Hitler vs Santa
Author: Trevor Pearson
Date: 2023-08-30 07:00:00+00:00
Description: Santa and his crack-team of reindeer wage both pitched and guerrilla (aerial, mountaintop, beach, and even under the sea) warfare against Hitler and his sinister gang of petty thugs, cruel clerks, and ruthless minions – in a mad rush to save that fool Einstein (Hemingway and the Babe have gone fishing; Mrs Claus is bent on revenge!).This action-adventure-comedy (TOP GUN meets JINGLE BELLS meets WHERE EAGLES DARE meets HUNT FOR RED OCTOBER meets CHRISTMAS ISLAND meets CLUB PARADISE meets RUDOLF THE RED-NOSED REINDEER meets IMPOSSIBLE meets CADDYSHACK meets THE ROCK meets ELF meets DIE HARD meet

According to military and diplomatic historians (and the OSS, forerunner to the CIA) none of this ever could have happened. Both Santa and Mrs Claus have refused to comment.

Christmas Eve, 1933

“Oh Mama…”

“Mark my words.”

“But…the children.”

“Blame the parents.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“And it’s not going to get that bad. You’re not going. That’s final!...They don’t deserve you.” She whispered this final sentence.

Santa Claus hugged Mrs Claus. She sobbed and a tear appeared in her eye. He could feel her love. It was better than magic. He could also feel annoyance. Why was she overreacting? It was bad, sure, sort of, but not that bad. Santa cussed.

“Such language…”

“I am sorry. But I’m hopping mad.”

Mrs Claus looked shaken, and surly.

“Not at you, Dear. Never. At that mean tiny Austrian creep.”

“You’re not going to Germany this year. It’s settled. I’m putting my foot down this time.”

“I won’t be intimidated. What kind of example would that set? The German children need me more than ever. More than ever, Mama. I will not let them down.”

“But…the Fuhrer…He’s put a price on your head!”

There was a glint in Santa’s eye. Mrs Claus saw it. She wanted to both throttle and hug him. He was standing taller now. She was both irritated and proud. He said, “Nazis,” with disdain.

It was ten minutes earlier, while attending to his last-minute checklist, that Santa had received the urgent message. He hadn’t believed its contents, not at first. In fact, Santa had wagged a finger at Elmer Elf, chastising him for playing such a low-down-dirty-rotten prank so close to lift off. After which, Santa had roared with laughter. “A hoot, actually. You’re a real card, Elmer.” Elmer Elf hadn’t laughed. “It’s true then,” Santa mused. Elmer nodded, grimly. Santa stared into the starry night sky. “I’ll be darned.” Then he said, “Don’t tell Mrs Claus.”

Elmer nodded, scared now.

It was six minutes and 43 seconds later that Mrs Claus sat Santa down, informing him that he wasn’t allowed to deliver presents to all the good German girls and boys.

“On Dasher and Dancer, Prancer and Vixen, on Cupid…hit it, Rudolf,” and off they flew – Santa and his crack team.

Mrs Claus was standing at her usual spot, waving, just like she had every other Christmas Eve. This particular Christmas Evening’s moon was exceptionally beautiful, but…but things were different now, something was hanging heavy, like an anvil, in the crisp night air. She watched Santa and his reindeer speed off and out of sight. “Nazis,” she muttered before walking off.

***

The first Messerschmitt attacked from the east just as Santa entered Nazi airspace, only minutes after having delivered his last gifts to the Waldau children in Denmark. It was approaching at a desperate, dangerous angle. “Amateurs,” chortled Santa as he pulled hard on the reins, wondering if the Austrian twerp had upped the bounty. Dasher, Dancer and the whole team with Rudolf leading the way soared at an impossible angle; an angle that no manmade contraption could ever duplicate. The Messerschmitt’s machine guns cracked tut-tut-tut as the pilot attempted to pull up, but it was no use. The plane didn’t have the handling or the guts and quickly stalled then spun. Santa didn’t see that particular Messerschmitt again. He did hear the crash, however. That’s when the anti-aircraft guns started bellowing from below. Santa chortled again and then, “Rudolf,” he roared. The sleigh went stealth. Santa wondered, “Can a whole nation swallow poison?” as his team sailed on. That Christmas Eve Santa delivered a present to every good girl and boy in the Third Reich, and, even to one bad one.

As Santa’s team hit the French border, he roared, “Rudolf,” and once again that famous reindeer’s nose was aglow. As they touched down on their first French farmhouse of the evening, Santa worried that the Esders might be woken, not by the clatter of reindeer hooves, but on account of his thunderous belly laughter. He couldn’t stop, and hadn’t been able to since they’d cleared Nazi airspace, because he couldn’t stop thinking about the Austrian dwarf’s face.

Next morning, upon arriving at the Reichstag, the Nazi Dictator would discover a stocking with the name ADOLF emblazoned brightly upon it. No, it wasn’t stuffed with coal. Little Adolf had received so much coal over the years that it’s unlikely the Hitlers had ever had to buy any. No, the stocking hanging on the Reichstag’s front-door knocker was stuffed with what could only be described as Cupid and Vixen’s best work after a hearty carrot, ale and oat feed up just outside Copenhagen.

Christmas Eve, 1934

Santa was packing the sleigh, attempting, with little success, to tie down some loose ends. The reindeer were engaged in some light calisthenics, led by Prancer.

Elmer Elf was trying to get Santa’s attention. But he couldn’t, not over Prancer’s booming baritone. Elmer hadn’t, at first, noticed Mrs Claus lurking under the tall fern tree not far from Santa’s sleigh. He reversed course casually when Mrs Claus attempted to close the distance. Next, Elmer feigned to be out for a simple wander. “Hey Mrs C, just stretching the legs, getting some air. The workshop’s hectic. Last minute this, last minute that, you know how it is…Beautiful Christmas Evening, isn’t?”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

Elmer had already started to walk off, quickly, yet, not quick enough.

“Elmer Elf!”

Elmer stopped dead. He didn’t budge, not another inch. He looked petrified.

Mrs Claus extended her arm to him.

“Mrs C?” he yelped, all nasally.

“Snap, snap, Elmer. I am not in the mood.”

He’d done his best, as best as he could, under the circumstances, as best he knew. Elmer Elf handed Mrs Claus the urgent message – meant for Santa’s eyes only. She read it. First her eyes exploded. Next her jaw dropped.

“It can’t be, Elmer. Is this a prank? A sick lark? You knew I’d be out here. Don’t try me, Elf!”

Elmer didn’t say anything. He didn’t budge.

Mrs Claus threw her hands up in the crisp air. “This is too much. Too much. They’ve gone too far!” Elmer Elf was left standing there, ogling his own feet, as Mrs Claus strode off to Santa’s sleigh. “Prancer!” she bellowed. The reindeer scattered. Part of their job was to sense trouble. Santa seemed perturbed when she arrived at his sleigh. Perhaps, it was the last-minute preparations occupying him. He didn’t say anything. In fact, you could say he ignored her.

On the other hand, maybe he was preoccupied.

“You’re not going to Germany this year. And that’s final!”

Santa looked up. “I didn’t see you standing there, sorry Mama. Say again…Could you hand me a wrench?”

She didn’t. After a few moments had passed, during which he’d returned to the task at hand, he looked up again and said, “Mama, we’ve been through this, haven’t we? I’ll be fine.” He started laughing. Every time he thought about the previous Christmas Eve’s adventure in Germany, he couldn’t help laughing. Mrs Claus didn’t share his merriment. She handed Santa the message.

His eyes opened wider, his jaw didn’t drop, exactly. It did slip, if only slightly. Mrs Claus didn’t miss anything. And then, a glint danced in his eyes. “It can’t be.”

“It can and it is. You’re not going and that’s final.”

Santa read the note again, gazed into the sky and then returned to his chores. Mrs Claus hadn’t budged. He looked up and said, “They never would.”

Mrs Claus handed Santa a wrench, which she managed somehow to drop on his foot. She walked off, while he hopped about.

Not more than an hour later: “On Dasher, on Dancer…Hit it, Rudolf.”

It was another beautiful Christmas Evening – the moon magnificent – yet Mrs Claus hadn’t noticed. She watched Santa and his reindeer speed off into the night. Everything was different now. Everything. “Nazis,” she muttered once they were out of sight.

***

The Messerschmitts intercepted Santa and his crack team of reindeer within moments of entering Nazi airspace. Santa pulled hard right then jerked his team left, then up. The Messerschmitts were attempting to box him in. But once again they didn’t have the guts or handling to compete with Santa’s sleigh, which sped east into star haze. The Messerschmitts were on him but at a distance, their machine guns burping tut-tut-tut.

And then he was gone.

The Nazi pilots signaled back and forth but none had any idea or clue. And then, “Shnet shnent,” cried the Nazi flying in center formation. Something was barreling directly at him and at an impressive speed. “Shcnell,” he cried this time, “Uber Shcnell,” while at the same pulling hard on the yoke, panicking. In his attempt at countermeasure his Messerschmitt smashed directly into his wingman. Both Messerschmitts exploded on impact. A great ball of fire lit up the night sky, singeing Santa’s eyebrows as his team sped by.

“Everyone OK?”

Blitzen looked back and snarled.

“I’ll take that as an okie-dokie. Two down, one to go.”

And it was on! Santa, charging hard, pulled the reins left then right then left again, but he couldn’t shake the wily German pilot. “One tough cookie but –” Santa dove and the Messer followed, hot on his tail. Down they both flew and at a sharp, almost impossible angle. Machine guns erupted from below while Messer cannons wailed from overhead – “…a hothead.” Santa’s sleigh continued its dive until he roared, “Dasher, Dancer…Hammertime,” and then up it soared. Santa waved merrily to the Nazi pilot as the Messer flashed by him, its underbelly eating hard lead from below. The Messer didn’t explode until it crashed into the Earth, skidding into a machinegun nest, setting it ablaze.

It was not more than five minutes later that Santa touched down on a castle top just outside Danzig. Santa scanned the horizon – he paused – all was clear. The Hoffman’s castle was ancient, built around the time Charlemagne had ruled Europe, and it was the location specified in the urgent dispatch that Elmer Elf had tried to hide from Mrs Claus. Santa slid down the chimney. Next, he went about his business, no different than he would have any other Christmas Eve. First, he filled the stockings. In the youngest son’s stocking, Santa piled tangerines, chocolates, candy canes, woolly underwear, lederhosen and socks. In the oldest son’s stocking, in it he plopped a nice, plump lump of coal.

He moved to the Christmas tree – the Hoffman’s tree was always at least a 16-footer, with an angel perched atop. Underneath it he placed a gift for the youngest Hoffman child. It was at this moment in the space-time continuum that Santa knew he was being watched. But he didn’t let on, just went about his work. And, with his chores complete, he walked over to the tray of cookies and large glass of milk sitting on the ole oaken table.

He picked up the glass of milk, he was quite thirsty, but he didn’t drink, not yet. Then, he raised the glass and titled back his head. He heard a voice, at a whisper. It said, “Don’t Santa, don’t.” Santa turned. It was little Erik Hoffman. “Santa, don’t, please…please.”

“Why not?”

“Or the cookies. Don’t eat the cookies.”

“Why?”

“Poison.” Erik Hoffman’s voice was as quiet as a mouse.

Santa walked over to Erik and patted him on the head.

“I’m sorry, Santa. I saw momma do it. Something’s happened. Everything is different now. I pretended to go back to bed then snuck back down here to wait for you. You know, you’re a bit late this year.”

Santa laughed quietly. “You get to bed now, Erik…oh, and thank you.”

“You bet, Santa. I will never let them hurt you. No matter what he says about you.”

“Erik, off to bed now, my boy.”

“OK, Santa. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.”

Erik started to run off. He didn’t always listen to his teachers, but he would never defy Santa. Still, just before he hit the stairs – I mean, how many chances do you get? – he just had to know, couldn’t wait, not another second. “Pssst, Santa?”

“I thought you had gone to bed,” replied Santa feigning irritation.

“Did I get it? Did I?”

Santa didn’t speak, but he nodded.

“Yes!” said Erik a little too loudly before shuffling up the stairs.

Santa could hear noises in the castle. He worked quickly wrapping the cookies and pouring the milk into an ancient thermos, constructed around the time of Barbarossa. He made it to the fireplace and up the chimney without incident. But…his team was gone. Two shoddy figures were approaching from the other side of the castle rooftop. “Halt,” one chanted, systematically. They were both carrying guns. Santa started running. A shotgun sounded. Santa dove, sliding on his belly. And, he just kept on sliding till just about shooting over the edge. He was dangling off the rooftop now, holding on by only his fingertips.

A large man and older boy had closed the distance on Santa, who had managed somehow to hoist his upper body back up onto the rooftop. The man’s shotgun was leveled at Santa. The boy was clumsily attempting to reload.

Said the man, “We have you Clauz. You vill not escape this time.”

Santa looked up. “What do you plan to do with me?”

The big, awkward man laughed. “We arrest you in ze name of zee Fuhrer. If you move Clauz, vy boy here vill shoot you in the nose, and with no toy gun, ha.”

“What’s the charge?” asked Santa.

“Disturbing the peace of Greater Germany.”

Now it was Santa’s turn to laugh. “It is your so-called Fuhrer who you should arrest for disturbing the peace of the good German people…If you had any guts…As far as greater goes, well, that’s a good one. Greater than a flaming pile of…”

“Not another word, Clauz! You vill comply and come quietly – or you won’t come at all, ha! Now, up from zee ledge. No funny business eh, or Hansel here vill let you have it, ya.”

The boy gripped his shotgun tighter. Santa stood and said, “Hansel, come come now, boy. At this rate, it’s going to be coal for you again next year. Three years running.”

“I vill have you know, Clauz, that after assisting in your capture, or death, young Hansel here vill be a shoo-in, I have been assured by ze higher authorities, for a top placement in zee elite Hitler Youth.”

“Well, in that case, what with all due respect to the higher authorities and all, I can’t think of a better Christmas present for young Hansel than –” Santa leaped off the Hoffman castle roof. Hansel fired, but late. Santa was tumbling 16 stories. Hansel and his pater were watching with real Christmas joy. But, just as Santa was about to impact upon the hard-frozen tundra of East Prussia, a red light flashed and both Hoffmans were blinded. Moments later, as their vision returned, squinting, they could just barely make out Santa’s sleigh sailing off into the night.

Hans Hoffman took a deep, long breath. If there was one thing that he’d learned over the last year, it was that the Fuhrer did not take bad news particularly well. Hansel raised his shotgun and fired into the starry night sky. Hans slapped him, chanting, “doofus,” systematically. As a result of this miniature commotion, neither Hans nor Hansel noticed Santa and his team barreling gung-ho back straight at them.

Rudolf, after collecting Santa, had dimmed his nose again and Dasher and Dancer had started hauling west. But, Santa had commanded a U-turn. Thus, presently, they were only seconds from flying smack-dab into Hans and Hansel on that castle rooftop. Hans, who was still admonishing young Hansel, reacted at the very last moment by both firing his shotgun wildly and diving recklessly. Hansel, younger and more agile, also dove just in time, but wisely, left and back, rather than forward and right in imitation of his father, who was now falling some 16 stories hard and fast. Smack-Splack-Splatter! Hans impacted with the hard-frozen Prussian tundra, making a bloody mess of the pristine snow. The crack, in fact, was spectacular. Castles across the river, it was spoken by some, were awoken by it.

Hansel shook a fist at Santa as his sleigh soared off into the night. He was certain that he could hear jolly laughter echoing about the mountaintops.

Some thirty or so minutes later

Two Messers were hot on Santa’s tail. They’d picked him up about 70 miles northeast of Lorraine. Santa hadn’t bothered to go stealth. In fact, he’d instructed Prancer and Dancer to slow down a touch. “My little gift to the Luftwaffe,” Santa had informed his team, as the Messers closed the distance and even let off a couple cannon bursts. But at about 20 miles out, Santa roared, “Prancer, Dancer.” The Messers gunned it as well, but couldn’t close the distance by even a reindeer nose. Within minutes the Messers were nowhere to be seen and Santa entered French airspace quite alone. Landing on the Esders’ roof, he was doing his best not to laugh, but couldn’t help it, and chuckled merrily.

They’d foregone the Reichstag that year, instead making a pit stop at the Wolf’s Lair – the wee Austrian Dictator’s holiday cabin in the woods, where Santa had delivered Adolf’s stocking, but only after first dumping in the milk and cookies from the Hoffman’s, along with a healthy portion of some of Cupid and Vixen’s best work after a hearty feed up of Bavarian Dunkelweizen, oats, carrots, pumpernickel, butter, corn, and salted pretzels just outside Wurzburg. Before sliding down the Esders’ chimney, he congratulated each reindeer individually. After which he took a knee, for a moment. He needed a breather. “When will it get easier?” he spoke aloud to no one. Not before it gets harder. “Nazis,” he muttered before sliding down the Esders’ chimney.

Christmas Eve, 1935

As was his custom, Santa was making a few last-minute adjustments. It was just about time for lift off.

The man from America had arrived only the day previous, mentioning he thought it was time they talked, face to face. Coded messages no longer seemed fitting.

“It can’t be that bad, Frank.”

“It could be worse, Santa. Mine is a very conservative estimate.”

“You’re not going this year and that’s final!”

The man from America had just finished describing the latest cutting-edge model of Messerschmitt. It had only just become operational, and Hitler was in possession of 12 at present. It was faster, could fly higher, maneuver better, and outfitted with much more powerful machine guns.

“Furthermore,” the man from America had said, “each of the new models has been assigned to an expert, crack pilot. The absolute best of the very best. Real tops guns! And, each man had been training every night for the last six months. Their task a simple one: All to a man will be out patrolling the north German air corridor on Christmas Eve, with one and only one mission. Kill Santa!”

“So, you don’t think I should go?”

“Are you deaf? You don’t look it – but you must be. I just told you, you’re not going. The issue is settled,” declared Mrs Claus.

“Thank you, Mama. But I was asking Frank here.”

Mrs Claus stared at Frank, who cleared his throat before speaking. “I think you should be aware.”

Mrs Claus stomped out of the room.

The American continued, “Hitler grows stronger. There is no longer any denying it. I know you think he’s a pathetic little pipsqueak. But, every year his grip tightens while the generous German independent spirit of past generations grows weak. Dark times lie ahead.”

“What would you do, if you were me?”

The man removed his spectacles. “What would I do, if I were Santa?” He started laughing. “I would move to the Caribbean.”

Santa joined the laughter.

The man from America removed two cigars from an inside jacket pocket. He passed one to Santa who said, “I usually smoke a pipe.”

“Not after you smoke one of these puppies, you won’t,” replied the man from America.

Santa took a puff, nodded, and smiled.

They were sitting in Santa’s living room in front of a large bay window. A shooting star slashed the night sky.

Santa picked up a magazine the man had brought from America. After leafing through it, and then stopping and perusing a certain page, he threw the magazine, with some violence, onto the coffee table. He said, “I hold you responsible. It’s slander.”

“I knew you would.”

“Mrs Claus is most upset.”

“I thought she’d find the humor in it.”

“It’s unbecoming.”

“I’d say – it’s an improvement.”

Santa laughed. “That’s what Rudolf said.”

“Especially the white beard.”

“I don’t mind that so much. It’s the mighty beer belly that puts me off. It’s libel. I rarely drink more than a 6-pack, or so. Where did they come up with that?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Santa. Perhaps, I’m just saying, perhaps, over my conversations with the artists from Coca-Cola, I may have given them the impression that you are a tad portlier and appear a touch older than is actually the case. That notwithstanding, I think those Coca-Cola images are noble. You look – distinguished.”

“They’re humiliating…I don’t even like Coca-Cola.”

“You haven’t tried it with rum. The best stuff comes from the Caribbean. Last chance.”

Santa drained his brandy. “Next time bring rum.” He stood. “Still plenty left to do.” Santa put out his cigar. “Thanks for the smoke.”

“Always a pleasure, Santa.” The man from America put out his cigar, took a last swig from his glass, and stood. “Yes, unfortunately my schedule is also hectic. No rest for the wicked, eh? Oh, one last thing. I left a bag of toys for you, with Elmer Elf. I’ve always felt it’s a bad lot yours. Hope this makes up for it, at least a touch. Could be the difference. Elmer promised to look after them. Merry Christmas, Santa.”

“Merry Christmas, Frank.”

They shook hands and Frank handed Santa a map.

Santa guffawed, “I don’t use maps.”

“Ha!” chortled Frank. “Give this one a shot.”

***

Hermann Goering, the Nazi Air Marshal, had split his Messer pilots and their bleeding-edge war machines into 4 squadrons of 3. Two squadrons would patrol the northern Danish-Nazi air corridor while the other two remained at secret airstrips – pilots suited and booted in the cockpit – ready to scramble at the first sighting of S. Clauz.

Goering was sat back now, feet up. He was enjoying a Cuban cigar and frothy mug of eggnog, heavy on the spiced rum. It was midnight, and nothing. Zip. The Nazi chuckled. Clauz was a blowhard-coward like the rest of the do-gooders. Scared off, once and for all, by the mere specter of the Fuhrer’s ultimate power unleashed. Soon the world will be Nazi. The Air Marshal continued to chuckle, sinisterly. And, reveling in the moment, he was, in fact, just about ready to call it a night, pulling the plug on the whole operation, declaring a great victory for the Nazis when the first explosion sounded. Leaping to his feet, spilling his extra-spicy eggnog all over his brand new, snappy uniform, the Air Marshal gasped.

There were three separate fires burning on his secret airstrip.

The Nazi Air Marshal scanned the night sky. Nothing – with the exception of a beautiful Christmas Eve constellation of stars. The radio cracked. He ran to the contraption, picking up the receiver: “Hoonstohng smuck doober schmizensvendt!”

He hurled the receiver and then his eggnog. The other secret airstrip’s Messers were also up in flames.

