The Losing Role Read Online Free PDF Page A

the east the Red Army kept
closing in, raping and killing German civilians along the way
according to rumors—the bitterest revenge in full blossom, while in
the south the Allies crept up from Southern France and Northern
Italy. A sinister end was nearing in Germany, and you didn’t need
the BBC to grasp it. Old men were called up and issued bazookas. On
street corners, the burghers wrung their hands and promised each
other wonder weapons that were sure to turn the black tide.
    In Grafenwöhr the snow fell early and piled up—never
a pretty sight when you’re in the army. Banks of icy and rock-laden
brown snow lined the roads and the barren fields became pristine
white tracts, a quicksand that swallowed men up to their crotches.
The forests were no friend either. One nudge of the branches from
man or bird or wind made the cold whiteness reign down in piles.
Against it all, Max’s old uniform was little protection, and he
wasn’t able to score a new one. SS Lieutenant Rattner told him he’d
have no use for it soon.
    As the dark days wore on, the lieutenants preached
secrecy like missionaries the gospel. No one spoke of the code name
Doktor Solar, so Max kept Captain Pielau’s blathering to himself.
The captain’s gossip habit would have to stop, Max knew. The
penalty was too high. This Doktor Solar had to be receiving orders
from the highest level. Who else could call in German soldiers from
all over the Reich? Surely the Führer was head producer, possibly
even playwright.
    The script they were writing had a clever angle, Max
had to admit. The officers encouraged and even ordered the men to
speak among themselves in whatever English they knew. It was fast
becoming clear that theirs was a military operation that relied on
one cheap motif—any knowledge of American English.
    The snow didn’t stall the hustle and bustle of
Grafenwöhr. Hordes of soldiers were arriving by the day, and
Captain Pielau confided in Max that they had close to 1,500 men.
The place had become a giant rehearsal for portraying US Army life.
They got US Army Field Manuals and learned American tactics, such
as how to turn when ordered, raise a weapon, march. The hardest
part was adopting the casualness with which Americans did almost
everything. Standing “at ease” in the US Army was not a less stiff
form of attention but rather slouching with your hands clasped
behind the back. Americans smiled when they talked, even when at
ease. And their speech? The hard Rs were toughest to sound out.
Only the handful raised in America had it down. The rest complained
that the Amis chewed on their words and the constant hard Rs
made every sentence sound like this: “Are, are, are, are . . .”
    Worse still, few in camp had been near the front
lines, even fewer had seen combat, and yet their combat training
was now being rushed (a very un-German thing). It was as if the
army were sending out snipers who’d never shot a rifle before—as if
it were opening night and the actors had not memorized one line.
Yet the soldiers around Max showed the same childlike fervor as the
burghers on the street. He hadn’t seen this much frenzy since he
performed at a League of German Women rally. Even the ones raised
in America believed Germany could still win the war. Did they not
see the vast industrial might of America and her still untapped
reserves of men and spirit? America simply dwarfed Germany, Max
wanted to remind them, and that was all that mattered in the end.
Yet he held his tongue. And bided the time.
     
    One evening they were showing a double feature with
Betty Grable and Lana Turner and the barracks was near empty. Max
reclined on his bottom bunk reading prewar American magazines,
thumbing through Colliers and The New Yorker for
mention of productions he’d auditioned for. Felix Menning was up on
his top bunk. In the far corner, a group of Luftwaffe privates was
playing cards. Apart from them, no one else was in the barracks.
Max had been wondering if