A Midnight Clear: A Novel (22 page)

“God, I’m sorry, Mother. I forgot all about you up there. It was fine. The Germans only wanted to spread a little Christmas cheer, that’s all. Father Mundy here even went out and did some present exchanging.”

It’s pitiful to watch Mother stare at Gordon when he says this. He looks over at me.

“Is he making this up, Wont? Is that what happened?”

“That’s it, Vance. This particular branch of the German Army seems to believe in calling the war off every once in a while, like ’no fighting on Sundays’ for knights in medieval days.”

Mother sits on the edge of the mattress beside Mundy. Mundy’s trying to open the bottle he got from the German. Mother still isn’t finished; I’m about ready to confess the whole affair. He might go along with the idea anyway; maybe Mel’s right.

“Gosh, Wont. I don’t know if I can keep up with this ‘now you see it, now you don’t’ kind of war. I’d rather we kept out of each other’s way except when we have to fight. I can’t take it.”

Gordon’s wrestling with the tough skin on the sausage. He pulls out his bayonet.

“Come on, Mundy. Just what the hell did you give those Germans besides our last bottle of wine?”

I glance over at Mel’s watch. It’s time to change guard. I decide we’ll cut it to one on a post if everybody agrees. I don’t remember who’s supposed to be on next. I think it’s Mundy and Wilkins.

“I didn’t give them much. There’s not much around here worth anything; at least, not anything we actually own and can give away. I gave him some of those scrambled eggs nobody eats, then six cans of that fish we found and
all
the lemonade packages. Oh yeah, I also gave him ten of those four-pack cigarettes. What the devil, it’s Christmas, isn’t it; or almost, anyway. I gave him a grenade, too.

“I wanted him to know we weren’t going to throw any more grenades, that’s all. It was a sort of peace offering.”

Mel comes over and shakes Mundy’s hand, laughing.

“I’ve got to admit it, Mundy, you’re sly; imagine, giving away all those cigarettes. But then, killing people for Christmas isn’t quite in the best Christian spirit, you know.”

Mel hands Mundy the sausage.

“Come on, Gordon; a few cigarettes aren’t going to hurt that much.”

Gordon takes the German bottle from Mundy. He pulls the cork out. Mundy takes out his penknife and starts cutting slices of sausage. Gordon sniffs the bottle carefully.

“Wow, this is the real stuff. This is like gin or vodka, really strong, white lightning.”

He takes another sniff, then a small slug. We watch as he shakes his head and his eyes water. It’s a few seconds before he can talk.

“Holy cowpiss! That’ll keep anybody warm. Where the hell do they get something like this?”

He hands the bottle to Mundy. Mundy’s passing out the salami. He gives a slice to each of us, another communion, salami wafers. Schnapps for the blood.

“Watch out, Father! That’s not the stuff for saying mass. I’ll bet it’s at least a hundred proof. But it’ll keep
your
blood moving in the dark out there.”

Mundy looks at his watch.

“Holy mackerel, why didn’t you guys tell us? We’re already five minutes late. I think I was waiting for the phone-in.”

He’s up and throwing his stuff together. Wilkins starts up, too.

“You stay here, Vance. You’ve been out in the cold enough. We’ll go one on a hole for tonight. Nobody’s going to come crashing in on us. Is that OK with you, Father? I’ll come down if you’d rather not be alone.”

“No, I’m fine. I want to do some thinking anyhow. We priest types call it meditating but it’s really thinking, our own private kind of thinking. You stay here. By the way, what’s the password again?”

“ ‘Jingle—bells.’ But a few bars of ‘Silent Night’ in
English
will do.”

 

When Shutzer and Miller come in, we pass around the bottle and cut some more off the sausage. This sausage is delicious, better than Corrollo’s mom sent and better than he took off bodies. This must be a sausage sent to a German straight from home, no ordinary GI stuff. Shutzer can’t believe it.

“No shit. This is genuine kosher salami. It’s good’s Katz’s. I think I’ll take up Christmas.”

Gordon pulls another long guzzle from the bottle. We’re all going to be zonked if we keep at it. Maybe that’s the great German plan: get us all looped, then wrap us up. Gordon passes the bottle to Wilkins.

