The Losing Role (21 page)

“It’s very kind of you,” Max said. He had been
dreaming of a meaty Belgian stew with
frites
. He got a soup
that tasted like salty milk. Justine said it was supposed to be
buttermilk soup with apples—a Belgian specialty, but they had no
butter and certainly no apples. In the pot was sweet red cabbage
and on a plate poached eggs in aspic with parsley. Not bad there.
He tore at the bread with difficulty. The crust had turned tough,
but the middle was still soft. He couldn’t complain. He wanted to
tell her he’d been a baker but wouldn’t that be revealing too much
of himself?

Justine watched with hands on her hips as if she’d
been working hours on the meal.

“It’s good chow, thanks,” Max muttered as he chewed.
A little egg on the bread, then a dip in the soup, followed by a
crunch of the cabbage. He was feeling more like Maximilian von
Kaspar with every precious gulp. “Truly, it’s heavenly,” he
added.

Justine brought him a bottle of the local monk’s
ale, popped off the porcelain cap and, after he downed that,
produced a sweet black currant beer as dessert.

“Such a fine woman to guide me. You’d make a lovely
innkeeper.”

Justine’s eyes narrowed, and yet she smiled. Only an
American would say such a thing to a lady of the manor, he hoped
she was thinking—and only an American should get away with it. She
mocked a full curtsy, one foot before the other, and snickered: “At
your service, my Lord,” in French. Then she sauntered up the
stairs.

Max pushed his plate away, hunched over the table,
the candle flickering. The milk soup had made him tired, and the
thought of going back upstairs into that cold, sterile, blue-white
world with its linen-clad ghosts for furniture and trickling
skylights left him aching. He’d hole up here a couple hours more.
The Americans seemed to buy his act, for now. Plus, those woods
were no place for him now with the harsh weather and volatile front
lines. Out there Germans could mistake him for an
Ami
, and
the
Amis
him for a kraut.

Over in the corner was a bedroll. He unrolled it. It
was quilted and soft. He crawled onto it. Placed the gentlest bulge
of his knapsacks under his head. There. That was better. A little
patience never hurt anyone, he decided, while the opposite was
equally true. Just ask those black MPs, and Captain Rattner. He
unbuttoned his overcoat, just two buttons.

Now, and finally, he believed he could close his
eyes and sleep.

At one point Max woke and rolled over to see Slaipe
and Smitty up at the table, eating. No harm there. He rolled back
over, his limbs and eyelids heavy. Here he could sleep forever. The
next time he woke the two Americans were still there, but this time
they sat at opposite sides of the table, and the aromas of sweet
red cabbage and hearty bread were gone. A rounded bottle and two
brandy glasses stood on the table. Max lay back and listened but he
couldn’t understand them, not fully. Why was it that one could
learn a foreign language fluently enough, yet when two natives
bantered they seemed to speak a different tongue altogether? He sat
up, his back to the bumpy brick.

Slaipe turned from the table, smiling. “Evening,
Price. Or night, I should say.”

“Night?”

“Without a doubt. It’s near midnight.”

He’d been asleep for ten hours? His pulse throbbed
in his neck and temples. What if they’d searched him? They might
have done anything to him, these two. He felt at his American
overcoat. Still buttoned the same. He checked under the overcoat
and American tunic—his SS uniform was still buried underneath, the
closest layer to his underwear. The tommy was still against the
wall near him, and his two knapsacks at his head. Near midnight?
Soon it would be December 20.

“Dang,” he said.

Smitty chuckled.

Max had to urinate; his bladder pressed at his gut
like a jagged rock. Next to the tommy was a bedpan—Annette must
have left it. He grabbed it and turned to the wall.

“We needed a midnight snack,” Smitty said. “And low
and behold? Ms. DeTrave came through with dried
Jägerwurst
,
if you can believe that.”

Max stared.

“That’s a stick of jerky—to us Yankees,” Slaipe
said. “Talked the woman out of her Armagnac, as well. Take a drop?
Why don’t you? Come up, sit with us.”

“Shake those cobwebs off,” Smitty said. He lifted
his glass to the light so Max could see the copper, Cognac-like
hue. “Keep sleeping like y’are, war’ll be over.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Max sat at the end of
the table closest to the stairway, his back to the warm oven.
Smitty sat to his left and Slaipe to his right. Between them the
candle had become a droopy glob of melting wax.

