The Losing Role (28 page)

Max’s right arm thrust up. The butt of the tommy
struck her jaw. She let out a squeak as she dropped, and the StG 44
clattered away and clanged against the wall. She lay flat on her
back, her lips bulging with blood. She was out. Maybe she was dead.
He did not care. He turned to Slaipe:

“Captain. I have one request—give me a few minutes
head start, will you?”

Slaipe stared, thinking. Slowly, he reached in a
pocket and pulled out his pipe, which he placed on the table. “All
right. That’s all you’ll have now, I’m afraid.”

“It’s all I’ve ever had, it seems.” Max was backing
away. He set Slaipe’s Colt out on the floor. “Thank you, Mister
Slaipe,” he stuttered, “I, you know, I was hoping we could have met
in Manhattan one day, say, a drink at the Plaza, perhaps, or the 21
Club would have been swell . . .”

Slaipe was nodding now, but not smiling. Max was
backing up the steps. He set down the tommy, carefully, as if the
thing was blown of glass, and he sprinted up and out.

Twenty-Five

Max ran out the front doors and down the steps. The
snow had stopped. The last of the flurries shrouded Sergeant
Smitty’s corpse. Only his clenched hand and the toes of his boots
poked out of the freezing white. Max trudged across the villa
grounds through waist-high drifts of powder, focusing on his escape
and trying not to think at all. One thought plagued him—he’d
forgotten Young Martin Widmer’s letter. Smitty had tossed it on the
floor of the kitchen. How could he write to the kid’s mother
now?

He entered the woods, kept going. His boots crunched
at icy snow and underbrush and he hopped over fallen trees and
trickling streams. What a fool I am, he thought. How could someone
who can memorize lines and sing songs and sway audiences, someone
with an uncanny gift for American accent, prove so stupid? He
shouldn’t have entered the villa. He never should have auditioned
for Special Unit Pielau, but then again it was never his choice. He
was better off on the Russian Front. The forest grew thicker,
darker. He headed downhill, ducking for the low hanging branches,
and a jagged trail sent him into a tight rocky ravine, the stones
slathered with wet moss. He only hoped Annette and Old Henry made
it. The last thing he wanted was to find them frozen, hugging each
other. That he could not take. And what was Slaipe doing? Still
sitting there, smoking his pipe? Making his way back? Burying
Smitty? Or Justine? Max had saved the captain’s life, possibly. Yet
how much did it count? It was only one life saved, from so many
lost.

Level land again. Melting snow fell from branches in
wet slaps. Sunlight shot through the trees, white like stage light.
Max tilted his head back and saw, up through the intertwined limbs,
a crisp and wide blue sky. The weather really was clearing, just as
Slaipe had promised. He heard the drone of Allied bombers up high,
their white exhaust trails streaking across the blue sky.

He pressed on, his hunger gnawing, an aching hole.
He checked his watch. Two o’clock in the afternoon. In two or three
hours it would be dark. He needed more light. The forest edged a
road. He headed out into the open lane, squinting and blinking at
the sun. A grinding roar rattled his bones—a plane was passing
above. He dropped to the road and peered up. The plane was an
American spotter, a recon plane, flying so low its shadow blocked
the sun. On the horizon it pulled up to come back around. Stumbling
to his feet, Max sprinted back into the trees and dropped behind a
wet trunk, straining to catch his breath.

With the weather clearing, who knew who was watching
him? He sat still and could hear the battles raging again, far
away. The Americans would be counterattacking in all sectors,
Slaipe had said. This very sector might have been retaken. He could
be spotted, stopped by anyone. He stood and his knees shook,
weakening from hunger.

Keeping to the edge of the forest, Max followed the
road. He reached a junction. He sat within the trees, waiting and
watching. American jeeps and trucks passed through heading one way,
then the other. Then it was the Germans’ turn—a few ragtag units on
the run. Sometimes a vehicle would stop and soldiers got out,
shared a cigarette, threw up their hands and slogged onward. Max
could have—should have?—gone out to any of them. He would rather
wait for darkness. For anonymity.