“Sure, Shutzer. Then that explains this whole thing. Why didn’t I think of it before? These aren’t real Germans out there; these are Jewish spies dressed up in German uniforms and trying to escape with important information. These are their last rations they brought from back home on the ghetto.

“Be careful of that salami, Wont; there might be a roll of microfilm built into it; revealing the location of Germany’s secret weapon. Check the bottom of that bottle, too.”

Shutzer takes a slug, looks down into the neck of the bottle.

“Yeah, like a Chinese cookie. But, Gordon, your whole theory’s out. How could a bunch of sheenies put on an entire Christmas scene like that, down to the last candle? It isn’t fitting. No, these are plain down-home Krauts, but they’ve got good taste in salami, I’ll say that.”

We save half our bottle and most of the salami. Things like these can make ordinary rations almost edible. Shutzer puts on some water for coffee. Miller crawls into his sack about the same time I do. It feels like Christmas Eve whatever day it is. This will be my first Christmas away from home if I live that long, or maybe I already have.

Miller shakes me and I swing up into a sitting position on the edge of my mattress. I’m groggy. I look around; the fire’s roaring. We’re burning picture frames now. While I watch, Shutzer pushes down on one, cracks it at the corners, levers it into four parts and throws one chunk on the flame. We must be getting low for Wilkins to have sacrificed these frames; they’re oak and hand carved. He made a point of that when we were looking at the paintings. I glance over and the violin’s still there, so we haven’t gone totally barbaric.

“How about it, Won’t? We still on? Do I go in the green room to dress up? Mother’s upstairs. He’s on the edge all right; we had to practically wrestle these frames from him. He called Stan a traitor to everything ‘his people’ stand for. We’ve got to do something before he cracks up completely.”

“How about you, Stan?”

“Ready and raring to go.”

“OK, be right with you.”

I go outside to take a piss. I could go upstairs but I want to see what the weather’s like. I figure it’s about nine a.m. It’ll only take half an hour getting out to the shack, at the most; so there’s plenty of time.

It’s clouded over. It’s not snowing but the clouds are heavy and could start dumping any minute. I’m amazingly calm; maybe I’m like the rabbit cornered by the dogs and I’ve stopped fighting. I watched Jenkins go that way. He quit caring about things. He’d walk around on an exposed hill eating a chocolate bar. Thank God, Edwards caught on early and sent him back. I don’t think he was bucking for anything; he’d given up; he didn’t know what the hell he was even doing.

I come inside. I grab Miller’s arm and look at his watch. It’s later than I thought, twenty-five to ten. Shutzer and Miller are waiting. Miller’s being pinned in and spruced up by Gordon. If we had makeup, Gordon’d probably paint a dueling scar across Miller’s cheek. Miller looks so much like a movie version of the cruel German soldier he scares me. I have a hard time believing he’s on
our
side. He’s slipped completely into the role; maybe
he’s
the Nazi spy in our midst.

In a few minutes I have all my crap on. Getting decked up as a soldier going on a patrol is a scene in itself.

 

As a street painter now, in Paris, I often get a
déjà vu
feeling when I pack to go paint. Going out with an easel on my back, with bottles of turpentine and varnish stuffed in my pockets and a canvas strapped to the easel, is one hell of a lot like being weighed down by military hardware. In fact, I use the same term; even if I’m only going painting up some alley or in a courtyard, I say I’m “in the field.”

But there’s a big difference. Even though painting’s a challenge and physically exhausting, it’s one hell of a lot more comfortable. People might hang on my back or ask stupid questions, but I never feel somebody’s behind me with my life in his hands. The clicking I hear is cameras, not somebody pushing off a safety.

 

When we go out, we don’t even go in interval. We have our rifles slung and we’re walking along as if we’re going to school or maybe going ice-skating after school. For smart guys, we’re slow learners. I consider exercising those three stripes but don’t. After all, in this deal, I’m distinctly the supernumerary.

We get to the shack just before ten, but they’re already there. It’s the same two, the noncom and the one with pale face and drooping eyes.

