Chapter II- A Game in the Tavern


Hellstrom strode up towards the head of the table, clapping the senior SS lieutenant- the one who spoke like he was from Frankfurt- on the shoulder. Taking the hint, the man got up and moved to the chair to his left. Hellstrom set his glass on the heavy wood table and sat down, grinning at the captain. This was proving to be a most interesting evening, indeed.

"So that's the source of your unusual accent, then?" Hellstrom said, truly intrigued. "That's extraordinary." That, and the fact that your accent- just by chance- also sounds vaguely English, Hellstrom didn't add.

"What are you doing here?" Hellstrom asked the captain.

Speaking with a casual manner, a kind of oily assurance that Hellstrom couldn't help but admire, the captain shrugged as if the matter was obvious. "Aside from having a drink with the lovely fräulein?" Hammersmark smiled at the compliment.

Hellstrom nodded, smiling a little. "Well, that pleasure certainly requires no explanation." Turning businesslike again, he said, "I mean in country."

The captain didn't reply immediately; he seemed a bit unsure of what Hellstrom meant. Hellstrom added, "Obviously you're not stationed in France, or I'd know who you are."

Looking politely incredulous- and perhaps genuinely incredulous, too- the captain said, "You know every German in France?" The idea seemed incredible, even for a man who- by his manner alone- was likely with the Gestapo.

Hellstrom just smirked. "Worth knowing."

Both men abruptly burst into laughter, and the tension at the table eased just a little more. With one hand, Hellstrom casually reached into his right pocket, taking out some more Franc notes to pay the bartender… and also flicked the safety catch off his Walther.

When the laughter had subsided, the captain said simply, "Well, there lies the problem. We never claimed to be worth knowing."

Hellstrom decided to cut through the bullshit a little; his suspicion that these three SS men were von Hammersmark's Allied 'friends' was growing. The source of the intelligence had been none other than Prinz-Albrecht Strasse; the message had been that three spies would be meeting up with von Hammersmark in this tavern on this night. Hammersmark hadn't been the source of much interest by the Gestapo in France before- it was only vaguely suspected that she was passing information to the Allies. But passing information was one thing, and a film star could only know so much. Meeting with spies, possibly airborne-dropped soldiers, was something else entirely.

And when the order to watch von Hammersmark- and act if necessary- came from Prinz-Albrecht Strasse, Hellstrom needed no greater incentive than that. If Heinrich Himmler thought Bridget von Hammersmark was an Allied spy, she was. Proving these men were, too, would be necessary before Hellstrom did anything. The actress was nothing to him; he'd killed his share of pretty women before. But Hellstrom didn't want to accidentally kill three officers of the Waffen-SS just because he had a hunch and one had a funny accent.

"All levity aside, what are you doing in France?" Hellstrom's question was calm and his tone non-threatening… but it could turn that way any time Hellstrom wanted, and everybody knew it. He loved being in the Gestapo.

"Attending Minister Göbbels' film premiere as the fräulein's escort."

"Ah," Hellstrom said with a small smile, his gentlemanly manner returning as he glanced at von Hammersmark, who smiled modestly in return. "You are Fräulein Hammersmark's escort."

The captain sighed wistfully as von Hammersmark raised a cigarette to her lips. Taking out a lighter with an ease of movement that said he'd done this many times before, the captain flicked it open and held the flame to von Hammersmark's cigarette. "Someone has to carry her lighter," he said with exaggerated weariness.

Deciding to elaborate, von Hammersmark said, "The captain is my date, but all three are my guests. We are old friends, who go back a long time."

Hellstrom nodded in acknowledgement, his eyes scanning the three men at the table. Is that so?

"Actually," von Hammersmark added with a laugh, "longer than an actress would care to admit."

Hellstrom grinned, as if congratulating the three SS men on their good fortune. "Well, in that case, let me raise my glass to the three luckiest men in the room."

Hammersmark raised her glass also. "I'll drink to that!" she said, and so each of them did.

"Queen Christina!" one of the soldiers at the other table exclaimed, having guessed the name on the card taped to his forehead. The others all laughed, in a way that said they were definitely not quite sober anymore.

Deciding to remark on it, Hellstrom threw a glance back at the other table. "I must say," he said to the SS captain, "That game they're playing looks like a good bit of fun." Hellstrom shook his head disdainfully; "I didn't join them because you're quit right, Hauptsturmführer. An officer should never fraternize with enlisted men."