Meanwhile, out in the midst of that beautiful constellation of Christmas stars, Santa was bearing down on the first airborne squadron he’d chanced upon. His team was in stealth. The three Messers, in a tight formation, were zagging and zigging across the northeastern section of the Danish-Nazi air corridor, with all eyes fixed north, where they’d been informed the Clauz Encroachment would occur.

Santa was barreling, fast and hard from the southwest: 1000 yards off, 500, 100. Santa’s team swooped in from the rear, slashing across the Messers’ tails. “Elmer,” roared Santa. And Elmer let them have it.

The Messers never saw him, or them, or it, coming.

Not for a moment had they considered the possibility, not for even a milli-moment, that they were no longer glorious-Nazi hunters, but prey, and meek prey at that – Nazis hunted – until the Tommy Gun erupted in their ears. Too late! The first two exploded outright; the third tumbled out of the starry night, smoke billowing, never to be heard from again.

“Three to go,” sang Santa.

The element of surprise is a trap that you can’t spring twice. Santa would have to earn his next three kills the old-fashioned way: Blood, sweat, and toil. And thus east he sailed with his team, hunting Nazis.

Three specks on the horizon. “How’s the ammo?” Santa shouted to Elmer.

“Plenty, still plenty.”

“Concentrate your fire on the squad leader. Knock him out of the sky pronto, and the rest will all hightail it posthaste, weasels that they are. And, we’re running late, so let’s get this show on the road. Right ho?”

“Right ho, Santa.”

A collision course set – the three Messers were no longer specs but blobs, running heavy and hard and right at Santa. “Hold,” roared Santa to Dasher and Dancer. “Hold,” he repeated. A great game of Chicken was underway – who would flinch first? “Hold!” roared Santa once more and then to Elmer, “Elmer!”

Elmer assumed position.

The Messer wingmen were blasting their cannons wildly, although still well out of range. But the squad leader was playing it cool. ‘The Austrian twerp will miss this elite-master-crack pilot’, thought Santa. For – there was no denying it – he was calm and collected, an actual pro, yet…it was still no contest. Santa was counting in his head. These Messers were definitely faster, more powerful, sleek… yet…yet… but… “Now!” roared Santa to Dasher and Dancer while motioning steady to Elmer. Santa’s team dipped then dropped, plummeting in fact at what the Nazi squad leader reckoned was approaching a 90-degree angle. “Uber schmidt wooof!” he cried plaintively, half in bewilderment, half in terror. “Hilfe!”

All three Messers attempted countermeasure, but…well…what can you do?

As Santa charged hard under the Messers, he motioned to Elmer, but not ‘steady’ this time, instead the prearranged signal for ‘Let ‘em have it!’ The Tommy Gun ripped through the belly of the squad leader’s Messer. Knocked out of the night sky in seconds! To be assured by the Authorities that you’re top dog when you’re not even lead runt, a terrible fate, considered Santa, whose blood was boiling white-red-hot now. The other two Messers skedaddled in a flash, without bothering to wave ‘auf wiedersehen’; one darted east without looking back, the other headed west. Santa’s first instinct was to give chase but…but…it wasn’t his job. “Dasher, Dancer,” he spoke softly, and the team slowed considerably. The night skies were clear and there was much left to accomplish. Santa said, “Elmer, catch 40 winks, your work here tonight is done.”

“Will do, Santa,” replied Elmer, who was beat. Handling heavy military hardware will do that to an elf – not to mention the abundance of schnapps imbibed in prep. Within minutes he was snoring in the back of the sleigh, which Santa found annoying. “Nazis,” he muttered.

There were no other incidents that Christmas Eve. Upon descending onto the Esders’ farmhouse in France, Santa didn’t laugh heartily. But, he did allow himself a merry chuckle. Santa was by nature – and this may surprise some – a ‘why not?’ – rather than ‘what then?’ – kind of guy. Elmer was still snoring noisily, curled up, in the back of the sleigh.

They’d made a last-minute, unscheduled stop at the Reichstag, where Santa had hung, without ceremony, a stocking emblazoned World’s Greatest House Painter (two coats before lunch). Santa was feeling a little bad about the previous years’ stocking stuffers, and wanted to make up for it. This opinion hadn’t been formed with complete independence, however. Mrs Claus had scolded him after Elmer, hooting and knee-slapping – no harm intended – had informed her that it wasn’t the elfs who’d manufactured Hitler’s most recent gifts, rather Vixen and Cupid. Elmer – caught up in his own laughter – had mentioned, “Good thing we don’t have a union, or there could be trouble.”

Mrs Claus told Elmer to “Grow up!” – which he wasn’t quite sure how to take. She told Santa that he was acting like a child on his own Naughty List, and that, no matter the prevailing circumstances, there was no excuse for such base behavior. And, she was right. Santa knew it. She was always right – Santa knew only too well. But there was also no denying that it was also hilarious. Elmer’s overflowing mirth was justified, and Santa wasn’t angry with him for spilling the beans. Anyhow, she’d forbade any such further creativity in the stocking stuffer department (borrowing the phrase from Elmer), and rightly so. Thus, this year Santa slid into the Nazi Dictator’s stocking a book. When the idea had first struck Santa, not long after Mrs Claus had threatened to strike him, he’d wondered whether the little creep from Austria had ever even read a book. You see, most creeps haven’t. He doubted it. Young Adolf had never asked for one as a child. But, but…it’s never too late to sort out your life. And, there is no better tool than a good book. Medicine of the ages. So, this year into that stocking he placed How to Make Friends and Influence People by Dale Carnegie.

Sometime in March of the next calendar year

“These really are fine cigars.”

“I’ve left a box with Elmer.”

“Very considerate.”

“I told him to keep them hush-hush.”

“Why on Earth, my good man? I would never dream of hiding anything from…Mama, I didn’t see you there, come join us.”

Mrs Claus loomed before both men. First, she studied the American, who averted her eyes, looking to his wine goblet, full of rum, while continuing to puff on his stogie. She then set hard eyes on Santa, who returned her gaze. Finally, she asked, softly, “You’re not going to Germany this year?”

Santa nodded.

He had underestimated Hitler. Santa had never believed for a moment that this day would come. But it had. Santa wouldn’t be going to Germany next Christmas. Hitler had defeated him.

Mrs Claus muttered, “Nazis.” She collected some dirty dishes. Before exiting Santa’s study she said, “No more rum.”

Santa put down his wine goblet. He turned to the American. “Frank, where does it all end?”

The American was still puffing on his cigar, blowing smoke. He went to take a sip from his wine goblet, before thinking better of it and putting it down. He said to Santa, “This is still the beginning, of the beginning.” He paused, and then asked, “Another cigar, Santa?”

“Why not?” replied Santa as he butted out the stogie he’d just about smoked to the nub.

The American looked around the premises, and then, conspiratorially, mentioned, “I…ah…I also left a case of Guinness with Elmer.”

Now it was Santa’s turn to search the premises with his gaze. Conspiratorially, he mentioned, “I’ve been meaning to have a word with that elf. I’ll send Rudolf to fetch him and perhaps he just might happen to lug a couple cans back with him.”

“That would be fine, Santa...but…the case might be easier for him to carry.”

“Good thinking.”

An hour, or perhaps two, later, Santa and the American were still sitting in Santa’s study. They had talked a lot – there was heaps to discuss – and were now quiet. Santa sipped Guinness from a wine goblet and puffed on a Cuban cigar. The American puffed on a Cuban cigar and sipped Guinness from a wine goblet.

Finally, the American, bringing their conversation back around to the start, said, “Of course, you know, it was the book that did it.”

“You’re sure?”

“My sources said he went apoplectic when he saw it. Read a page at random…”

“So he can read?”

The American shrugged his shoulders.

Santa sighed.

“Ripped out the page. Stomped on the page. Cursed the page. Had his SS guard shoot it, twice. And then, get this: he had it hanged with piano wire before tossing it into a parking lot – that wasn’t empty – and calling in an airstrike on it – to finish the job.”

Santa raised both eyebrows. He said, “What a wimp!”

“Two Stuka dive bombers. It was only minutes later that order 12/25 was issued.”

“Fifty, you said,” Santa whispered.

“Fifty fathers were rounded up that morning and shot in the afternoon. They were all already on the Enemies List...” – Santa suddenly felt even worse. A deep distress swept through him. Maybe, he considered, he’d stop keeping lists – “…officially they’d all violated order 12/25. After that, well, it didn’t take much else in the way of prodding once word spread. Within a couple hours, all across Germany, all the toys that you’d delivered, and some you hadn’t – no father wanted to seem like he was shirking – were turned over to the local Nazi Authorities, and they all went up in smoke at exactly 11 o’clock on December 26. It is said that the immense, stunning bonfires could be seen in Oslo and Rome, Athens and Paris.”

Neither man spoke for some time.

After some more time had passed, the American asked, “Another stogie, Santa?”

“Is there more Guinness?”

“I think there just might be a couple more cans kicking about.”

“Sounds fine then. Hey, why not?”

Christmas Eve, 1936

Santa did a flyover of Germany for old times’ sake. Elmer had begged Santa to ride along shotgun once again, promising, “To blow something up.” When Santa had asked him what he had in mind, Elmer had suggested, “The Reichstag.” Santa had replied, all in all, that that was a fine idea. Nonetheless, Elmer had stayed home.

Flying over Germany, Santa could sense the damage already inflicted upon the great German soul by the fiendish Nazi scourge. Both desperation and cruelty hung in the air.

Upon landing on the Esders’ farmhouse in France, Santa did not laugh, nor did he chuckle. He mechanically climbed out of his sleigh none too cheerfully and started about his chores robotically. The regular bounce in his step was not evident. The joie de vivre that normally hung about him like a halo had vanished (or at least had not shown up for work on the notorious Christmas Eve in question).

This is important.

If Santa had been his old usual self, things might have gone down differently. But, Santa had allowed prevailing circumstances to get the better of him – it can happen to the best of us, and does. Everybody has to be vigilant and beat back the doldrums when they come a-calling, and that includes even Santa Claus.

Never let anyone tell you that attitude isn’t important. Why, it’s just about the most important ingredient in life, isn’t it? And, it’s all yours to monopolize. Attitude is self-inflicted. Santa was feeling sorry for himself, and he was about to reap the consequences.

Perhaps he should have allowed Elmer to tag along, not in order to blow up the Reichstag – which really was one of the elf’s better ideas – but to cheer up Santa, keeping him on his toes.

After filling the Esders children’s stockings, he should have noticed that something was wrong, because everything was wrong. The stockings were hung in the wrong order, and the youngest girl’s name, Emmeline, was spelled, Emelline. The wreath hanging above the fireplace was flimsy and cheap. Mrs Esders, who prided herself on the quality and care that went into the family Christmas decorations (a fact Santa knew all too well), would never have allowed such a gaudy piece into their home.

Turning to the tree, Santa failed to notice that it was too short (for an Esders Christmas tree) by a long shot, and decorated with only store-bought bulbs and tinsel. There was nothing original to be seen. The Esders were a family of artists and their Christmas tree always reflected the family’s creativity. But none of it connected, and Santa absentmindedly went about his business, or so it seemed.

A few hours earlier at the North Pole

Mrs Claus watched her husband sail off into the night sky once again. He wasn’t going to Germany this year. She should have been relieved, but she wasn’t. She should have been feeling all light and frisky, she told herself. But she wasn’t, not in the least. A heaviness had invaded her spirit. And it wouldn’t budge. Not an inch. Something…was…wrong. It was more than a feeling…but…alas…I am being paranoid…or…am I?

And then she saw Elmer traipsing in a huff across the snow. Her neck snapped back up to the beautiful Christmas Eve constellation of stars, a flash and then a falling star slashed the night sky.

Elmer slid to a stop. He didn’t speak when their eyes met. He gulped.

“What?” cried Mrs Claus.

Elmer extended his arm. He said, “Urgent message.”

Mrs Claus took the piece of paper, reading it in a flash. “It can’t be, Elmer.”

Elmer didn’t speak.

“What are we going to do?”

Silence.

“Saddle Boon and Jill immediately.”

“Boon and Jill?”

“We’re going to France.”

“But…Boon and Jill…they’re too young. They’ve never flown that kind of distance. They’ve haven’t ever even left the North Pole! It’s too much to ask.”

Mrs Claus set stone-cold-hard eyes on Elmer, just about boring right through the poor elf, and said, “I’m not asking.”

Elmer was in shock. First, due to the contents of the message, and second, as a result of Mrs Claus’ fierce, decisive, hard countenance. He shook, but only momentarily. And then he shook himself before running off shouting, “We’ll be ready to roll in fifteen.”

Mrs Claus was already moving in a separate direction. Her reply: “Ten!”

Returning to France and the Esders’ farmhouse

It was when Santa bent over to place the gifts under the tree that they rushed him. Ten humungous Nazis from three different directions all converged and with great violence on Santa, who fought hard, but not to free himself. Well, not exactly. All his effort went into freeing his tongue. Two massive Nazis were desperately attempting to gag him. Santa bit one and head-butted the other, and just in time, for he could hear men’s boots scrambling on the rooftop. Santa roared, “Dasher, Dancer,” just before he was clobbered. Pinned under the Christmas tree, Santa could still hear men’s boots stomping on the rooftop, but, now, he could also make out reindeer hooves in motion. He stopped struggling but the Nazis continued clobbering him.

The Nazis bound Santa’s wrists, shackled his legs, gagged him and placed a large red and green stocking over his head – all the while continuing to clobber him.

Finally, a voice declared, without any emotion evident, “Enough.” The blows ceased. This was a voice Santa recognized. After taking a long draw from a Cuban cigar, the voice continued: “Clauz, your team has escaped. Congratulations. But it’s of little consequence. It is you Hitler wants. Not your filthy beasts. And now I have you.”

Santa was in no position to say anything. Thus, being a wise man, he said nothing.

Back at the North Pole a couple hours earlier

It was nine minutes and 51 seconds after Mrs Claus issued her directive that they lifted off.

When Elmer told Boon and Jill that they needed to go to France to save Santa, they high fived, which Elmer found highly inappropriate. Perhaps, he’d considered, they don’t understand me. Elmer cleared his throat and repeated – using smaller words – that they all had to go to France to save Santa, because Santa was in grave danger.

Boon sang, “An adventure, finally.”

Jill chirped, “This is better than making the first team.”

Elmer didn’t have time to scold them, nor to describe in detail the immense and dire gravity of the situation, because Mrs Claus arrived. She said, “Boon, Jill, has Elmer briefed you?”

“Yupper.”

“You betcha.”

“And you are undaunted?”

“What’s undaunted mean?” asked Jill. Boon looked confused.

Said Mrs Claus, “We’re going fly to France. Boon, I’ll ride with you. Jill, Elmer’s all yours. If you’re both up for it?”

“Mrs C, don’t you worry. We’re going to save Santa’s bacon and kick Hitler’s ass!”

“Boon!” admonished Elmer, but only because he was worried about Mrs Claus’ reaction to such low reindeer language.

“Elmer, thinks, perhaps, you’re not up to the task.”

Boon, acting like she was simply in need of a stretch, threw a hind leg back that buzzed Elmer’s right ear.

Continued Mrs Claus, “That you’re too young. Inexperienced.”

Jill, perhaps a kink in her hind leg as well, extended it, with some force it cannot be denied, just past Elmer’s left ear.

“Jeez,” whistled Elmer. “I was just trying to be rational. Like Santa’s always telling me.”

Mrs Claus said to Elmer, “There is a time and place for rational, Elmer. Where we’re going – what we’re going to need is some…some serious gung-ho!”

Elmer started running.

Boon and Jill were laughing and shaking their heads as if to say, ‘pathetic elf.’ But Mrs Claus replied with a look that stated too clearly, ‘Never underestimate an elf.’

Eighty-seven seconds later Elmer came skidding back over the snow sliding to a halt before climbing on Jill. Mrs Claus was already saddled on Boon. Elmer held up a box labeled, GRENADES, and exclaimed, “Gung-ho!”

The team lifted off for the Esders’ farmhouse in France.

France

Santa was lugged out of the Esders’ quaint farmhouse and trundled into the back of a large Mercedes truck headed west.

The Voice said, “Clauz, my good man, swear that you are not a little stinker fit for only your own Naughty List and I will have you unwrapped. Scout’s honor…was that a yes?” The Voice looked to the two henchmen sat on either side of Santa, both armed with Lugers. Continued the Voice, “I do believe it was a yes, but I can’t be certain. Clauz…Clauz can you hear me, are you in there? Knock knock. Yes? These two gentlemen, it is true, do not have your best interests at heart. In fact, they do not seem to care about your welfare in the least. Probably their own fault. Surely a couple of obstreperous punks from your Naughty List back in the day. And deservedly. Their countenances shout the truth. Their stockings, no doubt, were overflowing with coal in years bygone. Now, I know you are not a bad fellow, all in all. But…how can they know? Sure, you’re a little dopey, but I don’t consider that a capital offence. So, if you raise your right, no, make it your left leg, signaling your pledge to be a good boy – then, there is no need for you to suffer any further indignities. I am a civilized man, after all – as you only know too well. Now, how about it? Let’s remain friends. What do you say old buddy, old pal?”

Santa raised his right leg a couple inches and then his left leg all the way.

“Wunderbar!” chanted the Voice, who signaled the henchmen, who, reluctantly, pulled off the green and red stocking and out the gag. The Voice waved the henchmen to continue with the unfurling of Santa.

“But, Herr Coronel?”

“But Herr Coronel nothing. Do it, dammit!” scolded the Voice.

Reluctantly, the henchmen untied Santa’s wrists. The Voice lit then passed a stogie to Santa, who accepted it. The two henchmen seemed on edge. Both their Lugers were pointed at Santa, who puffed on the stogie, but made no comment.

Finally the Voice said, “Get over yourself, Clauz. Don’t be average. We’re talking about a new world, and there is, of course, the order to go with it. Nobody likes a spoiled sport. What do you think?”

Santa sat back and puffed. Finally he said, “Hmm, this all seems a bit elaborate, Frank. Or, should I call you Herr Franz?”

“Not at all, not at all. Whatever. Simple really. Simple…Oh and you can call me whatever you like. The Fuhrer is going to be over the moon. Air Marshal Goering is going to be incensed – since it was I who nabbed you. A happy Christmas, indeed.”

“You can say that again.”

“Merry Christmas!”

“I wonder, how long have you been working with the Nazis?”

“My whole life, Clauz. Since you asked. Well, but, I just didn’t realize it till of late. My parents, you know, were both born in Munich. I, on the other hand, was born in Milwaukee. Don’t snigger. Nobody is perfect. I am working on it, however.”

Said Santa, “You’re a low-down-dirty-rotten rat and double-agent, Frank.”

“The hostility unbecomes you, Clauz. Rat? Come come. And double-agent? What on Earth are you talking about? Germany and the United States of America are not enemies. And why should they be? So much in common – take me, for example. Hitler is a great man.”

Santa spit on the American’s, no, make that the Nazi’s boots. One of the henchmen brought his Luger down heavy on the back of Santa’s head. The other, panzer like, moved in to follow up on his comrade’s workmanship, but the Nazi big cheese cried, “Nein!”

Both henchmen, good Nazis, followed orders.

“Pick him up…Clauz, are you still all there?”

Santa looked woozy. And after the blow he’d just suffered, no wonder.

“You promised to be a good boy,” said the Nazi.

“Where are you taking me?” moaned Santa.

“Capital question, old pal, old buddy. Capital question. You’re actually very lucky and should be proud. We’re already back in Germany, by now, I would imagine.” The American Nazi checked his pocket watch. “Yes, yes, in a few minutes we will arrive at an airstrip. There, we will climb into – perhaps you will have to be carried – my private plane…Have you ever flown in an airplane? No matter, you’ll enjoy it. It’s a lot less stressful than piloting a rickety old sled pulled by ignorant beasts. We can smoke and drink, if you’re up to it. Which you don’t seem to be at present, but who knows how you’ll be feeling in an hour or two?  After that, our next stop will be Bavaria and then the Schloss Adler.

Santa looked up.

“Ah, got your attention now, eh Clauz? Like I told you, only the best for you, old buddy, old pal. And there, in the Fuhrer’s mountain fortress-prison, where he sends only the best and brightest on his Enemies List, there – well, I am not actually sure what will happen to you there. But, anyhow, it beats sitting around the North Pole. And whatever the case, there’s no point stewing about it now, is there? You look tired, my good man.” The Nazi signaled to the henchmen, who gagged Santa and threw the red and green stocking back over his head. “We’ll leave it at that for now, if you don’t have any other questions. It looks like you could use some beauty sleep. Good night, Irene.” The Nazi motioned to the henchmen who both clobbered Santa with the butts of their Lugers. Santa sank to the truck’s floor. He was out cold.

***

Elmer was desperate to drop a grenade on the big Mercedes troop truck as it snaked down the winding country road.

Mrs Claus instructed Elmer to display some patience.

“What happened to gung-ho?” the elf replied. To which Mrs Claus hit him with a hard look. Jill and Boon wisely kept their counsel to themselves, but they were with Elmer on this one.

Elmer explained, “I’m not talking about blowing up the truck, Mrs C. I don’t wanna kill Santa. I’ll lob a grenade well in front of it…The driver’ll hit the brakes and we swoop in, snatch Santa and take back off.”

“What about all the Nazis with machine guns? And how do we take off exactly? Are you volunteering to stay behind? Boon or Jill couldn’t haul you, or me, and Santa more than 30 yards.”

***

Boon, Jill, Elmer and Mrs Claus had arrived at the Esders’ farmhouse just as Rudolf, Donner, Dasher and the rest of Santa’s team had narrowly evaded the stormtroopers on the roof – and the Messer patrolling above. If Santa had shouted out his warning a second later, the whole team would be riding in the back of that truck, or worse.

Mrs Claus had considered giving chase to the team – they’d be handy to have around now – but, it’s unlikely Boon or Jill would have been able to catch up. Had she taken off after them in a wild, desperate bid…well…Santa might just be lost – forever!