Miller and I stay up near the ridge while Shutzer strolls on down. Miller does everything but put one hand between the buttons of his field jacket. He’s Napoleon watching the battle of Borodino. He even has one foot slightly stuck out. We decided he shouldn’t carry a rifle, so he’s unarmed except for a grenade we hung on his belt under the field jacket to look like a pistol bulge.

Shutzer turns and motions us on down. I hang back, more or less covering, rifle still slung on my shoulder but ready to swing up and fire. They have no weapons we can see, the same as last time.

Shutzer does a great job introducing Miller. He does everything but curtsy. The German noncom does a short nod and Miller pulls off a perfect imitation. They’re liable to draft him into the German Army if we’re not careful. Shutzer draws us all back a few steps.

“I can feel we’re about ready to get into the crux of the matter. Miller, you just look severe and nod or shake your head when I talk to you. Won’t, I guess Miller will have to make the decisions here on the spot. I can’t see how we can do it any other way. I’m still not sure about that other guy. I think he’s the one who’s engineering all this, but I doubt he actually speaks any English.”

All this is sotto voce, not far from the Germans, as if we’re making casual conversation. Miller has his hands on his hips.

“OK, Shutzer, let’s get on with it.”

Jeee—sus, he
sounds
like a general. He doesn’t even crack a smile. Shutzer goes back to the Germans, and Miller swaggers behind him. I bring up the rear, still somewhat wary.

Shutzer and the noncom start talking. The noncom keeps his eyes on Miller. Miller stares into the noncom’s eyes as if he knows what’s going on, but then he turns to Shutzer. Shutzer looks serious as a ghost.

“OK. They want to surrender all right. In fact, they want it tonight. But here’s the kicker. They’re convinced if they surrender without a fight, their folks back home will suffer or they’ll be discriminated against after the war.

“They want us to take them in a fake firefight. At least that’s what I think he’s saying. Do a few questionable nods, Miller; maybe stroke your chin like Plato dialoguing with Aristotle.”

Miller carries through. Perhaps it’s all the bridge and games; they don’t seem to know the difference between life and death or some game. They’re
playing
at all this. Shutzer turns to the noncom and opens conversation again. I still can’t fit this Shutzer, using his hands, shaking his head, singing his words, with
our
Shutzer. Which one is real? Which is the real Miller? Which one am I? I
know
I’m not a sergeant in the I and R squad of an honest-to-God infantry regiment.

I watch and listen as Shutzer and Miller go through their act. I listen when Shutzer translates for Miller and I listen to what Miller answers. The gist of it is they’re not enthusiastic about letting us have a single prisoner now. I guess they don’t trust us
that
much. Shutzer explains how our officers are pressing for a prisoner to question about what’s happening to the south.

On this note, the other German moves closer and the pair of them powwow. Shutzer breaks out cigarettes and spreads them around.

In the end, they insist we come tonight, make a lot of noise with small arms fire, maybe a few grenades, then take them in. They say they’ll have to leave most of their equipment in the lodge or it won’t look as if they were surprised. They’re convinced the big attack will charge through here soon.

So, after a lot more dickering, Shutzer and Miller join me. The capture scene is set for midnight tonight. They’ll line up on the space in front of their lodge and we’ll be on the hill where we peeped down on them with our scope the first time. We’ll have an enormous advantage. It doesn’t sound like a trap at all, just a complicated surrender. I’m still scared, but there doesn’t seem any reason for it; everything’s working out perfectly. I don’t know why, but I’m deep scared. I’d like to read Miller’s poem about fear. I think I could make some personal contributions.

On the way back, Shutzer and Miller are in stitches. They keep going over the discussion, the negotiation, as if they’re dissecting a bridge hand. It’s a hand I wish I’d made up myself so I’d know better what’s going to happen, what’s in the cards.

 

When we get back to the château, everything’s fine. Wilkins has ducked upstairs again, so it’s easy to get the squad together. I even pull Mundy in off post. Miller’s gone back to his ordinary clothes and Shutzer’s explaining what happened. Mundy looks dazed.

“You mean you really did it. You went out and talked with them again and they’re all set to come in with us, without any trouble?”

“Right. Only we have to pull off the whole business of having a firefight. It actually makes things better for the Mother Wilkins Win the War Plan. It’ll add an element of realism. We’ll get them back here, then have the chess playoffs to determine our local hero.”