The jerky was rich with spices and fat, just what
Max needed to wake up. He took the glass from Slaipe and washed the
jerky down. Splendid.

“Guy could get used to this, heya Price?”

Max nodded, chewing. They smoked. They talked about
women. Max had to admit, he could get used to these fellows. Yet
the longer he was with them, the sooner they’d find him out. It was
up to them. They only had to start asking about his background, get
in some trick questions.

Smitty suggested a game of poker. In English the
card names were different. If only Max had dared to play in America
when he had the chance. “No, no, you guys go ahead,” he said. “I’m
not in the mood.”

He would have liked to play poker with these two.
War was a nightmare of lost chances. This thought saddened him, and
the intense and aromatic Armagnac didn’t help. He drank it anyway.
He might as well be back in America—that nightmare of elusive fate,
he thought as he swirled his glass. The brandy inspired him, and he
wanted to shine like Maximilian von Kaspar. But Kaspar had never
really shined, and he certainly would not here, not with this
script. He could take no chances with this role. Any striking
characteristic could give him away. He was stuck in the role of the
vague, American everyman. A man without qualities.

“No poker. Let’s leave that for later,” Slaipe said,
and Smitty, nodding, got up and closed the door to the hallway. He
peeked up the stairway. He returned to the table and Slaipe said,
in a low monotone voice, “Here’s the thing, Price. You should know
about Ms. DeTrave and her family. Justine DeTrave is a Rexist.”

Max wrinkled his forehead as if stumped.

“French Belgian Nazi,” Smitty added.

“A Wallonian fascist,” Slaipe said. “Just like her
parents. We don’t trust her, as if you couldn’t tell. You probably
felt the ice on her yourself.”

Max nodded.

“Old guard like the DeTraves got real chummy with
the krauts,” Smitty said. “She tell you about a brother gone
missing? All bullshit. Truth is he’s Wallonian SS. Probably on the
Eastern Front if he’s lucky—back in Liège they’d be stringing him
up by his toenails.”

Eastern Front—even in English the words gave Max a
twinge in his intestines. He took a sip. “Too bad for him,” he
said. “And, the parents?”

“Murdered in Liège, by partisans. This Ms. DeTrave
survived it. Now she’s here.”

“Can’t fault her for hiding,” Smitty said. His face
sagged, exaggerated by the shadows, and he drank.

Slaipe cut in. “Oh, she’s certainly a good egg, at
heart. In her mind they’re only defending their monarchy and church
from the Reds. But this villa is not the family style, is
it?—Probably belonged to one of the many Jews the DeTrave family
helped denounce when the Germans came. I would not be
surprised.”

Max believed them. But why were they telling him?
Were they testing him? They wanted to see how he reacted? Slaipe
was staring at him.

“Figures. Christ,” Max said.

They sat in silence a while, sipping and smoking.
They might suspect nothing, Max thought. They might actually trust
him. Or, perhaps they’d known all along. They might even have told
Justine he was an SS spy, to test her too. He lit another
cigarette, and watched it burn.

“How do you know?” he said. “I mean, about Ms.
DeTrave?”

“Wasn’t hard. We have all the staunch Rexists in our
lists.”

“Your lists? What are you, the Gestapo?” Max said,
chuckling. He was playing with fire, but he had to take chances. No
kraut would say anything so stupid. He chuckled loud and deep.

Smitty laughed long and hard, sputtering “that’s
good, Price, that’s a good one.” Max laughed with him. Smitty
poured more Armagnac all around, but Slaipe put a hand over his
glass. He was not smiling. He said:

“More right than you know, Price. Once we make the
big push into Germany, the German civilians might well call men
like Smitty and me the
Ami
Gestapo. No doubt they will.
Because they don’t know any better. Sad thing is, the label will
probably help us get the job done.”

“But, you’re not like them at all,” Max said. He put
down his glass. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

Smitty and Slaipe shared a glance. Smitty drank.
Slaipe said, “No harm in telling you. We’re G-2. CIC.”

