Stile Maus (3 page)

Hansel chuckled to himself.

‘Doesn’t sound like a comedy,’ said the old man.

‘No, no,’ Hansel apologised, ‘it’s just – I’ve had that intro rehearsed for about three years.’

‘Sounds good,’ the old man nodded.

‘Nah, I can’t even string together a book full of nonsense.’

‘1942, the year I enlisted in the German military,’ said the old man, thoughtfully. 

Hansel leaned forwards. 

‘You were in the Wermacht?’

‘You could say that.’

The old man rubbed his neat stubble and Hansel caught sight of his watch, an enchanting silver timepiece with a face of solid white and two slender hands, each styled with a smouldering Prussian blue. 

‘That’s a beautiful watch,’ Hansel said.

With a sorrowful glower the old man set his other hand over the watch and then smiled. 

‘How many pages are left untouched in that notebook?’

Hansel puffed, flicking through the thin sheets.

‘A few hundred I guess.’

‘Alright,’ the old man croaked, coughing away a bout of brief hiccups.

‘Just before the Second World War,
the German military was ripe with betrayal.  The German people were in disarray, blind sheep led by a blood lusting wolf who portrayed his power with acts of sheer cruelty and chaos.  It was no wonder why the people wanted to stage some kind of rebellion.’

Hansel slowly reached for his notepad and unclipped a pen from its bind. 

‘Anyway, as the nation prepared for another war, the Gestapo employed the services of a young and ambitious officer who was eager to banish the treachery carried out by enlisted men. Heinrich Anaheim.  A cold man, driven only by results and statistics.  He changed the Gestapo in many ways, devised many plans.’

Hansel dithered for a moment before scratching another few words across the page.

‘Nonetheless this story begins with one of those very plans and the act that quickly became the final catalyst.  You see, this last act, the assassination of Milo Haas, sent Anaheim into complete darkness.  He began to seek out a way that would reveal the nations betrayers, and an operation was formed, something that was only divulged to a select few.  It’s rumoured that Adolf Hitler himself was kept in the dark.’

Hansel risked a sip of his ale and continued writing.

‘The Major’s deepest fear was that these growing acts would soon result in his demise or even worse, the assassination of the Fuhrer himself.’

‘So what was his plan?’

The old man swigged back his beer and wiped his mouth with his sleeve,

‘I don’t suppose you’ve got another notebook in that rucksack
, do you?’ 

THE BEGINNING

1941.  A mass horde of crows circle the great hall.

For a moment or two the newcomer paused and leant over the banister, staring down into the masses of nattering Nazi’s from behind the guise of his carefully positioned mask.  The High Command’s highest rollers danced and drank and bellowed with laughter, peeling away at their impermanent faces as the alcoholic heat began to snag.  He spotted Jürgen Ralphs at the centre of it all, a rather rotund man who was wrapped tightly within the ballooning bloat of his sea-green uniform.  Ralphs was short and boasted a sweep of thin greying brown hair and podgy black eyes.  A mask hung beneath the swell of his many chins, a reddish veneer fashioned in decorative crests and brightly coloured sequins, and it swayed as he walked.  The hall was colossal.  Mountainous waves of red fabric flustered against the towering walls, each of them bearing the twisted Nazi star.  The newcomer laid eyes on a grand piano that sat beneath the purple twirl of the staircase.  An officer’s wife was perched at its helm, stroking each key lethargically as she entertained a stalling waiter, and he followed her performance with careful eyes, ready to serve an encore of champagne after every sitting.  Lattices of sliced chandelier light stretched across the swerving shoulders of each guest.  It was impossible to tell the crows apart.  And Milo Haas was nowhere to be seen.

Beneath the hide of his mask, the newcomer was not seen, though he was not entirely invisible.  It was strange, he thought, to walk amongst a nest of crows as they squawked and flapped and went about their drunken social hokum.  He brushed past polished collars, careful not to challenge a masked stare for too long.  With a craning sweep he latched his index finger beneath the curve of his velvet mask and wiped away a gathering of sweat.  The warmth had flourished following his descent from the stairwell.