Jill and Boon had remained airborne, hovering about 200 yards east of the farmhouse, not far from the road or the Messerschmitt. Just as Mrs Claus had suspected, the Nazis didn’t waste a second. Santa was quickly hustled into a truck, and driven off.

***

Mrs Claus’ team was following the Nazi truck from the west at a distance of about 150 yards. There was no chance of them losing the truck. But, seemingly, there was also no chance of freeing Santa. Gung-ho was on the backburner: Patience was the team’s main course now.

“Boon, Jill,” began Mrs Claus, “you’re both doing wonderfully. Don’t get any closer…Elmer, ideas?”

“Maybe Rudolf and Dancer will show up,” suggested the elf.

“If we’re lucky. We can’t plan on luck.”

“Look, there!” shouted Elmer.

An airstrip off in the distance: A large plane, lights on, propellers cooking.

“We could dash ahead and blow it sky high before they arrive. Cut off their retreat.”

“Then what?”

“Improvise,” replied the elf proudly. This was one of Santa’s favorite words. Whenever something went wrong in the workshop, Santa would snap to Elmer, ‘Improvise.’ “Mrs C, it might be our last shot. It’s what Santa would do.”

Elmer looked proud. And, he had every right to be. “You’re right Elmer.” Boon and Jill sped up, sensing action. “But Santa would be wrong.”

Jill, Boon, and Elmer all groaned.

“Boon, Jill, when that plane takes off, follow it. Not too close, we mustn’t be spotted. But we can’t lose it either. If we do, you’re both Bigfoot meat…Elmer, sit back, relax and put on your thinking cap, and whatever you do, don’t misplace those grenades. We’re going to be needing some serious gung-ho sooner rather than later I suspect.”

Elmer nodded, no one spoke. The team sailed on.

***

The special Nazi aircraft headed east. Boon and Jill were in hot pursuit, yet, still, well back of the lumbering airborne contraption. It was an effort on their part. They couldn't quite believe that something could fly that slow. They both, along with Mrs Claus, who was silent during the flight, ignored Elmer Elf, who every few minutes didn't fail to mention, "Don't lose them. Whatever you do, don't lose them." Boon assured Jill that the next time she had a chance to kick the elf, she would not fail to miss. Jill assured Boon that she would surely manage to kick the elf first. Neither was exactly sure why they detested the elf so. This led to the reindeer’s first quarrel in some time, forcing Mrs Claus to break her silence and roar, "Cut it out, you two."

They sailed through the sinister Nazi air polluting Germany, but didn't stop there. The aircraft kept flying, with Boon and Jill close but not too close behind. Eventually the aircraft passed out of Germany, entering Austria. And finally, not too far over the border, the large plane landed at a small airstrip just outside a village not far from the city of Saltzburg. A truck was idling next to the runway. An enormous parcel was hauled out of the plane and tossed, with no great care, into the truck (the package didn't seem to have been marked fragile), which drove off.

Boon and Jill, hovering above, followed.

The truck drove on until it reached a heavily guarded cable-car station. There, the parcel was hauled out of the truck and loaded roughly into a cable car. Boon, Jill, Elmer Elf, and Mrs Claus all looked on. No one spoke.

The cable car came to life and a half-dozen soldiers and the parcel began the slow journey up the mountainside.

"Nazis," spat Mrs Claus.

With the cable car in motion, climbing its ways to the Alps’ summit and that which lay atop it, Hitler's Schloss Adler, Mrs Claus looked to Elmer. "Ideas?"

"It's impregnable," replied the elf in dismay and awe.

"What is?"

"That." The elf pointed. "I heard the American and Santa speak of it: Hitler's mountain prison-fortress. It's where all those at the top of his Enemies List wind up. 'We couldn’t take it with an entire Army Division and all the gangsters in Chicago,' said the American.”

Mrs Claus didn't reply. Boon, Jill, and Elmer all stared at the magical-looking castle sitting snugly on top of the gorgeous mountain.

Elmer continued, "We have to attack now. Once they've got him inside, nothing doing. Once inside, there's no coming out."

"How do you know all this, Elmer?"

"The American. I heard him and Santa discussing it."

Mrs Claus continued to stare at the magnificent castle.

"Attack now," repeated the elf, "before the cable car reaches the summit. We have surprise on our side...and these." Elmer held up the box of grenades.

Make or break moments, meditated Mrs Claus, the ink with which we write our life's story. The elf was wrong, she thought. But am I right? she wondered, as she watched that cable car creep up the mountainside.

Mrs Claus shivered. It wasn't the cold – which was biting.

There was no denying it. The mountain lair was invincible to attack. When the cable car reached the top, it just might be too late. Perhaps, Santa would, like those poor souls who came before him, never see the light of day again. But he'd be alive. The Nazis weren't going through all this trouble to pitch Santa from the top. If he was alive, well, there was a chance. If they raided the cable car from above, raining Elmer's grenades on it, there would be a lot of dead Nazis strewn about that pristine mountainside, and Santa too.

She said, "No Elmer. Holster your gung-ho, for now. We can't start killing Nazis...yet."

The cable car continued its journey up the great mountain.

Jill and Boon continued to hover – Elmer to brood, and Mrs Claus to think. Think! Nothing was coming. When the cable car reached the summit, Elmer looked at Mrs Claus. Mrs Claus looked inward. Is it too late? Had she made some colossal blunder? An irreversible error that would haunt...then she saw it.

"Boon, Jill – move!"

Boon and Jill spied it also. Elmer said, "What?"

Boon and Jill veered east and then plunged quickly behind some tall trees.

A Mercedes was gliding swiftly down the long winding road; its destination too obviously – the cable-car station.

"Elmer?"

"Yes?"

"Are you ready?

"For what, Mrs C?"

"Gung-ho!"

***

"Vat iz dat," said the man driving the car.

The other man in the car replied, "Go around. I don't have time for this."

"I cannot just go around a voman in zee middle of ze road."

The passenger shrugged nervously. He said, "If we're late..." He left the sentence hanging, like a reaper’s scythe.

The car did not slow. It sped up, swerving around the lady standing in the middle of the road, who, in reply, uneventfully chucked a snowball, and muttered, "Nazis."

Boon swooped in, picking up Mrs Claus.

"Told you they wouldn't stop. Nazis!" spat Elmer.

Mrs Claus barked some instructions to Boon and Jill.

"Again?" began Elmer. "Next time, they won't even bother to veer. It was a nice try, but we need a new plan." He held up the grenades.

Mrs Claus repeated her instructions. And then added, "It'll work. Trust me." Boon and Jill chuckled. Mrs Claus declared, to Elmer’s dismay, “It'd work on wolves."

***

The Mercedes carrying the Nazis skidded to a halt.

"What on Earth?"

"Good Godz!"

The lady in the middle of the road was in only her underwear. And it wasn't long!

"What can we do for you, Fraulein?" asked the passenger.

"Well...you can start by getting out of the car."

"Vat'z going on?" asked the driver.

Mrs Claus pulled a Luger from, well, neither man had any idea, although it was leveled at both of them.

"This is schtupid!" said the driver.

"Yes, it is," replied Mrs Claus as Jill swooped down.

Elmer was pointing a machine gun at the men. He said, "Don't even think about it."

"About vat?" asked the driver.

"Out of the car, now. I won't tell you again," said Elmer.

"It'z cold," said the driver.

“Way too cold,” said the passenger.

"Not really," replied Mrs Claus, and then, "just like the elf said and step on it!"

"Hands up, nice and easy. No funny business," instructed Elmer.

"Vat'z funny?" asked the driver.

After a moment, the two men and a young lady, who had been sitting silently in the backseat, emerged from the car.

Mrs Claus addressed the young lady, "Where are you going, miss?"

"We are taking her..."

"I am talking to the young lady." Mrs Claus pointed the Luger.

"I'm being taken to the castle. I start my new job tonight."

"New job?"

"Yes. That is correct. I'm the new beer-wench for the garrison. I'm honored to serve the Fatherland and the Fuhrer…Who are you, tart?"

"Mind your tongue," said Elmer, wielding the machine gun. "And what about you two? What's your story?"

Neither man spoke. Both glowered stone-faced at Elmer, which really ticked the elf off. Elmer fired a round.

The driver shivered, cowered and cried, "Pleazzze, vee are good Nazis. Just doing our jobs. Our orders are to take ze new beer-wench to the cable-car station. Ve're doing our jobs, that’z it. Obeying! Nothing more."

"You shot off my ear," cried the other man, who was in the midst of climbing back to his feet. "YOU SHOT OFF MY EAR, YOU TINY FIEND."

"Fine shot," said Mrs Claus, truly impressed. She hadn't realized Elmer was made of such stern stuff.

Boon and Jill also, suddenly, had a new respect for the elf, who said:

"Next one will be between the ears, fella."

Elmer was feeling particularly proud. Although, it should be mentioned, that his intent had been to fire over their heads. He wondered whether the German was unlucky – or lucky; and, what he would do if they failed to heed his next warning: Aim for their boots. No matter, luck or fortune, or whatever you want to call it, was on his side. He could feel it – like a gust of wind.

The men hadn't budged. Not an iota.

It wasn't the case with the buxom beer-wench, who said, "I demand that you release us, you dimwitted fools, whoever you are!" After which she looked directly at Mrs Claus, adding, "Hussy!"

Presently the beer-wench must have been feeling assertive, a good daughter of Master Hitler's Fatherland.

Mrs Claus, still in only her underwear that wasn't long, stood a little taller.

The beer-wench continued her harangue (Yes, she was pretty, top-drawer at any village fair or town pub, but Mrs Claus was elegant, graceful, and gorgeous), "This is unacceptable. The garrison shall be wanting for beer. I was chosen for this exalted position by none other than the Air Marshal himself. ME! After a long and intense interview...Now, step aside – if you know what's good for you – and perhaps the incident will not make it to the ears of the Fuhrer. Now, dwarf, you apologize to Fritz and..."

A shot rang out. The beer-wench collapsed into the snow.

Mrs Claus half shrieked, "Elmer."

The beer-wench, eyes wider than reindeer’s (speaking of reindeer, Jill and Boon couldn't believe their own eyes. To think, Elmer had it in him. They'd both have to tread more gently around the passive-aggressive elf until the adventure was over), climbed gingerly to her feet. She was no longer moving her mouth like the Dusseldorf Express. In fact, the only sound emanating from her exalted person was tepid sniffles.

She was naked.

Well, her head was naked. Her cute Alpine hat lay in the snow with a bullet hole through it. Elmer was staring at the rifle in his hands. He'd been aiming for the mountain peaks yonder.

"All of you. Get your gear off. All of it. Not a stick remaining. Now! Or the elf ends you," roared Mrs Claus.

"No monkey business," added Elmer, the weapon once again leveled at the Nazis.

"Excuse me?" said the beer-wench in a snit.

"You heard me," replied Mrs Claus.

"But it is..." began the passenger, holding what was left of his right ear.

"Freezzzing out," concluded the driver, holding what remained of his ballzen.

"Elmer..."

The elf launched himself forward, waving the Tommy Gun wildly.

"OK."

"OK."

The beer-wench said nothing, as she started unbuttoning.

In only moments, there were four people standing out on that Austrian back-country road in only their underwear. But not for long.

"March," Mrs Claus instructed.

The three Nazis started marching.

"Not that way."

The three Nazis about faced and started walking back down the old country road that only minutes earlier they’d been barreling up.

Mrs Claus hustled, quickly dressing in the beer-wench’s costume, which Elmer couldn't help but notice, was a bit tight in the vest, and a tad loose around the waist. He shook his head and looked away. As she put on the final touch, the Alpine hat, she gave the elf a look. He shrugged.

"Elmer, you drive."

Elmer clicked his heels then climbed into the driver's seat. He asked, "What's the plan?"

"I am going to get into that castle."

"What about us?"

"Wait for my signal."

"There's a problem."

"What?"

"I can't reach the pedals."

"Stretch."

"I am stretching."

"Then improvise."

"Improvise longer legs!" replied the elf incredulously. He was already slightly on edge, not due to the inherent danger of the situation, but because they'd called him dwarf.

"Elmer, forget it...Boon, come here."

Boon did as instructed, leisurely.

"Other side," said Mrs Claus. She added, "Snap snap!"

Boon leaped around the car.

"Drive," said Mrs Claus.

The reindeer, startled, looked at the elf, who looked startled. Boon almost said, "Reindeer don't drive," but reconsidered. The elf hopped out of the car. The reindeer hopped aboard. ‘It can't be that hard,’ she thought to herself. ‘Humans do it.’ Boon threw the car into gear and it started rolling forward.

"Step on it."

The Mercedes roared off.

Minutes later it screeched to a halt. Mrs Claus leapt out. Boon chucked it in reverse, executed a fine spin, and gunned it.

Two soldiers, who had been leaning against the cable-car station, raced after the Mercedes on foot.

Thanks to Boon’s quick work they ate snow, and a bit of slush and sleet to boot. After cursing fiercely while rubbing their eyes violently, they leveled their rifles at the fleeing Mercedes.

Mrs Claus yelled, “I wouldn’t do that!”

“Why not?” shouted the first soldier.

“That was our ride!” shouted the second.

“We have a rendezvous…

“Tonight…”

“…with the Boobstein twins!” sang both men.

“In the village.”

“This is our first leave in months.”

“And that’s our…”

“Ride!”

Said Mrs Claus, “The Fuhrer would be most upset…”

Both soldiers lowered their rifles, turned, and stared at Mrs Claus.

She continued, “…If you shot at his automobile. At least, one would think so…but…in a case such as that of the Boobstein twins, perhaps, he’d understand.” Mrs Claus shrugged her shoulders.

“The Fuhrer’s…”

“Car?”

“What are you…”

“Talking about?”

An officer emerged from the cable-car station. He was clad in a much sharper uniform and carried himself with a whole lot more panache. He was smoking a cigarette and walked with an authoritative gait. He approached Mrs Claus both approvingly and sinisterly.

“What do you know about the Fuhrer?” he asked, almost laughing.

Mrs Claus met his wandering gaze firmly. She said, “Herr Captain, cigarette, bitte.”

The German Captain walked slowly around Mrs Claus. He circled her twice, on his second circuit, brushing her gently. He said, “Why certainly, Fraulein.” He held out a pack. “Of course.” Mrs Claus helped herself, casually. The German Captain said, “I hope you don’t mind American,” as he lit her cigarette.

Mrs Claus said, “I don’t mind anything.” She puffed on her cigarette, curtsied and said, “Danke.”

“Now…You were saying…”

Mrs Claus took another puff from the cigarette coolly and said, “I wasn’t.”

One of the guards said, “Yes you were…"

“You were saying…”

“About our ride!”

The other guard, “The Boobstein twins are…”

“Going to be livid!”

“They have remarkable…”

“Tempers. If we don’t make it to the Beer Hall tonight…”

“They’ll ditch us for a couple of Luftwaffe…”

“Ashlocks!”

The Captain said, “You can’t blame Volker and Hodgar now. The Boobstein twins’ village beauty is well reported – both Hodgar and Volker are always telling me. But…I somehow don’t think either could hold a candle to your utter cosmopolitan grace. You, who are, I presume considering costuming and scheduling, the new beer-wench. Remarkable, if it’s the case. You must be the most magnificent beer-wench in the entire Reich. Sweden and Italy too – maybe Brazil. Startling, truly. So, please excuse Volker and Hodgar…for pondering…after all, you are dropped off in a flurry and they are left out in the cold, holding their…icicles – while the notorious Boobstein twins are warmed up by a couple of Luftwaffe pilots. You can understand their consternation. And you talk of our Fuhrer as if he is your uncle…”

“That is silly, Herr Captain. The Fuhrer is not my uncle. How could you say such an absurd thing? It is the Air Marshal who is my uncle.”

All three Nazis froze. Mrs Claus looked to Hodgar and Volker. She said, “And, from what I’ve seen, I don’t doubt for a second that the intrepid Boobstein twins shall be better served by a couple of…How did you phrase it? Ah yes…a couple of Luftwaffe ashlocks. But I could be wrong. Perhaps, you could bring it up tonight, at dinner. My uncle and the Fuhrer will be arriving in a few hours. You can ask. That is why I am here. The Fuhrer insists I serve him personally and the Air Marshal is always happy to oblige.”

The two guardsmen, Volker and Hodgar, were stood at attention, rigid. The Captain looked slightly uneasy, but he was Gestapo, and harder to intimidate. He bowed and put out a cordial hand. “It would be my privilege to escort you to the castle.”

Mrs Claus took his hand and the two walked shoulder to shoulder to the cable-car station. When she reached the door, she swirled back around. “Hodgar. Volker.”

Both soldiers stood a little taller.

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

“The Luftwaffe never disappoints.” She winked. “Ice baths. They work wonders, I hear.”

Volker and Hodgar saluted.

The Gestapo Captain and Mrs Claus entered the station and only minutes later climbed aboard a gondola. Neither spoke. They both smoked. The view was spectacular. Without exchanging words the Captain offered Mrs Claus another cigarette, which she accepted. They continued smoking. The Captain didn’t seem comfortable, but neither was he ill at ease. He decided that Mrs Claus was an intense woman, but also playful – aside from being remarkably beautiful. And he determined that he wouldn’t speak until she did. That way, the advantage would fall back to him. He was looking at her, but not directly. She smoked and paid him no attention. She was neither looking at him nor away from him. It was as if the gondola was empty, or full. Halfway up to the castle, the Captain was still determined not to be the first to break the silence when he said, “I didn’t catch your name, Fraulein.”

“Yes. You did,” replied Mrs Claus.

He sniffed a bit, but couldn’t help himself. “Your Christian name, Fraulein.”

“Katja.”

“Katja,” repeated the Captain. After which, he whistled.

“And what is your Christian name, Herr Captain.”

“Christophe.”

“Christophe,” repeated Mrs Claus. After which, she whistled.

The Captain laughed and Mrs Claus joined him.

He said, “Such a marvelous panorama. I could never tire of it.”

“I concur, Christophe.”

“When we reach the top, I always sing a song, and celebrate with a glass of Champagne. Pol Roger. Will you join me?”

“Herr Captain, are you not presently on duty?”

“I am a Captain of the Gestapo. I’m always on duty…So…that is a yes, no?”

“The mountains go on forever. Do they ever stop?”

The Captain swiveled his neck and rolled his body, so he could peer over her shoulder, and brush up against her ever so slightly. He looked into her eyes and shrugged.

She looked at him and said, “The world is grown so bad, that wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch.”

The Captain swiveled and twisted back around, sitting comfortably again, taking in Mrs Claus, he said, “I must say, not many beer-wenches can quote Shakespeare. I prefer Goethe.”

“Goethe preferred Shakespeare.”

The Captain laughed.

“Nothing shows a man’s character more than what he laughs at.”

The Captain sat up straight for moment, and then clapped, “Bravo, bravo. Shakespeare and Goethe, at your fingertips.”

“You don’t like poetry, Captain? Tut-tut. You’re not a barbarian, I hope.”

“Oh, don’t slander me. But I am obviously at a disadvantage in your exalted company.”

“It’s the mountains, and freshly fallen snow, and brilliant, romantic air.”

“To drink Champagne with me, or not to drink Champagne with me, now that is the question, Katja.”

Mrs Claus sat back and took a long draw from her cigarette. “Use every man after his desert, and who should ‘scape the whipping?”

“Eh…”

“Of course, I shall join you for some Champagne. But, you must promise not to get me too very drunk. I do love Champagne but I am expected to serve the Fuhrer tonight. I wouldn’t want to spill any sauerkraut in his lap.”

“Ha!”

The cable car reached the top of the mountain precipice. The door swung open.

The Captain said, “The Fuhrer? When is he arriving? Not for hours certainly…After you, Katja.”

Mrs Claus accepted the Captain’s hand and climbed out of the gondola. As she did so, brushing him gently, she said, “Pleasure and activity make the hours seem short.”

The Captain didn’t reply. But he thought, ‘I do love Shakespeare. Goethe was right. Education is a miracle.’

At the gate, a few soldiers saluted the Captain. Mrs Claus gripped his hand tighter. They strolled into the castle – it was cavernous. A serious and slightly distraught, mousy-looking officer approached them, saying, “I must speak with you immediately.”

“Can you not see that I am detained?”

“I have my orders. I must have a word, Herr Captain,” the nervous, mousy Nazi heil-hitlered, then bowed.

“Speak, if you must.”

The officer looked at Mrs Claus and then back to the Gestapo Captain.

“Speak!” barked the Captain.

The officer didn’t, looking confused.

“This beer-wench is no spy,” said the Captain softly. He rubbed her cheek and then ran his hand through her golden blonde hair. And then in much harsher, fierce tones, barked: “If you have something to say, then I suggest…”

“The prisoner is ready,” flew out of the scared-looking, mousy officer’s mouth. It was obvious he wanted to retreat.

“Good,” nodded the Captain. Arm in arm, Mrs Claus and the Captain began to stroll off.

The young Nazi officer now looked bewildered. He obviously he didn’t want to speak, but felt he must. “Sir, er, they are wai…”

“Lieutenant, I will be there, when I arrive there!” roared the Captain, turning around in a flash, eyes searing.

The young-mousy Nazi gulped. “But…they are waiting. I was sent to fetch…”

“I can see that, you imbecile! Was your mother some sort of pox-ridden whore, who passed on her derangement to you? If it’s the case, I apologize.”

“Er – ah, no…no, she wasn’t…No need to apologize, thank you…sir.”

The Captain didn’t say another word, only stared at the young officer, who was now pale, and said simply, “Heil Hitler,” while saluting before scurrying off, perturbed. For, he was certain that he was going to catch hell from the Colonel on the other end when he reported that the Captain was presently unavailable. ‘It’s not easy being a Nazi,’ thought the young officer, ‘no sense of humor.’