Across the junction stood an inn. Bullet holes
riddled a wall, and fire had scorched a window. Beyond the inn
stood a couple houses and barns. As dusk fell, the traffic stopped.
The inn’s lights never came on, nor did those of the houses and
barns. Darkness came. The air carried a hard chill, from the clear
sky and the stars out shining. Crouching low, Max made his way
across the junction, went into the inn and found the place
deserted. All was in German here though he was still on the Belgian
side of the border. A sign read: “
Zimmer Frei
”—Vacancy. An
ad for a local ale promised “
Die Erfrischung!
”—Refreshment!
He passed into the kitchen and used his field flashlight sparingly,
clicking it on and off to take stock. On the floor, in a bucket, he
found chunks of bread. In a cupboard, a sack with two sausages, and
two tall bottles of homemade cider. Was he lucky? There was a day
when he would have thought so.

He carried his meager plunder on to the barn at the
farthest edge of this dead village. Inside he found a patch of dry
ground, where he sat. The bread had mold, he could smell it in the
dark, but he easily picked it off. The sausages were cooked but
slimy so he wiped them good with his sleeve. He kept the cider
bottles between his legs—to take the chill off them. He popped the
porcelain cap off a bottle, drank. The cider had chunks of apple
and a thick sweetness that coated his throat.

Moonlight shined through the windows, through the
breaks in the old roof, and his eyes adjusted to the darkness.
Hanging on one wall, he saw, were a farmer’s clothes—floppy brimmed
hat, peasant shirt, overalls, long denim jacket. A thick pullover.
He crawled over to gather this up. A large carpetbag lay there too,
so he stuffed the clothes in it and dragged the bag back to his
spot. He sat there like a caveman in his cave, his legs crossed,
hugging his carpetbag.

He drank more of the cider. It warmed him and numbed
him and, to his amazement, like a man who suffered a terrible
accident and lived to tell about it, he began to see how fortunate
he still was. He was still in one piece. He could still sing. He
could still act. Love a woman. Couldn’t he? Speak in three
languages. Walk and run and dance. What was so horrible about a
genial man? He wasn’t a caveman here. He was a monk and a pilgrim,
who’d wandered far and wide and was finally seeing the light. A
holy man. It wasn’t that he’d taken things too far. He’d not taken
them far enough.

He drank, lay back, and closed his eyes, and he
dreamed of singing for a dance hall full of beautiful young women.
The most remarkable part was that he dreamed it was after the
war.

Footsteps. Voices? Hushed American voices. Max sat
up, silently, and watched two men enter the dark barn. The
moonlight glistened blue on their skin—they were black American
soldiers. One was large and thick—big-boned, the Americans called
it, the kind who could serve in the infantry for three years and
never lose the heft while the other was small and wiry, like the
horse jockey who could eat pie all day and gain no pounds. Like Max
they had bags and satchels strung over their shoulders. Their
rifles hung upside down on their backs, worn and ignored, as if
they were field shovels the two hoped they’d never have to use.

Max cleared his throat. “Evening,” he said in
English. “Or is it morning?”

The two started, but they didn’t run. They faced the
darkness, from where Max’s voice had come, and let their eyes
adjust. Like Max, these two had learned somewhere that patience was
an old friend.

“Mind we shine a light?” the small one said, in a
tinny voice.

“I don’t mind.”

The light flashed on, off, maybe two seconds. The
small one sighed, and they trudged over and sat facing Max—not
close to him, but near enough to speak softly. They pulled off
their bags and satchels. Max could smell the road on them. This was
what he must smell like—all sweat and grease, dirt and smoke.

He held out his bottle. “Care for some apple juice?
It’s the hard variety.”

The small one grinned shiny white teeth. He took the
bottle and handed it to the big one, who drank from it with both
massive hands. They studied Max as best as they could, the
moonlight glinting in their eyes.

“You lost?” the small one said.

Max shook his head.

“You quit this scene?” the small one said.

“He done gone over the hill,” added the big one, his
voice all slops and clicks, as if he were chewing. “That right,
mister?”

“Do you mean, have I gone AWOL? Yes, I have. After a
fashion.”

The two shared a glance. “Us too,” said the small
one. “It can’t hurt to tell.”

“Never going back neither,” added the big one.
“Copacetic? What’s there for us? So we hang our hats in Paris. We
can play and they like us playing.”

Smiling, the small one shoved at the big one.

“You play music. That’s swell. Horns, is it?”

The big one nodded. “Skins, that’s me,” added the
small one.

“Skins—that’s drums, I take it.” Max could have gone
on like this for hours. They had no idea. His English was that
perfect now. He might have fooled them all the way to Paris. The
sad irony of this made him chuckle. “Funny thing, fellas—I’m a
singer. Mostly done acting though. Gave it a shot in New York.
Tough there, a rat race. Still, I got some gigs.”