‘Champagne, Sir?’

A waiter bowed before him, suddenly offering a mirrored platter of fizzing champagne.  The masked stranger thanked him and hooked at a glass by its stem.  Then he moved on, searching the crowds for the unmasked.  The room was now warming, hot almost and he was starting to see more red faces than diamond crested masks.  He raised the glass to his lips, wincing as the bubbles fizzled over his tongue.  The taste was bitter and short lasting and he coiled his tongue around the inside of his mouth in an attempt to quench the pungent flavour.  A masked officer patted his blazer and the guest turned with an automatic smile, shaking the offered hand and moving on.  He wondered if Haas had already been and gone.  The thought pricked at his heart, although he couldn’t figure out if it was a thorn of anger or relief.  Brushing past an elderly clan of officers he set down the champagne and searched the room for a better vantage point.  No such luck.  The staircases were laden with servants and waiters and chattering officers and the floor buzzed with impossible conversation.  Slinking past another troupe of tipsy officers the masked man embarked upon the velvety red carpet of one of the conjoining staircases, carefully observing the social activities that bustled noisily below.  He rested his blazer shrouded elbows upon the banister and took a breath.  A bead of sweat seeped at the clefts of his mask, begging to taste fresh air.  He pulled at the bow that was fixed to his collar, loosening the grip around his neck.  His eyes jittered across the enormous room, trying to make sense of the societal disharmony.  It was all pompous officials buttered down with expensive champagne and cheap swill.  Their slurring voices battled over one another, fighting for respect.  The medals that lined their tunics spoke volumes but the opportunity to better a fellow officer whilst in the company of a pouting wife could not be missed.  The drink proved helpful.  Uniforms and tux’s swayed under its heavy, free influence and the masked guest sat back and watched, taking in every stumble, every excused mishap.  It was only a matter of time before he could single out those who tripped and fell more often than others.  One of those people was Milo Haas.  At first his ashen face was just another dash of red, mixed deep within a canvas of bubbling paint, eager to sober and eventually dry.  Then came the clarity, as if that one single uniform of olive green and face of warm pink had been neglected by the travelling brush and now flourished against the crowds.  His mask rested on his forehead, manoeuvring a seemingly forever empty glass around a hooked beak had proved difficult.  He didn’t stay put for more than a few moments, passing from group to group, drowning lower ranked officers with boorish babble.  The observer’s attention was diverted for a second as an officer brushed past his shoulder, apologising briefly before stumbling a few steps and then settling into a conversation at the foot of the staircase.  He returned his gaze only to find that the red faced Haas had disappeared, a ghost among ghosts.  His desperate stare searched the crowds, the masterpiece that had held Milo Haas was no longer a perfect picture but a dissembled blur.  Doors were held open on either side of the grand floor, doormen welcoming dozens of guests as they passed from room to room.  He gritted his teeth and began to leave the balcony when the corner of his eye tinged with optimism.  Milo Haas stood only a few feet away, his arm wrapped around a colleague, same rank judging by the stripes across his collar.  Spinning back towards the dark wood of the banister the stranger waited for the pair to continue on down the hallway.  After a quick pardoning, Haas embarked through a set of golden doors leaving the other officer to wander off in search of another drinking partner.  The outsider gave it a second before following.        

He strode through the hallway, advancing between the dimly lit corridors of soft almond stretch.  His breath refused to steady as he pulled the pistol away from its holster.  The interior grip almost snubbed his attempt, desperately begging the cold steel nose to stay pressed against the curved leather.  He came to the door.  His fingers curled around the handle, jolting it upwards slightly to ensure that his entry was muted and unexpected.  It twisted within his palm, slipping against the canals of sweat that ran through the crinkled creases of his grip.  A heat surfaced from underneath his mask, a hotness of certain dread and inescapable fear.  He glanced towards one end of the gloomy hallway and then to the other.  The dark emptiness amplified caution.  A blast of dainty light oozed from the widening gap as he nudged open the door and proceeded into the bathroom with the pistol hidden but quaking at his waist.  His cold fingertips coiled around the trigger.