Mrs Claus said to the Captain, “I didn’t realize that you are so…What’s the word?”

“Important,” said the Captain, almost flexing.

“No, that’s not it,” replied Mrs Claus calmly, playfully. “More like, naughty. If you are busy, by all means, I’m sure I can find a General to drink with.” She smiled.

The Captain replied winking, “I’m not busy…yet.”

“What is all the commotion about?” asked Mrs Claus, looking around.

“I am not sure whether you are aware – but this mountain chateau is in actuality a prison. The most-secure prison in the world, home to the most vile and dangerous enemies of the Reich. All the big fish are here…just today, well let’s just say, we landed the whale.”

Mrs Claus stopped. Her eyes widened. She said, covering her mouth, “Churchill!”

The Captain guffawed and then chuckled, waving a hand. “That is funny. Churchill’s a guppy. No one takes that old boozing-blowhard seriously. Do you have any idea what his wine bill is each month?...The Fuhrer almost met him once. Would have a swatted him like a gnat…No no no, if we got our hands on that drunken rascal, he wouldn’t warrant a suite here. We’d bayonet him on the spot, save a bullet. The English would thank us. Their King would send a fruit basket. That little, guzzling troublemaker is nothing but a whisky-drenched nuisance. No no no, this is big. Think big! You wouldn’t actually believe me if I told you.” The Captain laughed again while caressing Mrs Claus’ left cheek. “But I am sure you’d be impressed, from what I can sense about you, ha! You got nothing in your Christmas stocking but coal after turning age 13, I bet.” He gave her a little whack on the behind. Mrs Claus made to look to pout.

He took her hand and they started walking again. He looked at his watch and said, “We have plenty of time, do not worry your pretty little heart out. And anyhow, it’s always good to make ‘em sweat…speaking of sweat…” The German shifted his hand down Mrs Claus’ back.

Mrs Claus said, “What’s your job?”

“I told you. I am a Gestapo Captain.”

“Yes, you did, but,” she squeezed his hand. “What is your job?”

He looked proud in that moment. He said, “I am the Fuhrer’s number 1 interrogator.”

“You mean…you are…a…torturer.” It wasn’t a question. Mrs Claus was biting her lip. She rolled her tongue and put her hand on the Captain’s shoulder.

This time it was the Captain who stopped. He was no longer smiling, instead, looking dead-serious. He said, simply, “Yes.”

Mrs Claus exerted more pressure on his hand while cuddling into him. “I love men who are good at their job. Are you good at yours, Herr Captain?”

The Nazi smiled and then winked.

Mrs Claus said, slowly, “I am dying for that glass – or two – of Champagne.”

“It’s a big bottle.”

“I bet!”

They had arrived at a door. The Captain pushed it open and swept up Mrs Claus in his arms, carrying her across the threshold. He threw her onto a rather large bed.

Mrs Claus asked, “Does that mean we’re married?”

The Captain walked across the room. He snatched up a bottle of Pol Roger Champagne from out of an ice-bucket and poured two glasses. He walked back across the room. He bowed and passed Mrs Claus a glass, and said, “Not…quite…yet.”

“You must love to read.”

“Eh?”

Mrs Claus pointed – at a wide, expansive bookshelf.

“Yes. I suppose.”

“Who is your favorite author?”

The Captain took off his jacket, hanging it, folded, over an armchair.

Mrs Claus removed her vest, flinging it on the floor.

The Captain remarked, “Perhaps we should discuss literature, later.”

“No no no, Herr Captain, I want to know what a torturer, the best torturer in the Reich, reads.” Mrs Claus slipped out of her blouse. The Captain was momentarily staggered. “Tongue tied? Herr Captain, please indulge me. I am the curious sort.” She lay back and sipped Champagne.

“Shakespeare, I defer to you. The English used to be a vigorous people. Their kings are German. My dear, whatever you like, I like.”

“Oh, but I prefer Milton…Tell me, Herr Captain…” – Mrs Claus licked her lips before rolling her tongue – “What is it like…to torture a man?”

“You don’t know, eh? Ha!...More fun than reading.” He gulped down his Champagne and leapt into the bed. “But not as fun as…”

Mrs Claus leapt out of the bed. “Tut-tut, Christophe, you almost made me spill my Champagne.” She walked across the room and then walked back, carrying the Champagne bottle. “Please, tell me…I am desperate to know. Please.” She sipped from the bottle.

The Gestapo Captain sat up in the bed. “It is my job – duty – to extract information, vital information, for the protection and furtherance…glory…of the Fatherland.”

“Yes, but how…and what kind of vital information will you be extracting from the…er…big fish.”

“If I told you, I could be shot.”

“Huh.” Disappointment flashed in Mrs Claus’ eyes. “I see…didn’t think you were a coward.” She picked up her blouse and started buttoning.

The Captain watched her and then said, “From this one, nothing much. Oh, maybe I’ll get some names out of him. His contacts from America, men who work for both the German and American governments. Traitors. And Churchill’s men, of course. They are not government men – the British won’t have them. But they are still a nuisance.”

Mrs Claus once again removed her blouse. She slipped off her skirt as well. The Nazi Captain was stung momentarily. After he’d recovered, and then gulped, he continued, “But mostly it will be for only the sheer fun of it. Pure joy. Pleasure. The pleasure of striking back and landing a blow in the good fight. This man is a menace. An utter menace. Now, come here!”

Mrs Claus didn’t budge. She drank from the Champagne bottle. She said, “Can I watch?”

The Nazi Captain sat up in the bed. ‘What a spectacular creature!’ he thought. He climbed out of the bed. “You are a most peculiar girl. I mean that most complimentary. With an army of women like you, the Reich would be unstoppable. But, no, I am afraid that you cannot watch. However, I, for one, like to reward enterprise and action, harnessed by pure, true thought.” The Captain crossed the room and stood before the bookcase, studying it for a moment. He turned and flourished a hand. “You asked me about my favorite author, and I don’t believe my answer satisfied you. I will never make such a blunder again. It is a difficult question, after all. But my favorite book? Now, that is an easy one. There is only one answer and there can be no debate.”

The Captain pulled a rather large volume from the bookshelf, which suddenly jumped and then disappeared completely.

Mrs Claus was presently looking through a very large window. She stared. The Nazi Captain watched her, intently. Neither spoke for some time. Finally, the Captain said with pride, “So…what do you think?”

Mrs Claus replied, “I don’t know what to say. It’s an…old man, in his underwear, with funny hair. Torturing him would be…boring. I am disappointed.”

“What? Not him. Forget about Einstein. Although you may not think much of him, and rightfully so, but we had a lot of trouble picking him up. The Fuhrer was quite happy when we finally landed him, but enough about him. It’s the other fellow. You don’t recognize him? Look closely.”

“He looks like a gigolo.”

“That’s Clauz…”

“Who?”

“Santa Clauz!”

“No! I don’t believe it. Out of the question.”

“What? No…Yes. It’s him. What are you talking about? It’s him. Look! You think the Fuhrer was happy when I grabbed Einstein. Ha, he was over the moon when he heard we finally got Clauz. That is why he is coming tonight. He wants to see him with his own eyes. He has been waiting a long time for this day.”

Mrs Claus was startled for a second. She couldn’t quite believe it…Hitler really is coming here? Here! What?  She said, “But, why? Who cares? Doesn’t look like any of the illustrations I’ve seen in the magazines. What does he matter anyhow? Delivers toys to children. Big whoop. He’s no more than a child himself. Certainly the Reich’s top torturer has more important men to probe, batter, bruise, and scar than a fellow who only works one day a year. As a taxpayer I am appalled.”

“What? No! You don’t understand. It’s because you are a woman. This is monumental. You see, Clauz is a symbol of hope and tradition. And children love him. Good German children – unbelievable I know, but true. He undermines authority and thus cannot be tolerated. Fun is his mantra. You say, ‘He delivers toys to children. So what?’ What an unthinking comment. I say children are the future, and must be protected. Their safety is paramount. One day the Reich will fall into their hands to rule. Imagination, at all costs, must be stamped out.” The Captain, red in the face now, slammed his fist down. “Clauz is a menace. Our greatest enemy. He represents Freedom – which I cannot stand!” He slammed down his fist again. “And now…he is ours, all ours, to do with as we wish…and you mock.”

The Captain raised his hand and hit Mrs Claus, who tumbled to the floor; however, she quickly leapt back to her feet, grabbing the Captain aggressively, cuddling into him, still somehow managing to clutch the Champagne bottle.

“I am so sorry, Christophe. Now I understand. I am schtupid! Do please forgive me…I am a woman!”

The Nazi embraced Mrs Claus and after a couple squeezes, he said, “Yes, why of course, I forgive you. I am not a barbarian.”

“I would like to make it up to you.”

“Oh, yes please please…please.”

“Let me clobber Clauz with a wrench.”

“What?”

“Or a hammer. Whatever you have handy. I’m not picky. Please, I really want to make it up to you, and prove my dedication to the Reich.”

“Oh, no no, my dear. I overreacted. Sometimes I take my work too seriously. It’s a flaw. I should take more vacations but we’re so busy these days…No no, I should, in fact, apologize to you…now, shall we get…er…started?”

“Oh yes, of course Christophe, I can’t wait, so, what shall it be, a wrench or a hammer?”

“Er – what, neither. Forget about him.” The Captain walked back over to the two-way mirror, pressed a spot on it, and the bookcase reappeared.

“Now…where were we?”

“At least let my spit on him. For the Fuhrer. Do you know for three years running I received only coal from that chiseling miser?”

“Only three years?...Darling darling…”

“It wouldn’t take more than a minute.”

“No, no, no…”

Mrs Claus started to gyrate seductively.

“OK, OK, sure. But we must be quick.”

“Really?”

“Yes…but…after...”

“OK…perfect. But how do we get back there? I’ve never been in a dungeon before.”

“Oh it’s remarkably simple. Simply wiggle Moby Dick on the bookshelf.” As he was saying this, he was also nuzzling on Mrs Claus’ ear. And then very adroitly he removed her bra. Mrs Claus, with the Champagne bottle she was still carrying, smashed the Nazi over the head. He went down hard, crashing off a table. For good measure, she hit him again. And then, perhaps three was her lucky number, she hit him once more with what little remained of that Pol Roger Champagne bottle.

She watched him. He was still. Was he dead? She couldn’t be sure. She walked over to the chair and from his holster pulled a Luger. She aimed it at Christophe, who still hadn’t budged. Why waste a bullet? Or risk the racket? She tucked the Luger into her underwear. She walked over to the bookshelf, then turned back to check the Nazi, again. He still hadn’t moved, not an iota. He was bleeding profusely. He must be dead, she thought, or will be in moments. She scanned the bookshelf and tugged Moby Dick. The bookshelf didn’t jump this time, the floor did, and then it swung violently. Instinctively she turned and tried to retreat. She was facing the window, now a mirror. She spun back around and was met with a shock. The cell was empty. She walked over to where Einstein and Santa had been manacled. There was no sign of either. Mrs Claus felt a pang. The dank dungeon was claustrophobic. She walked back over to the mirror and started pressing it, inch by inch, left to right, up then down. Nothing. She looked for a brick jutting out of the wall, nothing. How…to…get out? She was locked in! Mrs Claus wasn’t panicking, but she was at a loss when the dungeon door swung open, and three Nazis walked through it, including the mousy-pipsqueak who the Captain had dressed down earlier. The three men stared at Mrs Claus, who, it is fair to say, they hadn’t been expecting, and certainly not attired so. They couldn’t help staring. And then one scratched his head for a moment before looking around a bit more, just to be sure before asking, to no one in particular, “Where are Clauz and Einstein?”

The other fellow with him said, “Who cares?”

Mrs Claus was almost as shocked, but not quite, until she remembered she was topless. She didn’t bother covering up – how could she? – and what was the point now anyhow. She said, “You filthy beasts, stop staring.”

The first German said, “Eh – apologies,” and covered his eyes, kind of.

“Eh – excuse me – who are you?” said the second whilst shrouding his face casually with a loose hand, ogling eyes popping out of the great gaps between his fingers.

“And where are…”

The mousy-pipsqueak said, “She’s the new beer-wench,” eyes wide open and blaring.

“Oh…”

“Ah…”

“But that doesn’t…”

“Explain…”

The mousy-pipsqueak whispered into the two men’s ears.

Both men chuckled and then chuckled some more and did so uproariously.

“Fine fine, Frau. Enjoy.”

“But you tell Christophe, that dog, the Fuhrer will be here soon. The clock is ticking.”

“So…”

“How shall we put it?”

“Finish up…quick.”

“We’ll be back.”

The first two Germans, eyes still partially covered, bumped into each other while exiting the dank cell. Next, the Nazi mousy-pipsqueak, eyes still ballooning, backed out of the dungeon with his tongue waging. Mrs Claus considered shooting him with the Luger. But there was no time. The dungeon door clanked shut behind him, leaving Mrs Claus trapped inside, again. Where was Santa? Mrs Claus turned and tried to find the secret lever that would return her to the bedchamber. For a moment, she considered what she would find there. What would her next move be? What had she got herself into? Were there any moves left? No matter, she had to find a way out and quick. They’d be back and not as bird-brained the next time. Where was that damn Santa Claus?

About a month earlier, somewhere out in the Atlantic, off the coast of Myrtle Beach, USA

Einstein was lost.

There was nothing relative about it. But he wasn’t scared. He’s not the type. He couldn’t see the shore but was pretty sure he was headed that way. He wasn’t. He’d been warned about sailing alone. So what? He enjoyed it. Who cares what the dunderheads think? Anyhow, that was his line and he was sticking to it and certain he’d been in worse pickles. It wasn’t the case.

It started raining.

‘Perfect’, he thought. He wasn’t being cynical. He liked sailing alone in the rain, with no company other than his own and God, of course. The rain picked up. Hmmm, he looked about. The sky was darkening, the waves rolling wide and heavy – tossing his little sailboat around as if it a child’s toy.

This was fun.

Once he’d spent the entire night on the ocean. He’d had a revelation but forgotten to write it down. He wasn’t concerned – sure it would manage to crack his skull again someday. He just hoped it wasn’t presently, for his notebook was surely drenched.

And then, he did feel a pang. Something was awry. The storm picked up, but that wasn’t it. He worried for a moment, ‘Did I leave the kettle on? I don’t think so.’ Einstein had been planning on a shortish pleasure cruise. But there was definitely an alteration in the itinerary afoot. ‘I hope the cottage doesn’t burn down, but not to worry, I am almost certain I didn’t leave the kettle on.’

Einstein’s small one-man sailing craft was rising, not on a wave, but the back of a mighty whale. ‘Just call me Jonah. If only it were a whale; could be fun. But not now…not by a long shot,’ thought Einstein. And then he muttered, “Nazis,” as up, up, up, he went.

There wasn’t anything left to do so Einstein, being a wise man, did nothing, other than ponder the mysteries of the mighty universe. Up, up, he continued – out of the tiger’s paw and into the crock’s jowls. Some time passed before some schmuck popped the U-boat hatch. Two men emerged. Einstein’s small sailing vessel was sitting right plop smack-dab in the middle of the submarine’s deck. ‘How they managed it, beats me,’ he thought.

One of the fellows dressed in a silkily-spiffy uniform said, “Professor, if you don’t mind.”

Einstein didn’t figure there was any point in telling them that he did, so he climbed out of his own craft, landing on theirs.

The Nazi said, “It iz a terrible night to be out on the ocean alone, in that.” He pointed and with disdain. “You really must be nutz. Like they say in Berlin.”

“Like they have always said in Berlin,” said the other Nazi, and then, “when we received the signal, we thought it was, what? A schtupid joke. Yes. Why do they waste our time? We are not small boys, no? But, yet, unbelievably, here you are. You really are a lunatic.”

“Thank you.”

“The Fuhrer will be most pleased.”

Einstein waved an insouciant hand, “You know me, anything to oblige an old and dear pal.”

Both Nazis laughed. “You know Herr Professor, you are second on his Enemies List. Second!” He stamped his foot. “That iz nothing to sneeze at. This was an extensive operation. There is a whole wolfpack scouring this coast, out there…” – the Nazi flashed a hand – “…looking…for you. Do you know, the U-boat that captures you gets a free trip to the Caribbean? Yes. A whole week. All hands thank you. You don’t look impressed, Professor. You should be very proud. Second on hiz list! Charlie Chaplin has just moved up in the world! Illustrious company, eh?”

Albert Einstein spit over the side of the U-boat. “Second? Horse-puckey. I’m not second at anything. Have you ever heard me fiddle?”

Both men shrugged their shoulders. One said, “No one is perfect, Professor.”

The one Nazi in the silky-snazzy uniform elbowed the other Nazi in the silky-snazzy uniform, “Yes, yes, eh? Oh, of course, with the exception of the Fuhrer, most certainly.”

The elbowing-Nazi was nodding too enthusiastically, considered the elbowed-Nazi, while lost in contemplation, wondering whether this incident might somehow manage to make its way into a report.

Like a bull, in a flash, Einstein charged the two Nazis, startling them. He grabbed them both by their lapels and declaimed, “Who’s first, if not me?”

Both the elbowed-and-elbowing Nazis cackled wildly, before, for once, imparting the truth.

It was Einstein’s turn to bark at the moon. “Ha! Balls, you’ll never get him. Not in a thousand years. Perhaps sometime in the fourth Reich. It’s your Fuhrer who’s the imbecile. Do you think he has syphilis? That’s what they say in Berlin. A nasty dose – picked ‘er up in prison. Backdoored, you know.”

Einstein was smacked and then scolded, “Down below, Professor. Go. Now. Move. Not another word.”

“Professor, be forewarned, if you exhibit any further aggressive tendencies, eh…you will be…”

“…Dealt with most harshly.”

“You’re ours now, Mr Smarty Pantz!”

Einstein was kicked, dragged, and then chucked down the hatch. He landed with a thud and then a thump somewhere deep-down within the steel bowels of that Nazi iron whale.

A month, or so, later deep-down within the iron bowels of the Fuhrer’s mountain-prison-lair, atop the beautiful, luxuriant Alps

“We are getting nowhere, Albert.”

Einstein stood and made some notations on the blackboard.

“I don’t believe it,” said the Nazi.

“You mean you don’t understand it, ha.”

“I have studied for six years with Hoftsteader at the University of Berlin. It’s gibberish.”

“Hoftsteader, for six years! I’m not surprised, at all. If you weren’t a fool when you started your education, you certainly are now. Can you still tie your own shoes?” Einstein turned to the other man in the cell. “You insult me. I have told you what I know.”

“Herr Professor, he is the third physicist we have presented to you. His qualifications are impeccable…I assure you, if this man leaves unsatisfied, I will have no choice but to hurt you. Now, please…”

“Physicists, you say. Balls I say. This lug-head before me couldn’t qualify as a mechanic – in Bulgaria. And the first fellow was no better than an engineer, possibly first-rate, he wasn’t completely without brains, but still…An engineer! And the second…well, you were here, I don’t think he could pass high school math, not to mention teach it. That is the equation – it is right there!” Einstein, once again sitting, pointed aggressively at the blackboard. “It’s as clear as the new moon. But if you insist I explain it, again, you need to first send me a man whom I don’t have to spend six months tutoring in the rudiments of thermal dynamics…And you call yourself superior, my foot!”

“Herr Captain, I have completed my PhD at the University and published more than 17 serious papers in numerous very seriously-serious Nazi Science journals. I have over one hundred Nazi citations.” He slammed down a fist. “I know physics!” Now it was the young academic’s turn to point at the blackboard aggressively. “And that is not it! I don’t know what it is – but it’s not physics.”

Einstein looked condolingly at the Nazi Captain and Torturer, and then with stark naked pity at the young Nazi Boffin. He said, shaking his head slowly, “Education, these days, eh! We have lost an entire generation, I fear. You should tell the Fuhrer, and make it a priority, to shoot all the progressives. No time should be wasted. Piano wire might be just the thing. Alas, it could be too late. The damage done.”

The Nazi Torturer was clapping and laughing. “Ha, Herr Professor, I fear perhaps you were meant for better things. You could have been an actor. A film star even, maybe…Is it true you know Dorothy Lamour? Forget it.” He waved a hand and then motioned to the young Nazi Boffin and said, “Get out.”

“But Herr Captain I assure you, he is mad. I am not wrong…”

“And I assure you that if you are still even a speck in my vision in the next, say, 30 seconds, no, to be fair, make it 45, I will demonstrate for Einstein, on you, that which I intend to do to him, in the near, oh, let’s make it, in the very-near future.”

The young Nazi Boffin’s eyes were bulging. He leapt up, and raced across the dungeon. He banged on the heavy steel door. No answer. He banged again, harder and louder. Still nothing. He looked at his watch and said desperately, “Surely, Herr Captain, the guard’s delinquency cannot be held against me.”

The Nazi Torturer was intent on his watch. “I am a man of my word and accept no excuses, Herr Doctor. It is imperative in my trade. Trust is essential – otherwise, what can I possibly hope to accomplish? If good Albert here were to witness me lie to you, how could he ever believe in me again? We’d no longer be fit to work together.” The Doctor of Nazi Physics, sweating now, banged on the cell door with all his might. “Forty-one, 42, 43…”

The door opened and the agitated, desperate physicist scooted through it.

The Nazi Torturer sighed. “He’s boring, that fellow…I agree with you, Albert. Education, these days, a joke, in shambles, pathetic. All our modern teachers should be rounded up and…no, not shot and piano wire is costly. They should have rusty nails driven into their testicles.”

“What about the women?”

“They shall wield the hammers, Albert. The kiddies will be winning awards again in no time. I shall put your idea to the Fuhrer. Or better, Albert, you can tell him yourself.”

Einstein looked up. There was no denying it, he was startled.

