I sense there is little this colonel does not know despite his imprisonment, but Losheim puzzles him as much as it does me. He beckons to his second - I think it is his second by the chevrons but I, too, am unsure in this moment and do not wish to show it - and the second moves across to us while the Englander stays his solo post guarding the door. "Losheim Gap ring any bells, Kinch?"

The reply arrives quickly with becoming modesty. "Not really. London is worried about the Siegfried Line, though. A gap sounds dangerous to them and to us. Three hundred ninety miles of protection for the Krauts."

The dragon shifts uncomfortably and I spare the two men. "Sit, sit. Take the load off, as you say."

"Tanks," comes through the mesh loud enough for us to hear as the two crumple onto the floor, then roll onto their sides awkwardly to spare the suit.

"Tanks," repeats Hogan. "Artillery and tanks could pierce a gap from either side. This name needs to reach London pronto, Kinch."

I contribute what I can. "Westwall is what we - I mean the Germans - call the Siegfried Line. Have you seen the Westwall?"

"No, we flew over it. Have you seen it?"

"Not in person. It is said to be impenetrable."

"That's what we said about the Maginot Line," says the Frenchman softly. There is in his face embarrassment for his country, and grief for her, and resolve to do better; I feel the same precise way about my Hungary and the disgraceful Horthy who deserves whatever the Nazis charge him with.

Hogan appears not to notice my sympathy with the Frenchman. "We're stuck in Hürtgen Forest, a real quagmire," he grumps, hugging himself tighter. "If only Field Marshal Model hadn't jumped into bed with Adolf - "

"Really?"

"Figure of speech, Carter."

"Oh."

Hogan seems at ease with speculating in front of me. "Since Normandy, the Krauts are on the run but they'll turn like anyone would if pushed against a wall. They'll fight like demons."

"They are demons," I say. "I have seen things that you have not, dear colonel." Ach, the dear just slipped out.

"Timepoint ten minutes in from twenty." This from Carter; I sense the man operates on science and mathematics or perhaps on another plane of existence from the rest of us mortals. It endears him to me.

I take command. "Our time is nearly up. I would like to speak with the one wearing the red sweater."

"Me? Nobody ever wants to talk to me!"

Hogan gestures permission absently, drawing aside to confer with his second about Losheim while Carter tags along. The five each display a thread of artistic talent to my professional eye, and I wish to ask an opinion as we two seek a corner. "What is your name?"

"Louis LeBeau, at your service." He is so courtly! I feel he was born that way.

"I am a dancer and a singer and der Führer wishes Georg to direct me in a heavy going drama about Ereleuva, of all people."

"Who?"

I ramble a bit, a fault of mine when I am passionate. "Der Führer approved Herr Goebbels' tiresome story of Ereleuva, the mother of Theodoric the Great of the Ostrogoths, who lives on in legend as Dietrich von Bern. She is a mother though perhaps not a wife, she is true to her faith and she will fight a dragon in the story to protect her country, can you believe it?" I want to pace, but I calm myself deliberately. "Why not pick her daughter, Amalafrida, who led a revolt, or the daughter of Amalafrida, Amalaberga, who also attempted a coup? Why not Ingund or Aregund, sisters who practiced polygamy with King Chlothar, whom you may know as King Clotaire?"

He shakes his head as his eyes begin to cross. "I only sing and dance a little in revues. European history, pah." I laugh.

"Herr Goebbels told Georg to 'make her the typical, strong Teutonic queen, brave in battle, efficient in family matters and of course beautiful.'" I shrug. "Herr Goebbels realizes Der Führer adores Germanic history and likely will censor whatever he disapproves of, so Georg and I must toe the line in this film. Ereleuva will uplift the masses."

"Is that what you want to do?"

I meet his gaze firmly. "I must, even if Wagner pirouettes in his grave. I will dance, sing and primp in another film, if there is one." This next is difficult to say, though I feel his mind is open, at least. "Do you think I can play a queen?"

"Indubitably, madame." He again lifts my hand for a kiss.

