The Losing Role Read Online Free

scarf. It flopped at his belt buckle. The
lieutenant grabbed at the stretch of scarf, pulled the juggler to
his chest, drew his service knife and hacked the scarf off close to
the juggler’s neck. This got few laughs. The lieutenant laughed
anyway and sauntered back to his office, his arms swinging.
     
    Their training was so secret the enlisted men could
not send mail or have outside contact. Max got a bottom bunk in a
barrack and a standup locker slapped together with cheap pinewood.
That first night he set his fine clothing in a neat pile in his
locker and dropped into his bunk, worried. He was little more than
a recruit again, it seemed. Then he lay back, his head snug in his
new pillow, and decided worrying was pointless. Almost anything was
better than where he came from.
    The lone juggler got the bunk above him, and Max
suspected the SS lieutenant put them together so he could keep an
eye on them. The juggler’s name was Menning, Felix Menning. As they
stowed their gear, Max tried to chat him up, get his mind off that
asshole lieutenant, but Felix Menning gave him little. He too had
been in America, he said—for over two years, and he’d been in the
circus to boot. Then he clammed up and climbed into his bunk.
    Soon after lights out, Max heard what first sounded
like sniffles. It was sobbing, but muffled as if into a pillow. It
was Felix Menning up above him. Max nudged the upper bunk with a
knee. “Buck up, Kamerad ,” he whispered. “Change is good,
don’t you see? Even in war. One door closes, another opens.”
    “Amen,” someone said a couple bunks down. “He’s
right, circus boy,” said another.
    Felix Menning said nothing. Soon he was snoring.
    Next morning at reveille, Max and Felix were the
last two out the barrack door. Max was groggy and slow getting his
uniform on, while Felix took his time. At the doorway, Felix waited
for him.
    Felix put a flat hand to Max’s chest. “Listen,
Kaspar, you leave that shithead lieutenant to me. I know how to
handle the likes of him.” He said this with emphasis, but not
anger, as if he were counting out change.
    “You can have him.” Max fought a smile. “Such the
blackguard, aren’t you? I forget, you were in the circus—”
    “And Berlin. Parts you don’t even want to know
about. So I know my way around a lug like him.” Menning’s stare had
become a smile. He patted Max’s chest. “We’ll get on better that
way. Trust me.”
    Max never got to the quartermaster first thing. That
morning the interviews began, and Max was one of the first to be
called in. Two of the strangely mute guards escorted him to a
wooden bungalow that looked like a larger version of the standard
German garden hut. They left Max inside, alone. A chair stood in
the middle of the room before a desk. Max sat in it. The interior
was little more refined than the exterior. As in the barracks,
everything here was unpainted wood—floor, walls, ceiling, desk—all
made of pinewood planks and so raw it was furry in the light. One
could catch a sliver on any of it, he thought. Frightful. Four
metal chairs and two file cabinets completed the dreadful decor.
Only the iron wood stove in the corner helped warm this up.
    The door swung open. Four officers entered—two
horse-faced SS lieutenants who looked like young doctors, the
shithead SS lieutenant who Felix Menning said he could handle, and
to Max’s great delight, Captain Adalbert von Pielau.
    Max wanted to shout out the good man’s name. He
stood and gave his best salute.
    Pielau did the Hitler salute, as did the others, and
they sat, Pielau at the desk facing Max’s chair and the other three
behind Max. Pielau introduced the horse-faced lieutenants. Shithead
introduced himself. His name was Rattner.
    Pielau tried a curt smile. “So, we meet again,
Corporal Kaspar—or is it von Kaspar?”
    Max got the picture. This Pielau had to play it
straight. “My army paybook says Kaspar, sir,” Max said.
    “So it does, yes.” Pielau