“Ha, got your attention now…for once. You weren’t a very good student, were you? There is bad news also, however. He’s not coming to see you, Albert, unfortunately. You don’t rate that high. No matter, I’m sure he’ll pop in and say howdy, if he’s got a few spare moments to, er, spare. One never can tell though, conquering the world is heavy business and time consuming.” There was a twinkle in the Torturer’s eye. “You are the curious sort, ain’t ya, Albert. What was it you said? ‘Curiosity has its own reason for existing.’ I like that…Hmm, well, it would be wrong of me not to give you a hint…after teasing you so. Let’s just say, you’re not going to be bunking all by your lonesome, not anymore.”

“You got Chaplin?”

“Professor, hold your head higher. Humility doesn’t suit the likes of a man as great as you. Have you forgotten, that little tramp was number three on the Fuhrer’s Enemies List, a full position behind you? The Fuhrer believes in propriety. He would never stoop to visit three before two. It would be unconscionable. Sometimes dear Professor, I do wonder how smart you really are.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“You mean, you don’t understand it, ha!” roared the Nazi Torturer menacingly.

There was a knock on the dungeon door. The Nazi Torturer sat up. He looked at his watch. “Clockwork, eh. Your bunkie, has arrived. German efficiency, Albert, you should be proud.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hey, if I am going to have to share this rat-trap, let me put on some clothes, for crying out loud. You said yourself the Fuhrer believes in propriety.”

“Albert, you look fine – considering your age, I’d say exceptional…enough with the modesty. Now, why don’t you be a sport, and go and answer the dungeon door. After all, it’s for you.”

Einstein, curious as always, stood and made his way over to the large dungeon door. He looked back at the Torturer, who waved him on gently, saying, “It’s open.”

Albert Einstein opened the dungeon door and Santa Claus, also in his underwear, not to mention bloody, bruised and battered, was shoved through it by a large guard, who gave him, for kicks, one last enormous punch.

The Torturer shouted, “Hey, that was uncalled for, you cretin.” He stood and walked over to the guard and kicked him quite hard in the nuts. The guard went down and the Torturer cussed and then said to the other two guards, “Get him out of my sight.”

The other two guards grabbed Santa and started dragging him away. “Not him, you numbskulls…See, Albert, exactly what you were just saying. Morons, probably can’t even read…Him!” and the Torturer kicked the bagged guard for punctuation. The other two guards apologized profusely and then dragged the moaning guard out of the dungeon.

The Torturer approached Santa with great consideration and even gave a low bow. “I am very sorry about that. Fools. Please do not be concerned, they will all be punished, most appropriately…and I’m not talking about a bit of dirty rock in a sock, ha!” He took Santa’s hand and shook it most courteously, smiling, it seemed in earnest. “It is my absolute pleasure, good sir.”

Santa returned the bow and said, “Oh, I am sure the pleasure will be all mine.”

“Ha,” chortled the Torturer, “I admire your spirit, truly.”

“How’d they nab you?” asked Einstein. “I can’t actually believe it.”

“That’s what the scientists at the University say about your formulas, Professor,” said the Torturer, still enraptured in giggles.

“They got lucky,” replied Santa.

The Torturer shrugged his shoulders, “Perhaps, perhaps not, but…you are here, now, aren’t you? So…”

“The question is, how on Earth did they get you, Albert? You’re meant to be safe and sound in America. You fool!”

“I got gobbled up by a whale, I guess you could say.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, both of your captures were inevitable. The details are trivialities. It is essential that you understand this very important fact. Swallowed up by an iron fish, mere chance, ha-ho-ha, plucked while breaking-and-entering, clever locutions, perhaps, but nonetheless, codswallop and donkey turds. There were no two ways about it. What the Fuhrer wills is so,” said the Torturer, flourishing a hand. “There can be no other way. This is the only course. Once the world embraces the truth, peace and prosperity will reign. It will be the end of history…Now, sit sit, both of you, please, and smoke with me. I insist. Don’t you want to be on the right side of history?”

From out of a satchel the Torturer procured a pipe, which he placed before Einstein, and then a cigar which he handed to Santa. First he lit Santa’s cigar and then Einstein’s pipe. Next, he placed on the table three glasses, into which he poured brandy. He said, “Let’s toast.”

Neither Santa nor Einstein picked up a goblet, although both men did seem to be enjoying their tobacco.

“Come come, gentlemen, no one cares much for a spoiled sport. There will be plenty of time for the nitty-gritty later. Consider this a moment…in time…for reflection. We are turning a corner, a new day for Man will be dawning soon, and the two of you, gentlemen of yore, do have a part to play. A very brief part, but all the same, a part to play – not without impact. In honor of you both, I propose…” – the Nazi Torturer raised a glass – “…a toast…if you would be so kind as to drink with me.”

Santa picked up his glass, studied it, and then raised it. Einstein followed suit, “And what are we toasting?”

“The past,” said the Nazi Torturer smoothly.

“To the future,” replied Santa skolling his brandy.

The Nazi Torturer tilted his head, no longer smiling, sizing up Santa. He said, “Eh, ha, perhaps you are not a spoiled sport, at all. Very big of you – much like Darkness saluting the Light…The man standing tall on the gallows at dawn, who tips his hat to the new day he will never know.”

“You remind me of a bit of doggerel,” said Einstein.

“Oh, I just love verse. Let’s have it, Professor.”

“I believe its author was Shiller, or Hegel perhaps. It goes something like this: ‘With an eye to the past, and both feet planted firmly in the present, focused on the future, I sing, eat and drink merrily.’”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, why do you punish yourselves so? And that wasn’t written by a German, Professor. As you are well aware, a fortunate son of the Fatherland would never put pen to paper in so syrupy a fashion…”

“Perhaps it was the Japanese Master, Basho.”

“Perhaps and no matter – none whatsoever – although I doubt it. Confused again, eh, Professor, ha, the Japanese are a martial people…The future is of no concern to either of you as neither is ever leaving this beautiful mountaintop hoosegow and slaughter house. This is your last stop – while it lasts, that is, until tomorrow. You really must come to grips with this. It will allow for a few lucid, final moments.” The Torturer licked at his lips and drank down some brandy. He filled both Santa and Einstein’s glasses. “One for the road eh, boys. On me…toast whatever tickles your fancy, hairy reindeer bollocks or even hairier Greek quadratic equations.” He stood. “Tomorrow our work together will start, and, finish. As a professional in my calling and proud son of the Reich, I look forward to it. You, as vermin and enemies of the Reich, should not…I bid you both a good night’s slumber. It will be your last, rest assured. Now, I must scoot. The new beer-wench is arriving, and I always make a point of meeting the lass at the cable-car station. Call it propriety. Adieu.” The Nazi Torturer stood, bowed, and departed.

Santa picked up the brandy bottle the Nazi Torturer had left behind and refilled both of the glasses on the table. “Albert, really, you should have been more careful. Some pickle you’re in.”

“Ha, me. What about you? I can’t believe they grabbed you.”

Santa knocked back some more brandy before refilling his glass, again. “Albert, I like you, but you really ain’t too bright.”

The dungeon door flew open and three guards rushed in wielding clubs. “Quick, drink up,” shouted Santa. But it was too late. Both Einstein and his goblet were on the floor. Santa did battle with his right arm and even managed to whirl a powerful back kick without spilling a drop while he finished up his brandy. After which, he went down, and hard. Two more goons had charged in. Four beat on Santa with everything they had, while the fifth hooligan simply sat on Einstein. Both men were eventually hauled to their – still wearing only drawers – feet, and shackled to the dungeon wall. The manacles were set especially tight on Santa, cutting deeply into his wrists, blood dripping on the floor (Probably because the guard in charge was just a jerk, but it could, on the other hand, have been due to the enormous head-butt Santa had landed on him at the last minute, just when the guard had started to relax because he’d thought Santa subdued.). The guards marched out laughing, except for that fellow who was gripping the remnants of his nose, shouting, “Splickschen, splickgernschen heinzkkogns!”

Einstein said, looking a whole heck of a lot better than Santa, although he’d been there a month, “Yeah, I’m the dumb one.”

Back to the present

The dungeon door swung open and the mousy-pipsqueak walked back in, eyes covered, haphazardly. Mrs Claus gave him her best ingratiating smile.

Said the pipsqueak, “My apologies Fraulein, but, you must, I ask, please give the Captain an urgent message…er…where is he, by the way?”

Mrs Claus pointed at the mirror. The pipsqueak looked confused. She added, “Over there.”

“Huh?”

“On the other side.”

The pipsqueak said, “Oh.”

Mrs Claus replied, “Yup,” smiling ravenously.

‘And why on Earth are you on this side? Seems odd, at least a tad – to be hanging out, practically butt nude, in the dungeon of all places, alone. Oh, and where the heck are the prisoners come to think of it? Numbers 1 and 2 on the Fuhrer’s expertly-crafted Enemies List,’ he didn’t say – he didn’t say any of it, although it was beating in his mind like the sun in the desert at midday – what was left of his mind that is. That’s what being a Nazi does to you. Scared and tongue tied. Instead, once again, he meekly mentioned, “Oh.”

Mrs Claus nodded with sympathy.

However, a couple moments later, he did manage to add, “Yes, I see, and…excuse me but why…why indeed, are you…here?”

“I was looking for another guy.”

“Another…guy?”

“Yes, that’s right, you know, to help.”

“No. I don’t know,” said the Nazi Lieutenant in earnest.

“Christophe, he’s not completely up to the job.”

“Ah…er…aah…”

“I don’t satisfy easy, you see.”

“Oh…”

“It’s my nature.”

“Ah…”

“So, I was hoping to recruit one of the guards…to…you know, join us. It was Christophe’s idea, of course. I would never have thought of it. He’s a genius – and a real sport. The guards are big and strong, so we thought that maybe…but, but…actually, you’d be perfect. If you don’t mind?”

“Ah...er…well, hmm…”

“So, will you do it?”

“Hmm, well…er…ah…”

“That’s a yes then, great! I am so happy.”

“Where…here…now?” yelped the German Nazi Apprentice-Torturer-slash-Administrator, voice rising.

“No you silly goose, not here…can I call you Goosey-Goosie?”

“Er…”

“Over there,” Mrs Claus once again pointed. “He wants to watch. And not now, but almost now.” Mrs Claus gestured with her eyes while her tongue gave her lips a brief perusal.

The pipsqueak was floored and couldn’t quite think straight. “Who wants to watch?”

“Why, Christophe of course, Goosey-Goosie. He insists, I’m afraid. Says it’s his right. Ready?”

The free man buried and triple padlocked somewhere deep-down within the nether regions of the Nazi was trying desperately to flee, but the Nazi was still in charge, and with an iron grip. Regaining his senses, the pipsqueak asked, “How long will it take?”

“Well, that’s up to you now, isn’t it, Goosey-Goosie?”

Said the pipsqueak, his cheeks rosé, “I see.” He grit his teeth.

“Heave ho, let’s go,” urged Mrs Claus.

“OK OK, and after all, I do have an urgent message for him.”

“Exactly.”

The pipsqueak didn’t budge. Second thoughts, perhaps. The Nazi back at the helm?

“We really should hurry. I just hope poor Christophe hasn’t fallen asleep. One, two, three…stingo! Hop to it! Hip hip hurrah.”

But the pipsqueak didn’t move an inch, nor utter a word. Just stood there, planted. ‘Looks like he’s grown roots,’ thought Mrs Claus.

He was in fact searching for the angle – the elusive angle. What was this? It couldn’t be what it seemed. Could it? No. Yes? Nooo, and where are the prisoners? A Gestapo Captain would never be so generous.

Mrs Claus interrupted this train of thought by mentioning, “I guess I could just ask one of the guards, or a couple…Men of action, certainly, they wouldn’t hesitate. Big strong fellows, no doubt, and ready for…”

“Noooo, no no no no, no.”

“If you’re not equipped for it, you shouldn’t feel bad.”

“Noooo, I’m equipped – for it! I am equipped. Let’s go. I’m Goosey-Goosie.”

“Yes you are. Excellent! Well, let’s roll, Goosey-Goosie.”

The pipsqueak, standing as tall as ever, marched up to the dungeon wall and tapped a brick just aside the mirror: once, twice, pause, and thrice. Mrs Claus waltzed up behind him, and from a table she’d just noticed, swiped a brandy bottle. The dungeon wall crashed and jumped and then swung, and Mrs Claus and Goosey-Goosie were back inside the Nazi Captain’s bed chamber.

“Wow, he is sleeping. Jeez, that doesn’t look at all comfortable. You’re a real wrecking ball. Hot dog! Me-ooow,” enunciated Goosey-Goosie as he whapped Mrs Claus on the behind. “Maybe we should just let him snooze.”

“What about your message?”

“Oh yeah, I forgot.”

“You said it’s urgent.”

“Worse. It’s a doozey.”

“You don’t say.”

“Oh I wish I didn’t. You see, the Fuhrer will be arriving sooner than expected.” He checked his watch and said, “Very soon, uh-oh.”

“Well you better let him know.”

“Ah…yes…what is that?” The Lieutenant had noticed that Mrs Claus was gripping something so tightly that she was just about hugging it.

“What?”

“That.”

“This?”

“Yes.”

She took a sip. Santa had left a few dregs. She offered the bottle to Goosey-Goosie. The Lieutenant said, “I am on duty,” as he went for her breasts, but Mrs Claus side-stepped his lunge, sliding efficiently past him, and over to the Nazi Captain’s corpse.

“We must revive him, first. Remember, he wants to watch.”

“Right right,” said Goosey-Goosie, striding a few steps before stopping dead again, fear in his eyes. Goosey-Goosie was gone and the Nazi’d returned. The man was suddenly absolutely frightened. “Are you sure…about…all this? This is – now that I think on it a little more – all quite, well, highly irregular. “

“What are you talking about, Goosey-Goosie? We’re all friends, aren’t we?”

“Nazis? Ha, that’s rich! Friends? Come on…A real whopper. Some zinger! Whoa…” said the Lieutenant mentally, covering his mouth, scanning the room, wishing he was back at the Art College in Italy, not sure if he’d spoken aloud or just had loud thoughts.

Whatever the case, he was wavering. Mrs Claus was certain that he was about to bolt from the bedchamber. She said, “The message?”

“Yes, yes, I forgot, again.” And then he said, “You’ve got a real head on your shoulders and real…” – he goggled his eyes while waggling his eyebrows jeeringly, grinning grotesquely, and then coughed – “below them. Bless the Lord,” and then he whapped her on the butt again.

“The message!” insisted Mrs Claus, losing patience with the situation.

With some confidence now, the Lieutenant walked over to the sprawled out dead man cratered on the floor. “You spilled a lot of wine; it’s real red and thick. Must be the top-drawer French stuff. I only ever get access to Rieslings.”

“The Captain really is a slob,” replied Mrs Claus, inching closer.

The Lieutenant bent over slightly and said, “Captain, Captain, the Fuhrer will be arriving in 30 minutes. Can you hear me there? In 30 min…” Goosey-Goosie turned to Mrs Claus, “I think he’s dead.” Next, he purred and winked obscenely. “You sure did wear him out, meoooooow – wunder-hubba-hubbar…You know, I don’t think I can ever respect him again.” Now the Nazi Lieutenant-and-Apprentice-Torturer-slash-Administrator bent down just about all the way. With some effort, he flipped over the Captain, gasping, just as the brandy bottle collided with the back of his skull. He made no noise at all when the brandy bottle smashed against his right temple and then cracked across his ear. He did make some sort of gurgling sound as Mrs Claus ripped off his Nazi costume.

At approximately the same moment, give or take, somewhere deep within the bowels of that Nazi mountaintop castle-prison-fortress

“How much farther? This is unbearable. You are a fool, Claus. What a plan!”

“Would you prefer to go back?”

“Yes I think I would. This is intolerable.”

“Well then by all means. Here, let me get your started…with a kick in the arse.”

Einstein bumped forward about a foot.

“Hey. You really are a lunatic, Claus. Wrong way.”

“Put a lid on it, Einstein. We could still be heard, yet. Quiet. This ancient creaky castle is crawling with Nazis.”

“I know! Ah, why don’t you put a sock in it? You – you couldn’t come up with a better plan than this! This is insufferable! If I could turn around, I would, but you, Claus, are blocking the way. I was comfortable, till you started butting your nose into my affairs. Ha, to go through the enormous effort of getting captured by the Gestapo in order to penetrate the castle and save me – and this is your escape plan? I’m not even sure I believe you…I am claustrophobic and this is asinine. I’ll have you know, Claus, that I had worked out an excellent escape method, theoretically, much more elegant than this, naturally – and now you’ve gone and botched it, before I had an opportunity to…is that light? It is…light, I can see light.”

“Yes, yes, Professor, not much farther now. Crawl!”

“Oh excellent. I take it all back. Light, I see light again and can breathe.”

Santa Claus and Albert Einstein were crawling through a secret escape passage built at great expense by the castle’s original landlord, Gephardt of Salzburg (Gephardt, being an avid reader, was no dummy and well aware that it wasn’t so uncommon in those gilded days of yore for the proprietor of a castle to somehow wind up living in its dungeon) 1000 years earlier. Santa knew the elaborate network of passages well, having often used them to deliver presents to the various parts of the castle over the years, but not recently. Einstein was however unaware of the castle’s great and romantic lore, and afflicted with the general wear and tear and worry and weariness brought on by small, cramped, pitch-dark places, which must be traversed at as rapid a speed as possible, on hands and knees, while all the time tasting the dust and lint and rat shit and bat shit and whatever other detritus one might stir up charging, on hands and knees, down such a narrow, harrowing passageway. When not cursing, he’d been spitting and gagging and coughing. Santa had told the Professor the story of Gephardt’s life and adventures in order to ease his mind. However, in fact, the tale had had an adverse effect on the Professor’s mood.

“I hope that fooktitty Gephardt was burned as a warlock,” he’d mentioned to Santa at one point. “Maybe if he’d trusted his goddamn family and not been such a paranoid, conspiracy-theorizing freak and nut the damn thing would have been cleaned in the last 1000 years.”

But that was then and this was now. The Professor was plunging forth and with great abandon and gusto, enamored, grateful and joyous. “Light. Light! Fresh air and freedom await!” roared Einstein. “Thank you, Claus. Thank you!”

“You’re welcome, Albert. Not too fast now though, you’ll strain yourself. Steady wins the race, eh. We’re on the homestretch but we’re not home yet. And please, Professor, keep your voice to a minimum. There are still scores of dirty-rotten Nazi rascals scratching about. Sound really travels, you should know.”

Einstein – no longer suffering despair and claustrophobia – crawled on, not too fast, nor too slow. When he spoke, he spoke glowingly of the world and even Nazis. “It was damned decent of our Torturer to leave that bottle of brandy. It really hit the spot. I mean, damn! I don’t think I could have made it without that jolt. It was the difference. I’m sure of it – isn’t that funny?”

“It was excellent brandy.”

“You should know. You drank just about the whole bottle. I could sure use a drop now, to see me through.”

“Look! Straight ahead. Almost there. Not too fast now, Albert – measured and balanced…”

It was true. Maybe ten yards to go. Einstein was off as if shot from a cannon, crawling on recklessly. There was nothing to stop him now. And nothing did.

“Slow down, patience Albert, you must be careful or else…Wait…Stop! Crap...Should have kept him out of the brandy.”

Einstein was gone – out, off, away and most certainly down. He’d slid right out of the castle and into thin air.

“Fool!” cursed Santa as he spit out one last mouthful of rat turd and lint, before whistling shrilly, over which he could still hear the plummeting scientist yelping and howling. God, thought Santa, I hope the darn Nazis don’t hear him. Down down down and down some more fell Albert Einstein, after all, they were way, way up there.

As the Professor fell, a number of equations rocketed across and around his stupendous brain. ‘If only I had a pencil’, he thought, ‘all the gaps would be closed.’ He even – remember his brain moved faster than white lightning (in some hemispheres, in others “it’s slower than a three-legged obese poodle with gout,” in the words of Santa) – ruminated on why he was getting so many great ideas while tumbling to his destruction from the ramparts of an enormous castle on a mountaintop in the Alps: Time (lack thereof) and Velocity (not to mention cool breezes and breathtaking scenery) are great catalysts, he concluded. His brain also had both the leisure and energy to reexamine the theoretical escape plan he’d been hatching between academic bull-sessions in the dungeon. Objectively, he determined that although certainly flawed in aspects, it couldn’t have been any worse. Furthermore, Einstein’s brain while going south had also managed to calculate the exact moment at which he would touch down and into exactly how many pieces he’d break. He closed his eyes and couldn’t believe it. ‘It can’t be. No? I was wrong! What? No. Never!’ To miscalculate disheartened the Professor. ‘What went wrong? Did I forget to carry? No, impossible. Perhaps I’m like a chicken with its head cut off, but, I’m ascending – oh yippy, to Heaven, swept up and away by an angel…an arch-angel, but, what’s that smell? Man, that stinks!...rank…whoa!’ Einstein, no choice, the curious sort after all, cracked an eye. He opened the other one. He was presently lying in the back of a sleigh. He attempted to stand. Santa’s reindeer team started to veer and then on a dime, snapped in the opposite direction, jolting Albert, sending him tumbling again. Flat on his back now he thought he heard reindeer chuckles. He’d never card much for them: smart-alecky beasts! He tried to stand, again, this time gripping the side of the sleigh. The Professor flinched and winced and then winced and flinched. They were approaching Hitler’s mountain prison-fortress, and at a great speed.

“Oh there’s Claus, look at him, dangling from a small breech in the castle rampart, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Oh hang him. Why didn’t he warn me? He thinks this is all funny, ha ha, hah. Some sort of awful joke. Too much sense of humor that fellow. It will be his downfall.” The Professor was addressing Dasher, who wasn’t listening, intent instead on the delicate task at hand. The reindeer team swooped in at a sharp angle, slashing down then over and back and up. Next, diving. Einstein threw up his hands. Whether he was attempting to catch Santa or protect himself – the jury is still out. Vixen and Cupid affirm the former while Rudolf is adamant of the latter. Whatever the case, Santa landed right on him.

