a nearby barn where there was a fire and hot soup. Their
songs and laughter echoed through the trees.

“They can go to hell,” Felix said in American.
“We’re the elite fighters, not them.”

“Goddamn correct,” Max said, giving it his best. The
linguists in Grafenwöhr had learned that front-line GIs swore
incessantly so they’d encouraged the jeep teams to curse in
American, the cruder the better. They also produced updated
scripts. Zoock the sailor was a great help here. One went like
this:

Situation: You face an American sentry.

American sentry: WHO GOES THERE?

You say: JUST ME, JOE. WHO THE FUCK ELSE?

Or you say: JUST ME, JOE. WHAT THE FUCK?

If the sentry is not satisfied, do not try to
understand his demands, as this will only give you away. Respond in
one of four following ways:

1.) FUCK IT. I’M LEAVIN.

2.) GO FUCK YOURSELF. OUTTA MY WAY.

3.) LOOK WHAT WE GOT HERE—A REAL FUCKIN EGGHEAD

4.) FUCKIN FDR—WHO YOU THINK?

As Max and Felix drank and smoked on their crates
Zoock was over fussing with their jeep, arranging the gear just so
as if this steel and olive drab equivalent of a donkey were his
sailing ship. Their donkey was definitely laden. Tucked under the
front seat was a counterfeit wad of five hundred US dollars and
another of British pounds. American, German and British guns,
explosives, and grenades filled the storage spaces. They had
exquisitely forged papers, a topnotch American field radio, and
Zippo cigarette lighters that each hid a vial of swift-acting
poison. The jeep bore the insignia of the 5th US Armored Division.
Its hood had a white X on the corner—so that German soldiers in the
know could recognize them as German agents. Zoock was to be their
driver. It was good news, except for one snag—the sailor had been
acting odd ever since the POW camp fiasco.

Now Zoock was pulling a tarp over the hood of the
jeep. He got under the tarp with a flashlight. The tarp rose and
fell as Zoock grunted and chuckled, his feet clamped to the bumper,
his thighs rubbing against the grill.

Felix sat up and watched. “He’s painting something.
I can smell it.”

“Painting?” Max said. He went over and lifted the
tarp and the strong whiff of fresh paint hit him. Zoock smiled,
made room for Max, and pulled the tarp back over them.

On the hood, painted in white outline, was
two-thirds of what appeared to be the Confederate States of America
flag.

“Careful, don’t touch it,” Zoock said.

Max’s mouth opened in horror, but even his German
failed him.

“It’s the Dixie flag,” Zoock added, wiping specks of
paint from his jaw. “Y’aw like er?”

“What?” Max said, even though he had heard clearly.
Zoock, Max recalled, had gone to see the last American movie shown
in Grafenwöhr—
Gone with the Wind
. He had watched both
showings. Ever since, he’d insisted on calling the
Amis
“Yankees.” He talked of “avenging Atlanta” and “General Sherman’s
March”—for which the Sherman tank was named, he pointed out. Now
Zoock was attempting an American southern accent? It was horrible,
and hokey. It destroyed his near-perfect colloquial accent. He
sounded to Max like a Chinese man trying to speak English.

Zoock’s smile faded. “Y’aw heard. Shore. Aw reckon
aw said, y’aw like er—”

“Yes, I heard you.” Max added a smile. This would
take some tiptoeing. He moved close, despite Zoock’s warm schnapps
breath, and put his arm around Zoock. He spoke in clear and firm
German. “Listen, sailor, I think you’re going to have to lose that
accent. You’ll have to trust me on this one, for I am an
actor.”

“I see,” Zoock said in German, staring at the rebel
flag at his fingers. It only needed more stars. “Aw reckon aw have
to think on thatta one.”

Two o’clock in the morning. Only three hours left.
Max grabbed the canteen and let the rich brown schnapps ooze down
his throat. Max and Felix had each pulled a couple crates together
and laid on them, staring up into the black branches, smoking and
drinking and pretending like Zoock really hadn’t painted a
Confederate flag on the hood of their jeep. Zoock was sleeping, in
the driver’s seat. He was not their only problem. Every jeep team
was to have four commandos, since they only had so many jeeps. At
Münstereifel station, Rattner had promised their fourth man would
be sent directly. That was twelve hours ago.

Max tried to remain hopeful. “I’m rooting for
another sailor—good English is the only thing that counts,” he
said. He and Felix had spoken little for the last hour. When they
did speak, it was in German. Who knew when they’d be able to speak
it again.

“You mean like our man Zoock there?” Felix said.

They heard sloshing footsteps in the dark, and
growing louder. Someone was coming. Max hoped it was a cook’s
orderly bringing some of that hot soup though he expected only
another private seeking a tree to pee on or a secluded spot to
vomit.

“A fair point,” Max continued. “What we really
should have done is have you use your influence with the captain .
. .”

With a pop, Felix exhaled a stream of smoke. “Care
to explain that, Kaspar?”