Hellstrom smiled, though, glancing around the table. "But… seeing as we are all officers…"

He nodded to von Hammersmark, "And sophisticated lady friends of officers… what say we play the game?"

The captain started to raise a hand, as if he wanted to object, and Hellstrom's eyes narrowed just a tiny bit; suddenly Hellstrom was a thousand times more alert, on the lookout for insubordination now as well as a spy in the Reich's uniform. But Hammersmark patted the captain's arm, quieting whatever objection he might have made. "Yes, great!" she nodded with enthusiasm. "One game!"

Hellstrom nodded, smiling. "Wonderful."

He got up, turning to the soldiers at their table. "Soldiers," he said with a politeness he didn't need to use, "some cards." A handful of blank cards were promptly handed to the SS major, and he smiled graciously. "Excellent."

Sitting back down at the officers' table, Hellstrom said, "The object of the game is to write the name of a famous person on your card. Real, fictitious- doesn't matter. For example, you could write 'Confucius' or 'Doctor Fu Manchu'. Calling over to the bartender- he happened to remember the man's name- Hellstrom said, "Eric! More pens."

Turning back to the group as he distributed cards to each of them, Hellstrom said with a smile, "And they must be famous; not Aunt Frida."

The others smiled appreciatively. Hellstrom went on, "When you finish writing, place the card face down on the table, then move it to the person on your right. The person on your left, of course, moves his card to you. You pick the card up without looking at it, lick it-" Hellstrom did this now to demonstrate- "and place it on your forehead."

The bartender arrived with a handful of fountain pens; Hellstrom nodded thanks and glanced at the SS lieutenant off to his left. The man seemed in a right foul mood about something, and had Hellstrom known who this man really was he wouldn't have wondered. Even so, he did… why would a lieutenant in the 12th SS Panzer Division be so far from the front now, with his boys dying in Normandy? Why would any officer of the SS, for that matter, even look in the direction of an SS major with such an ugly expression? Hellstrom just thumped the man in the chest, grinning in good cheer and urging him to write. Maybe if Hellstrom acted friendly enough instead of mean enough, this idiot would try to start a fight. He looked easy to provoke, and Dieter Hellstrom loved shooting up a bar once in a while. Why not? He never had to pay for it, and smashing up stuff the French owned was never a bad thing.

The group all followed his instructions, and soon Hellstrom grinned when he read the names the others had put on the cards. What could be more fun than a few beers, a game, and possibly shooting some spies? Not many things, Dieter Hellstrom noted. Not many at all.

"I'll start," Hellstrom said, "to give you an idea of how this goes."

Hellstrom paused, thinking for a moment. "Am I German?"

"No," came back the answer.

"Am I American?" Hellstrom asked. Again, the others shook their heads.

"Wait," Lieutenant München said, "He goes to-"

"Well, obviously he wasn't born in America," von Hammersmark said.

Smiling at the slight giveaway of information, Hellstrom nodded. "So I visited America, yes?"

"Yes," von Hammersmark said.

"Was this visit fortuitous?"

"Not for you," Lieutenant München said, and Hellstrom had to laugh. He was having a good time.

"My native land, is it what one would call exotic?" Hellstrom asked.

"Yes," the others chorused.

This was helpful information, but at the same time far from enough. Hellstrom frowned in frustration. "Hmm… that could be a reference to either the jungle or the Orient."

Finally, after a few moments, Hellstrom plunged ahead. "I'm going to let my first instinct take over and ask." That, as it happened, was what Dieter Hellstrom did all the time. It was how he believed everyone should be, always. Follow your instincts; animals survive on that alone for a reason. "Am I from the jungle?" Hellstrom asked.

"Yes," came the answers.

Hellstrom nodded. "Now, gentlemen, around this time you could ask if you are real or fictitious. I, however, think that's too easy, so I won't ask yet. So! My native land is the jungle, I visited America, but the visit was not fortuitous to me… but the implication is that it was to somebody else."

Hellstrom leaned back in his chair, enjoying the course of the game. Maybe he'd just shoot them all afterwards and blame the Resistance. Nobody left alive in the bar would dare question the report Hellstrom would give the town constable.

"Now, when I came from the jungle to America… did I go by boat?" Hellstrom asked. Again, the answer was yes.

"Did I go against my will?"

"Yes."

"On this boat ride," Hellstrom asked, "was I in chains?"