“My back, oh my back.”

“Can’t you do anything? You should never be allowed to leave your office again.”

“My back, oh!”

Santa hurled Einstein. “Get off me and out of my way.”

“You’ve broken it now, my back, oohhh…”

Santa leapt onto his sleigh bench, grabbed the reins and pulled. “That was a bit tight, Prancer. You almost blew it.” The reindeer neighed and bucked slightly. “Overall, well done. I’m just saying…Don’t get touchy…All right, all right, Dasher, Dancer…home. No hurry, the weather is fine tonight, isn’t it? Ha ha, what a day!” Santa smiled and laughed and reached under his bench. He flipped a bottle to Einstein. “Polish vodka. You’ll love it.”

Einstein shook his head but then pulled out the cork and swigged. He nodded, mentioning, “Aye.” He took another long draw and then flipped it back to Santa, who was no longer smiling. Something wasn’t quite right. Santa didn’t drink. He was concentrating, searching the sky. “We’re being followed. You fool, Einstein. They heard you falling. Can’t you do anything quietly?”

“What are you talking about?”

“We got company.”

“Eh? How? What?”

“They know we’ve escaped…Look there.” Santa pointed.

Einstein couldn’t deny it. There was a blip in the sky, heading their way and at an impressive rate, getting bigger by the second. “He’s gaining on us,” said Einstein, gulping.

“No chance.”

The Professor did a calculation. “Oh yes, indeed, at a rate of exactly…”

“Oh put a stocking in it.” Santa looked over his shoulder. “That is the fastest Messerschmitt yet, easily, another secret weapon, don’t they ever run out?…Oh, I hate scientists.” Then he took a mighty swig of the Polish vodka. And a second. “Hold on tight, Albert. In fact, you better strap yourself in…Dasher, Dancer, hit it!”

As Einstein toppled over, again, he said defensively, “Blame engineers, they’re the loud-mouthed jerks, no chicks in high school, too much to prove…”

Santa’s sleigh, led by his crack team, raced straight up, climbing at an impossible angle. ‘That ought to do it,’ thought Santa, as Einstein rattled around in the back. Santa craned his neck, “What?” The blip was still there, but it was more like a blob now, climbing at an even steeper angle than Santa’s team.

Einstein, holding on tight now, peering out the back of the sleigh, said, “He’s still gaining…at…let me see now…at a rate of…” Santa pulled hard left on the reins and Einstein flew right, banging off the side of the sled.

Santa was giving his team a great workout, running at top speed wide and far, up and away, but, the Messerschmitt was still gaining.

Einstein said, “He’ll overtake us in a few minutes. I sure hope you’ve just been playing with him, out of your unflinching sense of fun, and this isn’t all you got. Tell me it isn’t.”

Santa, talking to himself, said, “I just don’t believe it. That kind of speed can’t be maintained by any machine.” He looked to Einstein and said, “No matter. It isn’t.” Then to Rudolf, “Go stealth, now.” Back to Einstein, “He’ll fly right past us. Then we’ll set a course for due north. Be home in no time. Mrs Claus is going to be happy to see you. More importantly, she’ll be ecstatic to see me. You’re going to have to sleep with the reindeer.”

“You’re not taking me home?”

“Yes, of course.”

“To New Jersey.”

“To the North Pole.”

“I’d prefer New Jersey.”

“You’re the only one.”

“South Carolina will suffice. I need to get back. I think I left the kettle on.”

“It’s out of the way and the question. Mrs Claus is expecting me. You’ll get home soon enough. I think Churchill is going to want a word first.”

“He always stinks of cigars and whisky.”

“You could do with some of that aroma. Keep you out of trouble, in the future. I won’t be coming to fetch you again, so take better care of yourself this time and keep to the farm.”

“Yeah yeah yeah…oh, by the way, looks like he’s headed smack-dab our way.”

Santa craned his head. “It can’t be...”

It was. Einstein was never wrong about such things. Santa studied the unidentified flying object barreling down on them. He was shaking his head. “Albert, I am going to need you to man the machine gun. No more running, we strike.”

“I have never fired a gun.”

“Pick it up, point and shoot…aren’t you a genius?”

“I have never…”

“For crying out loud, if a bloody elf can manage it…”

As Einstein examined the machine gun, a couple rounds let loose, just about clipping Blitzen’s tail and Cupid’s ear. “Sorry sorry, sorry…”

Blitzen replied and it didn’t sound favorably. Cupid flashed a snarl.

“I said I was sorry.”

“Are you ready?” barked Santa.

Einstein had just inserted a new cartridge. “Locked and loaded.”

“Roger – all right…Rudolf, light us up and blind the enemy. Dancer, Dasher, hammertime!”

The sled twisted and rolled and then flew swifter than eagles at the UFO headed directly at them.

“Albert, this is a game of Chicken. As soon he clucks, you let him have it, right in the kisser!”

Einstein took a knee and aimed. He said, teeth grit, “You know it, Santa…This sucker’s going to wish he’d been born in Finland…ah…is there time for another nip of that fine Polish vod…”

“Get your head in the game, Albert…When I give you the signal, lower the boom.” Santa raised a hand…and then dropped it.

Einstein let loose with heavy weaponry. However, the enemy combatant easily avoided the flak thanks to deft counter-measure, buzzing Santa’s sleigh.

“Holy crap, that’s no Messerschmitt!” roared Santa.

“It’s a reindeer,” cried Einstein, continuing to shoot. “An evil reindeer!”

“Hold your fire, Albert…Crap. Hold your fire! What on Earth? Or in the Heavens.” Santa conferred with Dasher, and his crack team slowed to just about a halt, gliding now. “But it can’t be.” Dancer insisted that it was. The reindeer was coming back at the sleigh, but in a roundabout way, certainly wary, and perhaps, fearing some sort of trap. After all, Santa and Einstein had just attempted to turn her into Bigfoot meat.

As the reindeer came in, cautiously, she cried, “Hold your fire, you idiots. Jeez. You just about got me – if you could shoot straight, I’d be a dead deer.”

“Boon, what are you doing?” yelled Santa, furious. “What…Why aren’t you at home?”

Another reindeer buzzed Santa’s sleigh. There were two. That’s why they’d been so hard to beat. “Jill! Why, you are in big trouble, young lady.”

“No no, Santa, you’re in big trouble.”

“What!?!”

“At least, that’s what we thought.”

“Yeah, we’re here to save you.”

“Yup.”

“You are?”

“Yup.”

“Save me?”

“You bet.”

“We followed you all the way from France.”

“After the Nazis captured you.”

Santa was bewildered. Einstein asked, “So, you know them? Look like a couple of punk reindeer to me.”

“Yes…oh, shut up, Albert…” Santa, all of a sudden, got very nervous. “Who is…we?”

“Elmer.”

“Yes…and?” Santa Claus didn’t look at all healthy.

Neither reindeer spoke.

“And!?!” Santa barked with great anxiety, fearing the answer.

“Mrs Claus.”

“Nooooo. No no, no! Tell me she’s safe.”

“She is.”

Santa whistled and muttered, “Good.” He relaxed before tightening up again. “Where?”

“In the castle, I guess.”

“We thought she was with you.”

“What is she doing in the castle?”

“Saving you, Santa.”

Santa pulled hard on the reins and barked a few orders at Dasher.

“What’s going on?” cried Einstein, as Santa’s sleigh pulled a 180.

“We’re going back.”

“What? No…No, no no no no, no. Drop me off in New Jersey first.”

“No time, Albert. Hold on tight.”

Twenty minutes later

“You’re an ass, Claus. Can’t control your wife. For crying out loud…You would think that a fellow like yourself would…”

“Hey, at least I didn’t marry my cousin.”

This quieted down Einstein, who put the Polish vodka (second) bottle to his lips and slurped heavily. After which, he continued crawling back through that rat-turd infested, pitch-black, narrow passageway. Einstein was once again out in front with Santa pulling up the rear.

Einstein stopped. “Ah…yikes…this is too much. Too much. I can’t make it – back. Crawling out, to freedom and fresh air was one thing, but crawling back, this way…to what?...Back into the belly of the beast…I can’t do it.”

“Mrs Claus is in the castle. We have to save her.”

“We…really? Couldn’t you just…”

“No…and yes. We, Albert, we.”

“Well, couldn’t we just assault the castle? I’m pretty handy with the ole Tommy Gun now, eh?”

“Yes and no.”

Einstein stopped and said, “Eh?”

“Yes, you distinguished yourself with the machine gun, marvelously! Well done. No, an assault on the castle wouldn’t do, quite obviously. Now get going, Albert. We have to make it back before anyone notices we’re gone. Move. Snap snap.”

“They’ve already noticed. Snap snap my arse! It is almost a certainty.”

“I doubt it.”

“What? The odds are one in a hundred they’ve haven’t already sounded the alarm.”

“Nah, more like…” Santa stopped and thought for a moment. “…one in ten.” He started crawling again.

“It is madness to crawl back into that musty-old-dank dungeon with no more than our fingers crossed.”

“It’s a risk we have to take. Mrs Claus is in this castle and we’re not leaving without her. Albert, I tell you what, when it’s all over, I’ll you drop you off in New Jersey, or South Carolina. OK?”

Einstein started again and quicker than before. Perhaps that last belt of Polish vodka had just kicked in.

It couldn’t be the thought of New Jersey, could it?

After a while, Einstein said, “You do have a plan?”

“Of course.”

“Hope it’s better than the last one.”

“Hey, it wasn’t my idea to go joyriding out on the Atlantic in a storm all alone.”

“How was I to know there were Nazis under the sea?” Einstein stopped again; Santa could see that he was deep in thought all of a sudden.

“Albert, this is no time to decipher the riddles of the universe. I need you to keep moving.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Albert Einstein resumed crawling. “I was just trying to remember if I left that damn kettle on. I didn’t expect to be out so long, you know.”

“Almost home now…”

“Home?”

“Almost there, I mean. Don’t fall out the other side this time.”

Einstein asked Santa, “Who do you think sent the fake message to Mrs Claus?”

Now it was Santa’s turn to pause and think, and he didn’t like what his brain was turning up. He said, “I don’t know.”

“No idea?”

“I didn’t say that…be careful, Albert, we’re getting close.”

A thud sounded as Einstein hit the dungeon floor. Stroking his chin, he said, “Crap. Jeez, now my head and back ache.”

Santa slid through the breech in the wall, landing on his feet. “Quick, get your clothes off.”

“This is so humiliating.”

“Quick.”

Einstein stripped and flung his clothes at Santa, who chucked them into the secret passageway along with his own. Next, he tapped a stone jutting out of the wall ever so slightly. The passage was sealed in the blink of an eye. Going to work quickly, Santa fastened Einstein’s manacles and chains. Just as he was completing his own, the dungeon door was flung open and 1,2,3 and 4 Nazis, all clad magnificently in dapper shiny costumes, goose-stepped through it with great efficiency.

Santa couldn’t believe his eyes. He blinked and looked again before blinking once more. There was no denying it. He shook his head. How could it be? Hitler and Goering stood before him. And, in their midst, dressed as a full-blown Nazi, was Mrs Claus. “Wow, some party,” muttered Santa.

Some minutes earlier

Mrs Claus looked at herself in the long, full-length mirror. She couldn’t help it, “Damn, I look good as a Nazi.” Maybe it’s the uniform, she thought for moment. But then, no, “It’s just me.” She completed a couple twirls.

Her plan was simply to brazen it out of the castle. She had on the Lieutenant’s uniform, and if she beelined it for the cable-car station, likely, she wouldn’t bump into any officers. Enlisted men would never question an officer. Once aboard the cable car, she’d be home free.

Her hair was in a bun, on which sat her Nazi cap. “Foolproof,” she told herself, again, as she stared in the mirror. She adjusted this bit and then that on the uniform. It fit rather well.

Now or never.

She gave the large bedchamber one last survey – didn’t want the alarm sounded before she’d cleared the castle. Both Nazis were lying quite dead as doormats under the large – she had to admit – comfortable bed. She hesitated when she reached the door – for a moment she faltered. But, only for that moment. As she reached out for the doorknob, the door sounded. She went pale. However, once again, only for a moment. “Probably the cleaner,” she told herself. She’d send whoever it was away and then make her own escape. It was a done deal. Signed and sealed: i’s dotted, t’s crossed. Another bang on the door, louder than the first. ‘No worries,’ rocketed across the brain of Mrs Claus as she flung open the door with insouciance. On the other side was a small, weird looking man with a Charlie Chaplin moustache. Immediately up flew Mrs Claus’ hand and she chanted, “Heil Hitler.”

The Fuhrer returned her Nazi salute with little vigor but great efficiency. He was looking around, “Where is Christophe?” he roared. “His explicit instructions were to meet us at the cable-car station.” Goering was standing just back of Hitler. Beside him was another man – a man whom Mrs Claus knew. Did he recognize her? It was Frank, the American. The man who had sent the message. A Nazi? An elaborate trap. The swine! If he recognized her, well, the game was up and her goose cooked.

He was looking right at her now. He said, “Lieutenant. Take us to the prisoners, immediately.”

“Where is Christophe?” asked the Fuhrer again, agitated.

“Gone to the village,” replied Mrs Claus coolly.

“What? This is intolerable. He should be here!” Hitler was shaking his fist.

Goering asked, “What’s he doing in the village?”

“Gone to visit the Boobstein twins, Air Marshal.”

“Gone to what?” The Fuhrer was looking around, astounded. It seemed he couldn’t quite believe his ears.

Goering shrugged and turned to Hitler. “Regrettable…but, he must not have received your message. I assure you, the Boobstein twins have quite a reputation…So, perfectly understandable.”

The Fuhrer cursed wildly.

Frank, who was clad neatly in the uniform of an SS Colonel, said, “I assure you, the Lieutenant here has a fine, in fact, an exceptional reputation. Perhaps, Herr Fuhrer, this is truly a case of the apprentice already surpassing the master. This man’s technique in torture is most unique and extremely effective. That may be why the Captain has absented himself today. He doesn’t feel worthy.”

“Or,” began Goering, “it could simply be the lure of the Boobstein twins. Their reputation within the Luftwaffe is top-drawer. If he is having a crisis of confidence, they might just be the right fix, in order for this good man to recapture his once stiff stride.”

The Fuhrer in slight bafflement looked over all three of the Nazis surrounding him and then said, “I want him shot.”

“As soon as he returns,” replied Frank.

“No, no…You.” He pointed at Mrs Claus. “You will torture him.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

“Excellent, now take me to Clauz. I have already waited too long.”

“Of course,” replied Mrs Claus with great enthusiasm it seemed, but also, it should be noted, without budging. No one moved in fact. Finally, it was Frank who started to walk off, Goering, Hitler and Mrs Claus all fell in behind him, straight down the corridor for a dozen strides and then left for another half dozen. They halted at a steel door. Two guards were standing on each side. The Nazis all saluted and the door was opened and Frank, Hitler, Mrs Claus and Goering all goose-stepped through it.

Hitler cheered, jumped up and down, and then choked a bit from the excitement. He turned to Frank. “You did it. You really did it. To be truthful, I didn’t quite believe it until just now. This moment. What a sight! Eh? What a pathetic sight.” He was looking directly at Santa now. “You, in only your drawers, in my dungeon. Ha!” Hitler shook Frank’s hand and then turned back to Santa. “I got you. The big fish, they say.” He tilted his head towards Einstein, “You’re a guppy. No more. I hope you are comfortable with that. Relativity, ha! I said I would get you after fleeing Germany and I did. No problem. Easy-peasy.” Hitler snapped his fingers, before returning his gaze to Santa, “But you, you were a challenge. I admit it. Clauz, you took some time and hard work. It is true. It wasn’t easy, not by a Prussian mile, but nothing satisfying ever is, eh?” Hitler’s eyes were back on Einstein. “Albert, you think you are clever. And perhaps you are – to a degree. The Americans think so. What does it matter? My men, my best men, uber-Nazi Scientists, say you are stalling. I don’t actually care much about your equations, Albert. Hermann says they are important, and the Americans agree. I don’t care – keep them. I only want you. And now, like Clauz, you are mine. Next, the world.”

Santa started to speak. Hitler roared, “Gag him,” while motioning violently at Mrs Claus. “I don’t want to hear any potty-mouthed drivel from you, Clauz…For once, you will listen, ha. You have a list, Clauz…well…So do I!”

Mrs Claus walked over to Santa and punched him in the nose.

“Ouch, ha ha,” spouted the Fuhrer, while at the same time giggling mildly.

Next, Mrs Claus removed a sock from her own foot and stuffed it in Santa’s mouth.

The Fuhrer turned to Frank and said enthusiastically, “You are right. The technique is raw, yes, yet, exceptional. First-rate.” Hitler approached Santa. Mrs Claus backed away, executing an expert Nazi salute, which Hitler adroitly returned. To Santa he said, “With you Clauz, under my boot – alive or dead, makes no difference – the world will cease to resist. In one fell swoop I will destroy imagination and thus its sinister consequences: Courage and Freedom.” Hitler strutted around, like a peacock, for a bit before sitting again. From out of his Nazi jacket he pulled a book. He held it up. “This is the book you gave me Clauz, and I must thank you, profusely.” He bowed. “I must say, I appreciate it more than your previous years’ gifts, ha! Guess what? I read it. It is actually quite good. As a result – you should know I have incorporated a number of its techniques in my daily interactions – I think Hermann and I have grown to be much closer friends.” Hitler turned to Goering. “What do you say?”

“Er?”

“Hermann!”

“Heil Hitler,” roared Hermann to Adolf.

“See…Now, I was just thinking that I plan on influencing a lot of people. Worlds of them, you might say, ha. I have you, Clauz, to thank, for, how shall I put it? Giving me a leg up.” Hitler was laughing like a mad hatter now, joined by the other Nazis and Mrs Claus, who was actually laughing loudest. She sounded like a steel drum beat by a Viking, and the rest of the Nazis like a perverted rabble of polka miscreants. “Anything to say? What, no snarky remarks, eh? You disappoint me, Clauz. You’re not such a big fish after all.” In a new, stark tone, Hitler barked to Mrs Claus, “Now. Torture him, now!”

Mrs Claus was thinking and thinking, and thinking. And then she got a thought. She, first, waltzed over to the Fuhrer and took from him, without a word, the book. This intrigued Hitler. Next, with book in hand, waving it actually, she approached Santa, and said, “Bend over.” Santa didn’t move. She said, “I vill not repeat myself, Clauz.” Santa did as instructed and Mrs Claus started spanking him.

At first Hitler couldn’t quite make out the situation, but, after a few crisp whacks had sounded, he decided that he approved and started cheering, and then the other Nazis joined in and cheered as well. “Harder, harder,” yelled the gallery, with Mrs Claus obliging, and Hitler half-jitterbugging.

Hitler put his arm around Frank, “You are perfectly correct. This Torturer is uber-excellent. A real top-drawer man in the field. You see, it is in the humiliation. This is all quite devastating mentally. You couldn’t accomplish as much with a plunger, length of rubber hose, or storm trooper’s truncheon. Not in a week. Trust me, it is so.” The Fuhrer couldn’t help himself, his enthusiasm overflowing, he started clapping, and then stamping. And then he said, “Bravo, bravo! Lieutenant, you are now a Captain, and my new – and improved – Head Torturer. From now on, you will assume the responsibilities of dealing with all the enemies of the State on my special list.” He turned to Frank and said, “Don’t forget to have Christophe shot.”

“Of course.”

“Perhaps, he could simply be transferred to the Luftwaffe,” said Goering, hoping to get the Boobsteins’ number.

Hitler shrugged and then asked Mrs Claus. “What’s next? What is next?”

“Next, I vill have Clauz go potty on Einstein.”

“What?” and “Ahhwwwoooow…” sounded from the gallery, along with a “Yikes,” and “You’re kidding?”

Even Hitler seemed put off. He stood, scrunching his face, as if searching for both oxygen and words. “No 1 or 2?” It looked like he wanted to plug his nose.

“Why of course, Nummer zwei, Mein Fuhrer! Two, I read somewhere, is Clauz’ lucky number.”

“Ahwwwoow…”

“Yikes!”

Goering said, “For Christ’s sake, Jesus. Ahh, crap, I think I preferred Christophe’s techniques, all in all. This is too…too…too…”

Hitler hopped off his stool, waving a good-natured hand and said, “Herr Torturer, well done, I approve, but I cannot stay and watch. The germs and bacteria, aaahhhh. I can’t abide filth. Aaaahhh. You take real pride in your work and I applaud your dedication, but, er...aaawwwohhh. Really, this is what you intend? I almost have a mind to put a stop to it…but, I will not interfere with your work, of course. You are a true professional. But…the germs, you see, and bacteria…the…ahhh…” Hitler spat. “I cannot remain and watch such…yikes!”

All the Nazis moved to the dungeon door, but before they moved through it, they all tilted one eye back at the scene unfolding in the dungeon: Mrs Claus was maneuvering Santa atop Einstein, who was presently making a lot of noise, but no one could quite tell in what language. Mrs Claus pointed the Luger at Santa’s head as he was made to fully straddle Einstein. She said, “Let’s have it Clauz, no funny business, its either your poop on Einstein’s chest or your brains ze dungeon wall.”

Santa gave a sturdy grunt and Einstein a fierce wail, but nothing.

Mrs Claus dug the Luger deeper into Santa’s temple. “I vont tell you again, Clauz, poopstick on ze Professor or I splatter your brains across zee dungeon floor.”