The unspoiled marble of the pearl speckled floor welc
omed the toe of his boot.  He stood in the doorway behind the half opened door, leering carefully into the room.  A block of emerald granite lined the walls beneath a set of huge golden framed vanity mirrors, boasting embedded sinks that shone brighter than the starry lights crowding the high ceiling.  Just as he was about to enter he halted, his eyes fixed upon a small object balancing by one of the basins.  A mask, the mask Milo Haas had been wearing in fact.  A faucet gushed continuously within the sink bowl alongside it, splashing the attire with tiny hot specks.  He frowned at its faceless expression and glanced towards a row of cubicles that were huddled together across the room.  He edged a little further inside, wary of the fact that a frown had developed beneath his velvet disguise. 

‘Stop where you are,’ the voice couldn’t have been more
than two feet away yet to the visitor it resounded in his ears for seconds, rattling and toying with the rapid beat of his heart that was already present.  The latch of a trigger clicked to the ready.   

‘I recommend that you work on your tailing skills, Lieutenant.  I can’t say that they are very virtuous.’  He knew the voice.  Cold, precise and bitter, the breath in which the words trav
elled flourished against his hot skin. 

‘Drop it,’ Milo Haas said, grinning as he basked within an already self-acclaimed triumph
.  The newcomer obliged and thrust it to the ground with a stooped hurl, watching the pistol clatter across the floor with the corner of his eye.  He struggled to steady his breath.

‘Good, now…’  With a hasty spin he grabbed Haas
blindly at the arm, launching him into the wall and catching him with a punch that released the pistol from his grip.  Slightly dazed, Haas avoided a second blow and clung to his attacker’s midriff, delivering a few sturdy hits to his abdomen before spearing them both to the ground.  The now unarmed stranger clumsily staggered to his feet and met the officer with another clenched fist, then another and another until Haas bowed, fumbling at a blood stained lip before a hand clasped over his collar and a knee was thrust into his stomach.  Appearing beaten Haas rolled from his side onto his back, gurgling the spew of his newly delivered wounds.  Haas’ attacker observed his form for a few moments before turning his back and heading towards the pistol that lay at the shimmering birth of the granite sink basin.  He crouched, reaching out for the cold steel.  An arm wrapped around his neck and he felt himself lose his balance and fall onto the buckled belly of Haas, who had his jacket sleeves curled tightly around his collar.  He struggled and squirmed as Haas released one arm and attempted to peel the mask away from his face.  The grip was getting gradually tighter and the intruder exerted as much air through his nose as possible as he desperately tried to shake off Haas’ lock.  Eventually he threw the back of his head into Haas’ nose, loosening the grasp just enough for him to break free and push off the injured officer.  Announcing his muffled version of agony through cupped hands, Milo Haas rose to his feet and took another swing at his aggressor, only for him to deliver a hit to his chin and then a forearm to his blood speckled chest.  The blow sent Haas toppling across the bathroom but he somehow managed to retain his footing, standing up straight, releasing the web of bloody fingers from his broken nose.  The gunman had the silenced weapon aimed at the stretch of pointed medals pinned to Haas’ chest and was panting in a hope to restore his lost breath.  Haas let out a tired chuckle, observing the item that was pinched within his own left hand.  The invader took his stare away from Haas’ grinning glower and down towards the officer’s dangling hold.  Instinct told him to feel at his face anyway, just to be certain that his disguise had not been ripped away from his cheek bones and now sat within the proud clasp of an enemy.  Their eyes met once more.