"So, we owe you one. What can we do to help you?" Hogan approaches more quietly than I would think. Louis and I both jump a little.

This question is easy to answer. "Pretend to attack me. Critique the movements of the dragon." I wink at them all. "Play with me to make the scene less serious, less, less ... um ... "

"Boche." Louis blocks the action. "Everyone, get up on the stage. Stage left, Manfredi and Johnson, middle shall be Madame, and you four stage right. Vite, vite! Carter, the time?"

"Huh? Oh, right, five minutes, tops."

"Then, I think, mmmm, Madame in profile with an imaginary sword, and you four show your backs to the audience. You will support Madame."

They complain as all soldiers do. "Not me best side, mate." "Can the dragon breathe real fire to burn us?" "LeBeau, don't let directing go to your head."

This will be the most fun I've yet had in Stalag 13. I seize a ping pong paddle before mounting the stage. "I have an idea to blend capoeira with the usual boring swordplay! Let me show you."

"Very well, use it, whatever capoeira is." Louis speaks loudly to be heard through the rubber suit. "Manfredi and Johnson, on your toes, menace Madame. Everyone else, go with the flow." He vents to his comrades. "Move, shift your weight, don't just stand there! Pretend you have swords!"

Manfredi and Johnson roar, claw the air - well, Manfredi does because I believe now the head end to be him - while Johnson sweeps the tail end. As the dragon draws near, I swirl the paddle over my head to catch the attention of the beast before rocking back and forth on my feet. The dragon halts in surprise as I stand on my hands before launching a backwards somersault flowing into a muted kick at the dragon's teeth. I misjudge the distance a mere trifle as the kick lands on Manfredi's throat. He staggers sideways, pulling Johnson with him until they sway like two pendulums. The joint between tail and torso gives way and I groan, "Tűnj az utamból!"

I roll forward like a bocce ball towards the dragon to control the damage to the expensive suit, but the acting bug seems to have bitten the three Americans and the Englander. There, I'm between Manfredi and Johnson now, who regard the suit sadly as they sit splayed upon the wooden floor. "You had to do it, Manfredi, just had to ruin the dragon, and after all the time we spent in it."

Manfredi appears unable to speak and waves his hands instead. Johnson looks to take offense at the gestures after he removes the dragon's head. "You can't call me that and get away with it."

Louis shouts, "In character, in character! Keep it moving, only a minute or two before Schultz - "

Hogan, Carter and the Englander drop the act as my support warriors while helping me to my feet, as if I need any help. Manfredi massages his throat, I start to apologize and then Johnson takes a swing at Manfredi. Is Johnson a Berserker?

"Hold it, hold it!" reprimands Hogan as he attempts to make peace. The Englander clutches Johnson's arms from behind, I admonish, "Hagyd abba!" and Louis joins us on stage. Perhaps Johnson is a Viking Berserker because he kicks at Manfredi, who dodges backwards to stumble into Hogan, who sways into Carter, who bumps Kinch who staggers into me and we all go down in a heap while a dark object sails past me down onto the floor.

Louis crosses his arms and shakes his head as he peers down at us. "Incroyable." This must not happen when film is in the camera. It is good to get this contretemps out of the way early. In our daze, none of us react to the bang of a door slamming against its jamb as another person enters the Hall of Recreation.

"Himmel," breathes Schultz. "Himmel." He stoops to retrieve Hogan's cap. "Here, Colonel Hogan, oh too bad, it is crushed. I straighten it for you."

Louis is best suited for what must happen. He makes a startling jeté off the stage to the floor and snatches the cap. "Schultz, merci."

The Englander finds his voice even though sprawled out. "A bit o' blockin', Schultzie, and good as new, I say."

Kinch gains his feet to lift Hogan and me to ours. I should like to know these men better, but now it is time to gather up props and script, bow in gratitude to them all, and change into street clothes from jaunty mid-thigh skirt and stretchy pullover. "Please call my car, Sergeant, while I make ready to leave. This scene needs a rewrite."

Schultz clicks his heels and departs.

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The End.

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