Hitler shaking his head, started waving his arms and cried, “Stop, stop, stop it.” Then he quickly conferred with Goering and Frank. “Yes, yes, it won’t do, not right now. Later, by all means. Herr Torturer, forgive me but you are invited as a special guest to the banquet that is starting presently. And I do wish you to attend. I would like to get to know you better and for you to explain just how you devised such devastatingly effective methods. Of course, if I were to allow you to go on with this…with this…this…what is this?...I would have to insist on you being completely disinfected and scrubbed from head to toe and perhaps a salt bath, and then isolation for a minimum ten days. There isn’t time. So, please, put your task aside for the next hour and come dine with us. Please, please…Clauz, Einstein, I almost wish to apologize, but, you should never have opposed me.” Hitler wagged a finger. “What do they say in French? C’est la vive. Come now Herr Torturer, I look forward to your dinner conversation. Leave your uber-excellent work for an hour. But please, I beg you, at dinner, let us content ourselves with your bloody, traditional torture stories. Inquisition stuff, you know, fire and guts, red-hot pokers, anuses and piano wine” – Hitler coughed – “and another time, perhaps, we can delve into your…er…more new-age, sophistikated and unique psychologikal…er…elaborate feces tech…niques…” The Fuhrer gagged slightly; composed again, “Come come….” He motioned with his hand and Mrs Claus abided. “Clauz, Albert, I would say until next time, but you know the score. So I will leave you with, adieu.”

As the Nazis exited the dungeon, Frank gave Mrs Claus a half smile, which she acknowledged, without smiling. Neither Goering nor Hitler had noticed. ‘What’s going on?’ wondered Mrs Claus.

Goose-stepping it to the banquet hall, Goering was at Hitler’s ear; he didn’t seem at all interested in either Santa or Einstein. “Tonight’s beer-wench already has an outstanding reputation within the castle walls, you will be glad to know, Mein Fuhrer, although she has only just arrived this day. Yes, yes, surpassing the fame of even the Boobstein twins. Furthermore,” he went on, “she has the markings – it is said, by no less than experts – of becoming the greatest beer-wench in the entire Reich – the world, including Brazil, Mein Fuhrer, after you finish conquering it.”

Frank interjected, “Come come, I doubt it, you haven’t even met her, what you say is pure lunacy.”

“Nooo, Herr Colonel, I heard it straight from the guards at the cable-car station. These are the men who know how to judge a beer-wench, and they were overflowing in their admiration. Dripping, I would say. They said, not only was she beautiful from head to toe, and what a beautiful head and toes, but that she had real character. They were adamant; you would almost think that they thought she was my niece, the way they went on. It was almost as if they were attempting to butter me up. So you see, since I know it is not the case – ha! My nieces, all wonderful in their own ways yet great tubs-of-lard to the seeing eye –” the Air Marshal was guffawing uproariously “– and therefore I know the guards’ appraisals must be righteous and true, their undying admiration genuine. One doesn’t become Air Marshal without skills, ha. I’m just glad Christophe is off frolicking with the Boobstein twins. I’ll get around to them later. After all, I love all the Lord’s animals. And I sure don’t mind cleaning the barn last. But, I want first crack at this beer-wench, so it’s best Christophe is out of the picture and the field clear – he is one young and handsome devil – and I don’t like to pull rank when courting, but, hey, I’m not above it either. Otherwise, what’s the point of being Air Marshal, eh?” All these locutions and phrasings and verbiages were directed at Frank, for the Fuhrer wasn’t paying Goering any attention. In fact, it looked like, perhaps, he was attempting to ignore him, and further, that he may have even been embarrassed to be in the Air Marshal’s company. The Air Marshal continued, believing to have detected some glimmer in the Colonel’s eye, “Don’t you go getting any ideas, Herr Colonel. I am second-in-command in the Reich, eh.” He turned to Mrs Claus. “And you Lieutenant, I mean Captain, you are without a doubt a handsome young thing, almost astonishingly pretty, now that I examine you closely, and certainly most astute at your career of choice, but if I catch you even sniffing the new beer-wench’s hair, I will have you hanged…”

“Enough Hermann! Enough!” cried Hitler. “Yes, you are second, but who is first? Why must I listen to such infernal blather? You will not poison my new protégé with such banal superficialities. We have a world to conquer, you fool. So, leave my Torturer out of your juvenile scheming – do not debase his fine, stellar Nazi character with such immature machinations, or you will find yourself on my Enemies List.”

Goering gave a low bow.

Hitler took a deep breath and patted Goering on the shoulder. “I don’t want to be hard on you, only fair. All I ask is that you understand that in the future I would prefer that you indulge in such profligate locker-room talk outside of my hearing. It’s uncouth and frankly unfitting a man of your stature.”

“Heil Hitler.”

“I have no time for hedonism and neither should you. We are serious men.”

Goering bowed again, lower this time.

Hitler turned to Mrs Claus and said, “I apologize you had to overhear that. Hermann sometimes gets excited. He’s from Bavaria. Now, tell me, where did you learn your trade?”

When the Nazis reached the great banquet hall door, Hitler was engrossed in conversation with Mrs Claus. Pulling up the rear, three to four strides – the distance which the Air Marshal had figured would keep the Fuhrer safely out of earshot – Frank and Goering were discussing and debating, with some vigor but not much louder than at a whisper, the exact role the Boobstein twins would play in the eventual Nazi world conquest.

They were led to the head table at the front of the large room where they were seated alone. For security reasons, no other Nazi was permitted at the Table-of-Honor. As they sat down, Hitler, continuing their invigorating conversation, asked Mrs Claus, “And, so, in this particular scenario, I know it is merely a hypothetical, but the great statesman, and of course, any competent Torturer, must be able to contemplate the world in the subjunctive mood. Please, feel no pressure, I am merely curious, in such a situation how would you go about extracting the pertinent information?”

“A railroad spike through the ballzen.”

Hitler’s eyes ballooned while he sat way back in his chair, both shaking and nodding his head. For once, he looked uncertain. He asked, “Are you absolutely sure, Herr Torturer? Nothing subtler, perhaps…What if…What if the spy bled to death or succumbed to shock, before we could discover the crucial information?”

Mrs Claus laughed casually. “And now, Mein Fuhrer, I will explain the subtlety. I would not drive the railroad spike into the captured spy’s ballzen. No no no, one of the guards’.”

“What?...But…in the scenario, Herr Torturer, there were no guards captured. Only the foreign spy.”

“One of our guards.”

“One of ours!?!”

“The foreign spy would watch.”

“Eh…ah…what, why, eh?”

“Elementary, my dear Fuhrer, the effect, psychologikally, would be most devastating.”

“But what about our fine German guardsman?”

“What of him?” said Mrs Claus, drinking some wine that had just been placed in front of her.

Hitler’s eyes went a-goggle as he both waggled and furrowed his eyebrows. He sat back even farther in his chair, all the while shaking and nodding his head furiously, managing even to pick his nose. He leaped forward and slammed down his fist on the table. Goering and Frank halted their conversation and sat up a bit straighter in their chairs. Hitler smashed his hand against the table again. The whole banquet hall went cold. Next he grabbed Mrs Claus roughly before once again smashing a hand against the table. He slung an arm around Goering while still gripping Mrs Claus with the other.

He declaimed, “This man…This man! Something must be done. Immediately! I cannot tolerate treachery. Something must be done about this man! This man…Why he is not a Colonel? It’s a crime! He is a great intellectual. Why have I only just met this man today? He is absolutely brilliant. It is astonishing. I will have the men responsible for such incompetence shot. What resolve! What cunning! What foresight!” Hitler was patting Mrs Claus profusely on the back. “Hermann, if I had one division of men like this, I could conquer Russia in a week, France before breakfast, and Britain by next Christmas!” Hitler turned to Mrs Claus. “My good fellow, stand with me. Stand with me….”

“Oh I couldn’t.”

“Don’t be humble, it’s unbecoming a Nazi. Now stand, I want everyone to know how important you have become to me, now. Stand, up, now!”

No choice, Mrs Claus stood.

Hitler: “Look carefully everyone, at this man. I am sure you all know him well. He comes from your ranks. How he was until today only a measly Lieutenant?…well…I will be looking into it.” Everyone looked and looked some more, carefully. Nobody recognized the man Hitler was fawning over. No one said a word or hiccupped. Hitler continued: “This is a real Nazi. He knows what it takes and will never stint!” Hitler smashed the table again, and the assembled applauded. “His dedication is unrivaled!” All applauded. “His thought processes are without equal!” Standing ovation. “With men like this, we will build a Reich that will last, not a thousand years, but a hundred thousand.”

Hitler stopped abruptly, standing rigidly. The applause roared, while under the applause the Nazis in attendance were all whispering to one another, “Who in Greater Germany is that guy?...Is he from the town garrison?...Does he know the Boobstein twins, you think?...Whatever the case, lucky duck! But do you recognize him?”

“I don’t! Do you?”

“Do you? I don’t!”

“I don’t! Do you?”

Hitler raised a glass and said, “A toast! I propose a toast to this fine, young man, chosen from your ranks, who is now my Head Torturer and personal confidante.”

All cheersed and hooted: “Bring on the Frogs, down with the Polacks, Churchill’s head on a spike, Stalin humps turtles and has crabs!” Yet all were still confused, none sure what was going on. Who the heck is that guy?

Perhaps Hitler sensed this, for he surveyed the assembled for some time, before putting his Champagne glass to his lips. “Aha-aosch-stroewn-schtrapsted!” he shrieked, before spitting and then crying out, “There is alcohol in this glass. Who put alcohol in my glass? This is an outrage! Who is the responsible agent?”

Goering grabbed a server who shivered, “Sorry sorry, Air Marshal, but…we cannot locate the beer-wench. She has all the instructions for tonight’s feast.”

“Hmm, I was wondering that myself. Something fishy is afoot. Go fetch her. Now,” demanded the Air Marshal.

“But that is just it. We cannot find her anywhere.”

All the while, with Mrs Claus rubbing his back, Hitler was gargling salt water.

“What do you mean?” replied Goering to the server.

“What I said, Air Marshal. She arrived at the castle, it was reported by the guards. But she never showed up for work in the kitchen.”

“Nonsense,” interjected Frank. “Probably getting schlepped by one of the sous chefs as we speak.”

Now it was Goering’s turn to turn red and pound the table with his fist. “It better not be the case. If it is, someone will get shot. I don’t care how the soup tastes.”

“Mein Fuhrer,” said Mrs Claus, still gently rubbing his back, “I will take care of this incident, after the banquet.”

“Yes, yes, thank you, thank you, most considerate.”

“It will be my pleasure.”

“You must ensure that it never happens again. Not ever…But perhaps, restrain yourself in your methods. Nothing too grievous, this time. No psychologikal tricks. A bludgeon or bullet will do.”

“As you wish, Mein Fuhrer.”

“Now, getting back to the scenario we envisioned. I have just one small point of criticism” – Hitler stooped to gargle – “constructive, I assure you. In order to get it right, the guard in question must already have sired at least three strong, fit children for the good of the Fatherland. Breeding is very important.”

“Why of course, Mein Fuhrer, but trust me, with such a technique as I propose, it would be unnecessary to smash the second ballzen with a railroad spike. The foreign spy will most certainly spill his guts after witnessing the first ballzen explode. So, therefore, theoretically, the proud German guardsman in question would still be capable of…”

“No no, it doesn’t work that way.” Hitler was waving a hand, giggling. “Trust me.”

“Oh,” replied Mrs Claus, meekly.

A curious Nazi Commander attached to the castle garrison approached the Table-of-Honor. After exchanging Nazi salutes and discussing the weather in Berlin, he asked Hitler, “Who is this man whom you honor so?”

“Who is this man?” barked the Fuhrer. “Who are you? What kind of commander doesn’t know his own men? Heads will roll! Mark my words...What is going on around here?”

Frank leapt up and led the Nazi Colonel and Castle Commandant away from the Fuhrer and back to his own table, explaining on the way that he’d make all clear soon.

When Frank sat back down at the Table-of-Honor, it was now Goering who was agitated. “Where is that beer-wench? Something fishy is afoot. Where is my beer-wench?” He threw down his napkin and stood. “I am going to the kitchen to investigate. If I find the Chef with his hand up her…”

“Hermann, Hermann, sit.”

“How can I sit when there is something fishy afoot?” And the Air Marshal stomped off to the kitchen.

Two Nazis had moved surreptitiously to within a few yards of the perimeter of the Nazi Table-of-Honor. It seemed, they’d figured, that it was as close as they could get without being noticed. At least that was Mrs Claus’ thinking. She’d noticed them straight off. They were Gestapo and surveying the Table-of-Honor intently, yet, all the while, feigning nonchalance, poorly, thought Mrs Claus. ‘Amateurs.’ Their eyes were stuck on her. She didn’t feel at all complimented.

Goering returned and sat and then stood again. He was swinging his arms brashly, crying out, “There is something rotten in Finland.”

“What is it?” inquired Frank.

“No one in the kitchen has seen the beer-wench.”

Meanwhile Hitler was back at gargling and spitting salt water. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat. He said meekly, “Churchill drinks whisky, you know: Regularly, it is even said.” He spit. “The beast. It is men like this of which the world we must rid!” He slammed a fist down on the table.

Mrs Claus leapt to her feet abruptly and said, “Mein Fuhrer, I will investigate this instant. Air Marshal, if there is a conspiracy, I will root out the rapscallions.”

Goering was still swinging his arms violently.

“Hermann…sit…sit…leave it…to the…Colonel, his skill cannot be challenged…sit,” said Hitler in between gargles and spits.

Goering sat and started after the red wine hammer and tongs. “There will be Hell to pay, I swear it, absolute Hell to pay…Colonel, if you find that the Sous Chef or any of the food-prep team or wait staff have laid even a pinky finger on the beer-wench, you go right ahead and drive that railroad spike you were speaking of so glowingly earlier, or whatever implement you can find of similar value in that kitchen, through both his ballzen. There will be none of your new-age psychologikal funky stuff for this rogue, you hear me. It won’t do in such a case as this. Through both ballzen. I insist!”

“Heil Hitler!” roared Mrs Claus.

“Indeed!” replied Goering, smacking the table.

“Sit…down…sit…down…Hermann,” said Hitler.

Mrs Claus catapulted into the kitchen. However, not so quickly that she didn’t notice she was being followed; the fellows from the Gestapo tasked with keeping a careful eye on her were not far behind.

Once in the kitchen, she flitted this way and then darted that way all the while bellowing orders at the over-worked and already stressed-out staff. And then – she disappeared. The kitchen staff was too busy to notice. The Gestapo Watchers in hot pursuit were too befuddled to know how. There were no exits. They searched under pots and around pans and in the dumbwaiter. The Headwaiter was of no help either. He said, “He went that way.”

The Executive Chef also said, “He went that way,” while pointing in the opposite direction.

The great bustle and massive hustle on display in that kitchen was truly extraordinary, but no suspicious-newly-anointed Head Torturer was to be found anywhere.

“Something fishy is afoot,” said Gestapo Watcher Number 1.

Gestapo Watcher Number 2, nodding, replied, “Something is rotten in Romania.”

And then…both Nazis’ jaws dropped. The Saucier spilled the sauerkraut and an Escuelerie dropped a whole tub of foie gras. The Friturier whistled while the Rotisseur clapped and the Poissonnier chanted, “Fresh fish!” The Grillardin mentioned, “Hubba-hubba!”

Waltzing through that kitchen presently and past the assemblage was the beer-wench: The greatest, most majestic and spectacular beer-wench that any of that kitchen crew of dish-pigs or those Gestapo Watchers had ever seen before. Ever!

As Mrs Claus passed the Gestapo Watchers, they doffed their caps and bowed and their tongues just about swept the floor.

Mrs Claus replied, “Gentlemen.”

One of the Gestapo Watchers caught his breath and said, “Er, oh, oh-my, excuse us, me, my-oh-my, I don’t mean to hold you up…but would you permit me, us…er, a moment?”

“Why certainly boys, but I am not sure how the Air Marshal would feel about it. He can get rather prickly about such things.”

“Yes, indeed…er…Did you by any chance see the Head Torturer?”

“Why yes.”

“You did?”

“Yes.”

“Well, where did he go?”

Mrs Claus replied, “He went that way,” and she pointed, before walking off and out, the kitchen doors swinging behind her.

When Goering saw her, he stood, but she sat down beside Hitler. At Goering, she winked. “Ahhh…” he purred as he leaned over and took Mrs Claus’ hand, kissing it – in his own mind – elegantly. “You, mein beer-wench, are even more startlingly spectacular than even I, Baron Hermann Wilhelm Goering, Air Marshal of the Luftwaffe, the most powerful military service in the world, and President of the Reichstag, the most glorious parliament, could have ever imagined. I shouldn’t have to, I expect, remind anyone that it was I who conceived and designed the Messerschmitt 9008. You, mein beer-wench, exceed even it, and in every respect.” He turned to Frank and made a fist and then leaned back and whispered, “The Boobstein twins are a pair of hairy-lipped gutter slags in comparison. That Christophe is a real knucklehead. Maybe I will have him shot.” Next, he addressed Hitler. “Mein Fuhrer, perhaps, the beer-wench would be more comfortable at my side, if you don’t mind.”

“I mind! I mind very much!” Hitler slammed down his fist and looked deep into Mrs Claus’ eyes. He didn’t speak for a moment. “I will not be fooled with any longer.” Mrs Claus had turned deathly pale. Hitler continued, “Where is my Head Torturer? Who are you?”

“Your Head Torturer has dispatched me posthaste to deliver a message, Mein Fuhrer. He says that he will be occupied for a short period of time while he deals with the server who filled your cup with wine.”

Hitler slapped his knee with relish and said to Goering, “Fast work. See, see, I told you, top-drawer. The boy never rests. And you know why, he loves his work. That is the key. Love what you do and everything is easy.” Hitler slapped his knee again.

Smiling, the beer-wench looked to Goering. She said, “Air Marshal, he sends his greetings to you as well, and mentioned that he would appreciate it if I made clear that the Executive Chef has also been detained.”

“The dog. The dirty dog. The dirty, unscrupulous dog! He kept you from me…us?”

“He did, Air Marshal.”

Goering sat up, sliding forward and asked, “Did he…?”

“He was certainly intent on it, I assure you, Air Marshal.” Mrs Claus was brimming; she ran a hand through her hair. “Luckily, for my sake, the Head Torturer arrived just in time. Otherwise…well….” She shrugged her shoulders.

“The miscreant and villain and rascal. The scoundrel and swine and fiend. The culinary sort have no couth. None! But…but, thank God, you are untouched – unsullied – my dear. Come, come my sweet, sit on Uncle Hermann’s lap. Up…up…come come…”

“I would have been here sooner, of course grateful to share in your company, but the Head Torturer first requested that I retrieve for him a shrimp skewer.” Mrs Claus spoke these words as she climbed upon the Air Marshal’s lap.

In between fondling her as best as he could under the circumstances, Goering quite expertly lit a cigar. As he took his first puff, to Hitler he said, “The new man really is top-notch.”

Hitler replied with much pride evident, “He is uber-excellent.”

Frank said, “Perhaps a medal is in order.” He stood. “And I think he should get it as soon as he returns. It would do wonders for his self-esteem.”

“Yes yes,” said Hitler.

Goering’s attention was however lost. His full capacity was leveled at Mrs Claus.

“I’ll go talk it over with the Castle Commandant. See if I can’t rustle up some hardware for the lad. We’ll have a ceremony. Good for troop morale, I don’t doubt.”

“Yes yes, I approve,” said Hitler.

“What do you say, Hermann? How about it?”

“Er? What?...Sure sure sure,” said he while sniffing Mrs Claus’ hair. “Knock yourself out.”

Goering was unconcerned as he was busy tickling Mrs Claus, who was busy giggling playfully while her eyes were locking into Frank’s, screaming intensely, You better pull an ace, and pretty quick, Bucko!

Frank walked over to the Castle Commandant’s table. He summoned a couple of the higher-ranking Nazis and pulled them off to one side, whispering into their ears. They looked appalled, but Hitler didn’t notice, only Mrs Claus, as she was bounced on the Air Marshal’s knee. He had taken off one of her socks and was presently playing This Little Piggy Goes to Market, all the while smoking his cigar and imbibing red wine and Champagne generously. The two Gestapo Watchers had returned and joined the conference. After their report, the Castle Commandant looked aggrieved, seriously. Frank pointed and issued instructions.

The two Gestapo Watchers walked casually, which is hard work for a Nazi, to the back of the banquet hall, and then after pausing for a moment, they darted out the doors.

The Castle Commandant walked over to a table of guardsmen and issued a few quiet instructions; next, he attempted to meander to the back of the banquet hall. The large doors were shut. Two soldiers approached the Table-of-Honor, one on each side and back a ways. The first soldier had his hand resting on the butt of his still holstered Luger. The second had actually drawn his weapon and was using his fancy Nazi coat to shield it. Both were stood tall, at attention – stone-faced.

Hitler leaned over to Goering and said, “Quick work.”

Goering without thinking or looking replied, “Thanks buddy.”

Hitler swung all the way around and barked, “What? Not you…you gluttonous ogre. Sit up straight. Now. The ceremony is about to start. I love ceremonies. Ceremonies are wonderful. I will not allow you to ruin it…Put your shirt on! This is not a brothel.”

“Heil Hitler,” said Mrs Claus as she reapplied her tight-fitting garment, buttoning it up quickly, before the Air Marshal could slip his chubby fingers back inside.

Goering cursed quietly and sat up straight and stopped grinning. He put on his best Nazi face, unimpressed. He wanted to say, ‘I accomplished that stupendous feat with only the thumb and pinky finger on my left hand. Piloting a Fokker E.I. at a hundred feet over the Somme trenches back in ‘16 during a hailstorm took no less skill and daring. How I became Number Two to a one-nutted, tee-totaling, celibate vegetarian, I’ll never understand. The Fuhrer’ – he wanted to spit – ‘is a pipsqueak; once upon a time, a mosquito in the trenches. I was the Iron Man and avenging angel, swooping in from the wild-blue yonder like a hawk to save the day.’ Goering sighed and turned to Hitler. “I trust this will be quick.”

Hitler was shaking his head. “Hermann, Hermann, you need to be more serious.” Then he stood and starting clapping, mentioning again, “I just love a ceremony!”