“Don’t say? We could use a singer. Couldn’t we?” The
small one chuckled and the big one joined in. “Small problem
though—you aren’t no brother.” They laughed together, snorting and
shaking their heads.

“No, I’m not. I’m a kraut.”

The small one scrambled to his feet. The big one
fumbled for his rifle.

Max waved a hand. “Please, please. I’m not that kind
of kraut. Look at me.”

Their field light flashed on, off. “You’re not an
American?”

“Nope.”

“Not in the army?”

“Not in your army, I’m afraid.”

“But, that uniform?”

“It’s all I have to wear.” Max shrugged. “Listen.
Please. You, sit, and you—why don’t you let that carbine down? OK?
Have some cider, and I’ll tell you about it.”

The big one held up a hand. “How come you speak so
good English? American-style, too. You’re one of them krauts was
raised in America, goes back to fight for Hitler? Man, that’s a
jiveass move.”

Max laughed. “Something like that.” The two nodded,
and crossed their legs, and Max passed around the bottle. He pulled
out his pack of Chesterfields and passed those around. He kept his
story simple. Once the Ardennes offensive started, he’d gone AWOL.
Soon he scored some GI fatigues. He’d only wanted to get back to
America, to make a new way for himself. No matter what he tried, he
told them, a black cloud had followed him. The DeTrave Villa was
supposed to be the start of his big break, but it proved to be just
another knockdown. This would not stop him. He knew there was
something—someone—out there for him. He had a hand on his heart,
and the bottle in his other hand. As they listened the two black
soldiers nodded, slowly. He told them about Liselotte, and the big
one squeezed his eyes shut, in pain. Still, Max didn’t tell them
about the mission. I helped kill one of your brothers, he might
have confessed. Lynched him. He had already realized something:
Somewhere, right now, wasn’t someone doing the very same to one of
his innocent kin? On the Eastern Front, surely. No, that part of
his life would vanish, he had decided, and the only one who could
bring it back was Captain Aubrey Slaipe. He’d been thinking this
for hours. He had realized he would be singing the same old sorry
tune if he made it back to America, or even to Paris. There would
only be more sellouts, more compromises. It wasn’t the direction he
had been running—it was the running itself.

The small one scooted closer. The big one followed.
“Here’s the thing, Jack. We’re going to start over, you know? Just
like you probably want to. Remake ourselves. And in a whole new
place. Won’t matter if we’re Negro, not as much anyways.”

“Paris is worth it,” Max said. “For the right guy,
it is.”

“Bet you know Paris, by the looks of you. You got
that chauncey look. Chasing the ladies.”

“Well, yes, I have chased a skirt or two. I
had.”

He kicked off his GI boots and his GI trousers, and
separated out the farmer’s clothes from his carpetbag.

“What, it’s not for you?” said the big one.

“I’m afraid not,” Max said.

The two stared. “You’re not going where I think
you’re going?” said the small one.

Max nodded. “I am.”

“You one brave mother,” blurted the big one.

“Oh, I’m hardly that.” Max tossed off his tunic and
pulled on the peasant shirt.

“Crazy, more like.” The small one’s forehead
wrinkled up. He lifted the bottle to drink. He put it back down.
“We were in Aachen. We know. Where you’re heading? It’s crazy.
Hopeless. Won’t be nothing left. Cities are piles, just smoking.
Folks starving. All those poor children. You all going to get the
whip. Sure won’t be much singing to be had.”

The big one slapped at his knee. “Don’t agree.” He
leaned toward Max. “Sure it’s no good, at first. But then? All
told? Just the thing for a kraut knows American. Long as you didn’t
run with Hitler, you’ll be okay. You just have to have the
hope.”

“I’m afraid you both may be right,” Max muttered. He
pulled out his cigarettes. He only had a couple left. They shared
one. The big one hummed as he smoked. Max didn’t know the tune. He
choked back some more cider. It had been so easy to talk in the
dark. Now the sun was coming up, painting the horizon pink and
filling the barn with a strange, gray-orange light. Max saw their
faces much better. The big one had drooping, sleepy eyes and a
silver tooth. The small one, a pointy chin and hooked nose. Both
had beard growth. Any alert MP would spot them for what they were,
and it would only get tougher the farther west they ventured.