CIC meant Counterintelligence Corps—the expert eyes,
ears and brains of the mighty US Army. Max’s thoughts raced, and
the chances, hopes, and tragedies collided in his head. If he could
fool these two, he could fool any American west of the Meuse. Yet
he was so far out of his league. He held his glass with both hands
and stared into it. “Going into Germany, that’s going to be
bloody,” he said.

“Or, they could cave like old women. If they’re
smart.”

“So, what do we do?” Max said. “About Ms. DeTrave.
What can I do?”

“Nothing for now. Just keep an eye,” Slaipe
said.

Smitty said, “She’s not why we’re here—stuck here, I
should say. We were heading over the border into Germany but got
cut off. It’s krauts we want. So, I guess it’s really up to her.
She wants to play cowboy, she’ll get the full posse. She toes the
line, plays the sympathy card, she might just get off easy.”

Max reached for the bottle. Slaipe grabbed his
wrist.

“Make no mistake—her day will come. Woman like her
can never return to the mess she’s made of her allegiances. Once
this is all over, we’ve cleared out, her enemies could well have a
field day. Her demons will too, I suspect. Her only hope is to
atone for her sins, with open arms, and hope good fate protects
her. After all, she didn’t personally pull any triggers, did she?
She only got caught up in the thing. And, I’d say she does have
certain values to offer in the tough days that will come after.
Girl like her is still young. She’s smart. She could discover a new
world and remake herself in it.”

Was Slaipe hoping to send him a message, but without
provoking him into something stupid and disastrous for all? The
captain released his wrist. Max pulled it under the table.

“And her brother?” Smitty said, shaking his head.
“Now that one he went too far. Who knows the atrocities he’s left
in his wake. What sort of tricks he’ll go for—might even try to
pass himself off as someone else altogether. For that we would not
spare the rod, I can assure you of that.”

“Sure, right, most definitely,” Max muttered.

“And till then? It’s a waiting game,” Slaipe said.
“We hole up, and we observe, and we be ready to jump at a moment’s
notice. Right now Eisenhower is screwing his head back on. We’ll
counterattack in full force soon enough, it’s just a matter of
resupplying, getting new troops from the rear. You understand, this
is a war of attrition, Price, time, weather, and materiel are all
on our side, and they always will be. You’re either with us, or
you’re on the wrong side no matter where you hide.”

“I understand,” Max said. He reached for the bottle
again. They let him. They watched him drink. “Ms. DeTrave is a
looker, in any case,” he said. “Have you seen it when she smiles? A
different lady altogether.”

“Certainly. It’s no lost cause.”

“She could inherit much,” Smitty said, “she plays
her cards right.”

“No need to rush it. No need to accuse her,” Max
said.

“No, no. Locking her up here wouldn’t do any good.
Create undue tension.”

“She’s not going anywhere,” Max added.

“That’s the hustle,” Smitty said. “She’s on ice and
we’re on ice. So we might as well enjoy it while the fronts firm
up. The big counters might not come till Christmas Day.”

That was four days off. How could Max make it that
long? He choked down more Armagnac. “A white Christmas,” he
mumbled.

“Damn straight,” Smitty said. “Even thinking of
cutting me down a
Weihnachtsbaum
.”

“Say again?” Max said, forcing a smile.

“A Christmas tree. You know. Wouldn’t have to go far
looking either—there’s good ones right here at the edge of the
woods. So whenever you’re itching to help me out with that, Price,
well, you just say the word.”

Twenty

December 21—Max’s second day at the DeTrave villa.
He’d let a couple hours become days. And why not? He was alive, and
warm, and fed. He, Captain Slaipe, and Sergeant Smitty each did
solo watch shifts up in the villa’s tower. When not on watch, he
volunteered to move the last of the coal to the cellar and, since
the stash was dwindling, cut down some small trees in the classical
gardens (with a reclining statue of Neptune as his sawhorse).
Meanwhile, Slaipe and Smitty wrote reports, studied their maps and
files, and deliberated in hushed and sometimes heated voices. The
two slept in short stints and random spots about the villa with
their weapons close at hand. Once Smitty made a short trek into the
woods where, Max suspected, they had a jeep stashed. The heap was
probably out of gas. And Max didn’t want to know about it. He’d had
enough jeeps for three lifetimes.

Late in the evening, as Max descended into the
cellar, chilled and tired from his second watch, Justine met him at
the bottom of the stairs.