The answer was yes yet again, and Hellstrom grinned. He was getting warmer with each guess.

"When I arrived in America, was I displayed in chains?" Hellstrom questioned the group. Yes again.

Now it was time to go in for the kill. "Am I the story of the Negro in America?" Hellstrom asked, and when the answer was no, Hellstrom shrugged theatrically. "Well, then- I must be King Kong."

Hellstrom plucked the card off his head, flipped it around, grinned and slapped it down to the table, face-up. It read: KING KONG.

"Bravo!" von Hammersmark said. "Impressive!"

"Now," Hellstrom said, "Since I finished correctly, all of you need to finish your drinks."

Each of the others at the table did so, and Hellstrom threw a glance to Lieutenant Frankfurt, who was still sitting off to his left looking as grumpy as ever. Hellstrom thumped him on the chest with his arm again. "Well, then!" he said, looking around. "Who's next?"

But the captain took off the card on his head, sighing wearily. "Well, Herr Sturmbannführer… I don't meant to be rude…"

I highly doubt that, Hellstrom wanted to say, but kept silent for now. This fellow would probably dig his own grave soon enough.

"But the four of us are very good friends, who have not seen each other in quite a while. So, Herr Sturmbannführer, I'm afraid you are intruding."

Dieter Hellstrom stayed right where he was, his left arm resting on the back of the chair and his right sitting on the holster of his Walter- which was conveniently out of sight. He steeled himself against drawing his weapon and shooting them all right then and there. It almost physically pained him not to do so; Hellstrom had such fun watching a bit of somebody else's blood flow now and then, he himself had wondered more than once if he wasn't a little insane. But what was that in the grand scheme of things? A little mental instability was hardly a bad thing.

Anger flared in Hellstrom, but he kept his voice even- though that took effort. "I beg to differ, Hauptsturmführer. It's only if the fräulein considers my presence an intrusion, that I become an intruder."

All humour gone from his voice, Hellstrom snapped the question out. "How about it, Fräulein von Hammersmark? Am I intruding?"

She shook her head. "No."

"I didn't think so," Hellstrom said, staring coldly at the SS captain with more slick words than good sense. "It's simply that the Haupsturmführer is immune to my charms."

Dead silence at the table again. Suddenly Hellstrom could hear one of his schoolteachers from not so long ago: 'Mother's day at the orphanage', he would say, to break up an awkward silence. Suddenly, Hellstrom could no longer stay angry; the thought was just too funny. He laughed, playfully slapping a hand at the SS captain's face.

"I was just joking!" Hellstrom said, laughing still at all the solemn faces before him. These people were a tough crowd. "Of course I'm intruding!" he said, as if that couldn't have been more obvious. "Now, even a Sturmbannführer can tell when he's worn out his welcome, and I will take a shot in the dark and say I've just got there. So be it! Allow me to refill your glasses, gentlemen, and I shall bid you and the fräulein adieu."

Now, Hellstrom thought. Now it's time to call in the Stukas. Hit the target dead-on and don't mess around about it.

Leaning in close as if to share a secret, Hellstrom said, "Eric has a bottle of thirty-three year old whiskey; from the Scottish Highlands. What say you to it, gentlemen?"

The SS captain said quietly, "You're most gracious, Herr Sturmbanführer."

"Eric!" Hellstrom called, looking over to the bar. "The thirty-three. And three glasses!" Hellstrom neglected to mention that agents of the Paris Gestapo had made a little trip into town a few weeks ago, making sure the Scottish bottle found its way into the hands of the town's best barkeeper. If there was an Englishman in the bar tonight, Hellstrom knew the man would not be able to resist. A German, Hellstrom thought with a smirk, would be more subtle.

Looking back to the group, Hellstrom said, "You don't want to contaminate the thirty-three with the swill you were drinking."

"How many glasses?" Eric called again.

"Five," Lieutenant München answered, but Hellstrom said to the bartender, "Not for me."

Explaining this to the others, Hellstrom said, "I like scotch, scotch doesn't like me." The others laughed appreciatively.

"Nor me," von Hammersmark said. "I'll stay with bubbly."

"Three glasses," the SS captain said, and Dieter Hellstrom stared. The 'captain' was holding up his last three fingers, curling the index finger under his thumb. Acting instinctively, he hadn't remembered there was a German at the table.

Hellstrom wanted to jump up and scream for joy- he'd done it! He'd figured it out!

The son of a bitch was English.