Goering whispered to Mrs Claus, “Don’t worry, Darling. I will be all yours, soon enough. Pray patience. So long as he doesn’t speak, Nazi ceremonies are usually over in three to four hours tops. Maybe you and I will slip out at intermission. Don’t look all glum, we got all night.”

The Gestapo Watchers stepped back into the banquet hall. They were carrying rifles. That was the signal. The Castle Commandant couldn’t believe it. He stared at Frank’s countenance for a moment and then walked back, as casually as he could manage, to his table and issued a few curt instructions to his men, who didn’t react. He had to repeat himself. At the back of the banquet hall, the large oak doors were bolted shut.

The two Gestapo Watchers approached the Table-of-Honor, one on each side, rifles at the ready.

The Nazi Commandant counted to three and blew a whistle and the two Gestapo Watchers leveled their rifles at the Table-of-Honor. Two guardsmen, who’d been manning the large banquet hall doors, goose-stepped to the Table-of-Honor, brandishing machine guns.

“Excellent, uber-excellent, but, perhaps we should wait for the return of my new Head Torturer before commencing the ceremony. He is presently on the job with a cook and a waitress,” said Hitler smiling.

Goering was searching the banquet hall now, circling it with his eyes, his interest piqued, not quite sure what to make of the situation.

The Castle Commandant goose-stepped, the natural gait of a Nazi, up to the Table-of-Honor, his Luger pulled and said, “You are under arrest, spy. If you move or resist, you will be shot.”

Hitler craned his neck, left, right, left, “Where? Who? What? Are you mad?”

The Castle Commandant pointed.

If eyes could burn, Frank would have been smote on the spot. Mrs Claus swore vengeance in her heart, whatever it took, no matter the cost. Frank represented the worst sort of Evil, the only truly dangerous sort – the kind with a sense of humor. The whole enterprise had been a farce – a sick pantomime for his pleasure with Mrs Claus serving as the punchline. She considered lunging at Frank and scratching out at least one eye.

Hitler looked astonished. Flabbergasted. “Is this some joke? The beer-wench – a spy? Are you addled…or…ah…” He was looking ahead. “It is part of the ceremony? Well, I don’t care for absurd jokes. Serious is what I demand, and solemn!” He slammed down a clenched fist. “I like ceremonies to be serious, and solemn! They must convey my power. Who is in charge of this ceremony?”

The Castle Commandant chuckling sinisterly, said, “Not her, spy. Him and….”

“What?” roared Hitler. “Hermann? Are you mad? You are mad! A spy? What?...Really? Serious.” Hitler looked at Goering startled, then back to the Castle Commandant. “You have evidence?”

“Yes, we do.”

“Excellent,” declared Hitler.

“And on you too.”

“What?!?”

“That is right. We have you, putz. We have you both. You are a spy and a traitor, and after you are tortured rigorously, you will be hanged with piano wire. It is my promise to you, imposter.” And, the Castle Commandant, stepping up, slapped Hitler, sending the retired housepainter toppling over a table backwards.

Mrs Claus hopped off Goering’s lap and joined Frank. Goering sat back and raised his hands, looking around, grinning. He still wasn’t at all sure, yet, what to make of the situation. Nonetheless, in that moment, he couldn’t help but enjoy himself. He’d never seen any Nazi ceremony quite like it.

“May I smoke my cigar, Commandant?”

“You may not.”

Hitler was back on his feet now and barking like a madman. “I will hang you all. You will be hanged and then shot. And then hanged again, with piano wire! A railroad spike will be hammered through your ballzen, before you are hanged and after you are shot!” Hitler spun around. “Where is my Head Torturer? What he will do to you…the things he will do to you…he will…”

The Castle Commandant gave a nod to one of the Gestapo Watchers who walked up to Hitler and smashed him over the head with the butt of his rifle. The retired house painter toppled over again.

Goering picked up his cigar and took a drink of wine. “Commandant, I request an explanation, not so much for my sake, but yours.”

“You are a bold scoundrel, and a cool hand, I will grant you that. You and your pipsqueak accomplice are also American adventurers and Nazi imposters, sent by that most pathetic of American Presidents, Roosevelt, to fetch back Einstein, the idiot.” The Commandant chuckled. “He doesn’t know anything, trust me, I am an engineer. Ha, he couldn’t even get a job at a German university until the world press starting lauding him. They know even less about science than he does. He is a Swiss clerk. It is all quite funny actually. And your President thinks the old dunderhead is going to conceptualize some super-duper new weapon. Codswallop. But we’ve got him. Why we bothered I don’t know. But we’ve got him. And now – we’ve got you.”

“Do I look American? Come off it, man. I can’t speak a word of English.”

“Yes, your German is excellent. I commend you. When the Fuhrer arrives…the real Fuhrer! A German hero. Not this tiny schlong-meister who goosesteps like a complete pansy-ass –” the Commandant gestured with disdain towards Adolf, who was presently being gagged. “When the Fuhrer arrives –” he checked his Rolex – “in 15 minutes, as scheduled, I will have two more Christmas gifts for him. Two American spies. I will probably get promoted to the High Command. Danke schoen.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” said Goering smiling as Hitler screamed bloody murder after having bit the guard and spit out his gag. No choice in the matter, the Gestapo Watcher gave him another butt-end, this time with his Luger, and over toppled the retired house painter for a third time.

Goering, who continuing to drink and smoke, and smirk, asked, “May I inquire, Commandant, what evidence you have?”

“Plenty.”

“And you are sure it’s sound?”

“It is incontrovertible.”

The Air Marshal laughed. The Commandant didn’t speak but looked Frank’s way. Frank nodded.

The Commandant said, gesticulating, “This man – an SS Colonel attached part-time to this garrison – is a Nazi double-agent with the ear of the American President. He has known about your mission for some time now. We know that you two terrorists are actually the perverted offspring of traitorous German peasants who moved to America, presently brewers from Milwaukee, recruited into the ranks of the American President’s Secret Service for this mission specifically because of your unique physical characteristics. I would just like to point out that I was on to you from the start. The Air Marshal is not nearly so fat and Hitler is much taller. But nice try. It is true that I’ve met neither man, yet – they are both very busy – but how you and your lame President could believe that I would be fooled by such small beer, it is amazing that your country functions at all. I can only conclude that your President is an even bigger schlong-for-brains than Einstein. The world really is no judge of character these days.”

“This is your evidence? Ha, and you stand there and call the American President and Einstein fools.”

“I should have you beaten...No no no.” A guard had stepped forward wielding the butt of a Luger. “Soon enough. Soon enough,” said the Commandant to the guard. To Goering he said, “There is more, since you asked. Because you have come so far and failed so miserably and will be dead so soon and after suffering so much, I think it would be only fair to banter harmlessly with you for a few more minutes.”

“Well I do appreciate that Commandant,” replied Goering in between a puff and swig. “And?”

“And what?”

“The other evidence. Since we’re bantering harmlessly.”

“Her.”

“Her?”

“Yes, her.”

“The beer-wench?”

“Yes.”

“She is a spy? I don’t believe it. She’s not American, not in a million years.”

“No of course not. You’re the spy, doofus! She’s German, of course, and the greatest beer-wench in the Reich.”

“Well thank God for that,” said Goering. “I was worried there for a second.”

“You should be. She is Baron Hermann Wilhelm Goering’s niece. Your American Intelligence Service didn’t do its homework. She was dispatched today, specifically to take charge of this event, at the behest of the Fuhrer personally – she arrived in his own staff car just this afternoon. My unfortunate fellow, you see, the Honorable Baron, second man in the Reich, recipient of the Iron Cross, hero of the Flying Circus, would never behave towards his own niece as you have treated our most revered beer-wench, like a piece of meat at a provincial, discount Farmer’s Market, you perverted swine.”

“I certainly wouldn’t and concur,” began Goering breaking out into gigantic laughter, “because not a one of my nieces could be considered anything as luxurious as a piece of meat, for they are all great tubs-of-lard…Castle Commandant, you poor, poor fellow, how on Earth came you to believe that that” – he pointed still grinning – “exquisite creature is any relation of mine? Look at me. Now look at her.” Goering was laughing uncontrollably.

The Commandment signaled one of the guards, who spoke up enthusiastically, “You swine! We know her.” It was Hodgar, from the cable-car station, speaking.

Volker, nodding in the affirmative, continued, “Yup, that’s right, we know her all right. She is the great Air Marshal’s niece and beer-wench to Hitler himself. We know it first-hand.”

Hodgar turned to Mrs Claus, and with great reverence inquired, “Miss, is this glutton and lech your uncle?”

“Why, no! I have never heard anything so ludicrous.”

“See.” Volker slapped Goering across the right cheek with his glove.

“Told you.” Hodgar slapped Goering across the left cheek with his glove.

“You are nothing but a two-bit brewer from the American Midwest,” declared Volker.

“I bet your beer stinks,” sang Hodgar.

“It’s probably 4 percent,” spat Volker.

Goering, shaking his head, said softly, “Imbeciles.” He was thinking, ‘no way this lot could ever take Russia. France, sure. But Russia? No dice. Crap, we are going to lose the coming war, big time. Churchill is going to spank us…Hmm, is it too late to find a new line of work? Is Scandinavian Airlines hiring? Not likely, not with the world economy in the dumps. Who knows? he considered; we could get lucky. If they kill Hitler right now, on the spot, I might just pardon this fool. Let him run a Stalag during the war.’

Interrupting the Air Marshal’s ruminations was the Commandant, “Oh, and there is also the matter that I had never in my life seen the third member of your team before this evening. His flight is further evidence. Don’t worry, we will find him. And, there is the matter of the members of my staff that you violently murdered without empathy.”

“Er – without what?”

“The mutilated bodies of Captain Christophe Shultz and Lieutenant Gephart Klink have been found, you dastardly fiend.”

“Christophe’s dead?”

“You know he is.”

‘And to think,’ thought Goering, ‘I thought he was off having a grand ole time frolicking about with the Boobsteins over the pub, when he’s actually only food for the wolves. Too bad. Now I’ll never get their number.’

“The jig is up my American friend, spy and saboteur…Take them away! This instant. I can’t stand the sight of such scum, not for a second longer.”

“Hold on hold on,” said Goering, for the first time actually looking concerned. “You are going to torture us before shooting us, right?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Whew,” exclaimed Goering, breathing a sigh of Nazi relief. Hitler gagged and hogtied, looked like his eyes were about to pop out of his head.

As Goering was being dragged away, he said, “Frank, Frank, I commend you; you are a clever sod. Whatever you do, don’t get caught alive. Please old chum.”

The Castle Commandant studied Frank for a moment and then cried out, “I will countenance no further banalities from these villainous traitors. Gag him too, just like the sickly one.”

“Traitors, huh? But they’re Americans!” said Hodgar.

“They have German blood. I want them punished most severely,” replied the Commandant curtly.

“Commandant, oh Commandant, what are you going you do when the Fuhrer doesn’t arrive in 15…make that 12 minutes, scheduled, because he’s right there, gagged and beaten. What then, eh?”

Goering was struck with the butt-end of a Luger and gagged. The Nazi numbers 1 and 2 were slung away as if soiled-dirty laundry, three men lugging Goering, and the smallest, a runt in fact, managing Hitler solo.

The Commandant hadn’t responded to Goering, although he’d clearly heard him and been affected by his words, at least for a few brief moments. In fact, he’d seemed lost in deep speculation until jolted out of it by Frank.

“Commandant, this pair of mongrels and miscreants will be quick work, I assure you.”

“Er – I certainly hope so.”

“I shouldn’t need more than ten minutes to extract the last few tidbits of info concerning their escape route and networks in Europe, in order to cross the t’s and dot the i’s in the file, which you could present to the Fuhrer after dinner – in duplicate. Knowing the Fuhrer personally as I do, I am certain it’d go a long way. Without any doubt it should mean a commendation, even promotion. Both, perhaps.”

“Er – yes, excellent…What about the other rascal?”

“Who?”

“What?”

“Eh?”

“The other fellow! The phony-baloney Torturer. We can’t have a spy and saboteur and traitor on the loose in the kitchen with the Fuhrer on the premises. I won’t stand for it.”

“Oh yes yes, him. You will be glad to know we’ve got him. I just had word. He’s on the way to the dungeon now. He was hiding in the dumbwaiter. I will take care of all three at once.”

The Castle Commandant studied Frank for a moment. He seemed uncertain, all of a sudden.

Frank checked his watch. “The Fuhrer will be arriving in nine minutes.”

“Yes, yes, get to it…I suppose.”

“Heil Hitler,” chanted Frank in a deep, resonant baritone, with bass.

“Heil Hitler,” replied the Castle Commandant in a wobbly tenor.

Frank about faced and walked off, with the beer-wench at his side, marching confidently.

The Castle Commandant watched them vanish through the great banquet hall doors with a slight sinking feel. ‘Nonsense nonsense…get your head out of the gutter. When the Fuhrer arrives he will make you a General on the spot. I will be giving orders to Himmler himself after foiling such a sinister plot against the Reich. Certainly. For sure. Right? Of course, there is no other way. Surely Hitler’s taller and Goering thinner!’ he thought to himself, over and over and over again. With steel-like vigor his mind recoiled at the notion of but, perhaps and maybe not.

When the team of Nazis hauling the Nazis’ Number 1 and Number 2 arrived at the dungeon door, Frank dismissed the guards on duty, instructing them to move immediately and with expert diligence to the castle cable-car station and secure it against any incursions. He ordered them to shoot anything that moved. “Questions are for women. Now move it, snap snap.” And, being good Nazis, off they snapped, goose-stepping it down that dingy corridor, click-click, and with great verve.

Frank opened the dungeon door. Mrs Claus was through it first. Santa and Einstein were still in their drawers, manacled to the wall. Neither was looking particularly happy, which Mrs Claus noted and chalked up to rudeness, after all she’d been through. Goering and Hitler were hustled in and dumped on the floor.

Frank barked, “Unchain those two derelicts, and hook up these two scumbags.”

The first Gestapo Watcher said, “But they are also prisoners. Surely we cannot free them!”

“We are not freeing them, you cretin!” Frank snapped at the Gestapo Watcher. “Where are they going to go? There is no time. Do as I say! The Fuhrer will be here in” – Frank checked his watch – “seven minutes.”

These words hit home. Hitler started rolling around the floor violently, doing his best to scream. The first Gestapo Watcher kicked him, and then the other Gestapo Watcher kicked him. Then they unhooked Santa and Einstein and chained and manacled the Fuhrer and the Air Marshal to the dungeon wall.

“Stand against that wall and be quiet. I don’t have to tell you that if you move or speak, you will be shot on the spot.”

Santa and Einstein complied.

“Now, you two. I need you to move and move quick. Go fetch the third man, the other spy and saboteur. He should have been delivered by now, I was assured…”

“By whom, Herr Colonel?” asked the first Gestapo Watcher.

“We noticed no one report to you,” stated the other Gestapo Watcher.

“What did I say about questions? Go, now. We have no time. Find him and bring him to me. It is imperative I torture all three together, for efficiency, you see.”

“We don’t know…”

“Where he is.”

“You imbeciles!” chanted Frank.

“We lost him – in the kitchen,” declared the first Gestapo Watcher.

“He just disappeared. It is all rather fishy,” stated the other Gestapo Watcher.

“Something is rotten in Sweden,” declaimed both Nazis together.

“Stop talking gibberish and go find him,” yelled Frank.

“We are staying, Herr Colonel!”

“Right here – to assist you…here!”

“Fine, fine…suit yourselves. Perhaps, it is for the best.” Frank gave Mrs Claus a glance.

Next, he addressed the other soldiers, Volker and Hodgar, who’d helped lug the Nazis’ numbers 1 and 2 to the dungeon. “You two fine fellows, you will stand guard on the other side of this door. No one is to be permitted past these doors except the third prisoner and, or, of course, the Fuhrer. Perhaps, he will want to come and watch the festivities for himself. No one else. No exceptions! None. Zero. Zilch. We are not to be disturbed. Do you understand? And be on guard, there could be other spies in the castle. We can’t be too careful. Trust no one! Take nothing for granted and remember these operatives are all masters of disguise. Masters!” Frank looked to the two Gestapo Watchers. “Absolute masters. Just look at these two spies, who hail from Milwaukee, it is reported. They couldn’t look any more like the Fuhrer and Air Marshal. They are spitting images. It is almost spooky in fact. Perfect doppelgangers. Or not…I am afraid – and I don’t mean to speak badly about anyone – but your Commandant is quite wrong, in fact, he is almost the perfect fool, for Hitler is exactly that short and Goering is obviously also quite that obese. Amazing, isn’t it? Almost makes you stop and think.” Facing Volker and Hodgar again and with a great intensity, “No one is to get past. No one! Lock the dungeon door and do your duty. I’ll bang three times when you are to open it. Hear that! Three times, two quick knocks, pause, and then a third. Do you understand?”

“Heil Hitler,” chanted Volker and Hodgar as the dungeon door swung shut behind them. The heavy bolting of the steel door could be heard clearly.

As soon as the finality of the dungeon door clanging miserably shut sounded, the first Gestapo Watcher was struck with a revelation, and protested, “Hey, why is she still here?”

“Who?”

“Why is she here at all?” asked the other Gestapo Watcher.

“What – er…? Why is who still where, eh?”

“Why is she…”

“Who?” asked Frank, looking around, befuddled.

“Her!

“The beer-wench!”

“Oh, right, her, yes yes, the beer-wench, I do understand your query now.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“What is she doing here?”

“Well, like I was saying, if you’d stop interrupting, we really don’t have much time, but anyhow, in reply…Would you please show them, Mrs Claus?”

Mrs Claus fired the Luger that Frank had passed her in the corridor (which she’d somehow managed to conceal in her rather tight-fitting short skirt) twice. Two thuds sounded and then, for good measure or perhaps luck, she fired off two more shots.

Hitler was really going wild now – he looked apoplectic. It really did look like he might choke himself out. Goering, on the hand, seemed once again to be enjoying himself.

Santa ran over to Mrs Claus and picked her up and even started swinging her around. He said, “Nice shooting, Mama,” and then, “What the heck are you doing here anyway?”

Einstein said, “Who cares? Can we finally get out of here?”

Frank sat down. “I’m taking a breather. Been winging it now for over an hour. Seat of my pants, fellows. Can’t believe it worked…Wonder if I have time to take my shoes off.”

“It hasn’t worked, yet!” chortled Einstein. “We are still in the dungeon!”

Frank ignored Albert or just didn’t hear him. “That’s the great thing about Nazis, they are so scared of getting chewed out, or shot, that most of the time you can bluff right past them.”

Chimed in Mrs Claus, obviously well-perturbed. “I’ve been winging it since the North Pole.” She turned to Santa. “You put me in a real spot, and have an awful lot of explaining to do, Mister.”

“What, Mama?”

“Why, the great pickle you’ve got us all in.”

“What are you doing here? Frank, Albert, and I had everything under control until you started butting your nose into our business.”

“Why!” Mrs Claus slapped Santa (a good one too). “I should have just let you get tortured and then hanged with piano wire by that villain Christophe. His breath stunk, by the way.” To Frank, “You should never have sent me that message. As if I care what happens to this beastly man!”

“I didn’t send you any message.”

“Of course you did.”

“Why would I?”

Mrs Claus looked concerned. She said, “You didn’t?”

“No.”

“Then who did?”

“Who cares?” cried Einstein. “Let’s get out of here!”

“Indeed,” replied Mrs Claus.

“What about them?” asked Frank, looking to Santa.

“Who cares?” barked Einstein, not quite sure why they were quarreling about the utterly insignificant and, worse, why they were still stationary. “Let’s go. Move move move, and don’t forget you promised to drop me off in New Jersey.”

Mrs Claus approached Hitler and raised the Luger. Since she couldn’t shoot Santa, she figured this was the next best thing. Einstein ran over, “No no no – trust me, leave him be. Remember, I’m a genius, master of space and time. With him as undisputed leader, Nazi Germany is sure to collapse into a great, flaming rubbish pile.”

“What about him?” replied Mrs Claus as she turned and waved the Luger at the Air Marshal.

“As you please, but make it quick.”

Mrs Claus leveled the Luger, then lowered it. “Nah, I’ve a better idea.” Mrs Claus turned back around and cracked Hitler upside the head with the butt-end, sending the retired housepainter and architect of Germany’s future destruction, occupation and partition, once again, tumbling. Next, she grabbed Goering and said, “This is your lucky day, buckaroo! She ripped his trousers down to around his ankles and then his drawers clean off. She kicked Hitler so he rolled onto his back. Finally, she maneuvered, carefully, the Nazi Number 2 atop the Nazi Number 1. The Air Marshal was straddling the Fuhrer’s chest. Mrs Claus didn’t have to raise the Luger or bark any threats. It was bombs away!

“Aawewwooohaeaahaaoh,” sang Einstein.

“Jesus Herbert Christ,” shuttered Frank, attempting to look away.

The old fighter pilot wasn’t finished. There was a second barrage and then right on its heels a final salvo touched down that looked to be top-heavy with sauerkraut, pumpernickel and corned beef.

“That is rank!” exclaimed Frank, plugging his nose.

“Aaaweewwoooohhhaeeeaaaahaaooh,” sang Einstein.

Santa didn’t say anything. Santa was speechless.

Mrs Claus said, “OK, let’s go.”

“Yeah, yeah…what do you think he ate?” pondered Santa aloud, looking puzzled.

Frank replied, still plugging his nose yet a step closer to the debacle. “Oh I’d say, well, I can see some pork knuckle in there, red wine and mustard, perhaps, washed down with some of that really good Paulaner Brauhaus Dunkel beer, and pickles, of course there’s potatoes. Is that goulash? Nasty nasty business...and…”

“It was a rhetorical question.”

“Are we leaving now? That wasn’t!” It was Einstein.

“This way,” said Santa to Mrs Claus. He opened the secret passage. “You first, Mama.”

Mrs Claus poked her nose into it. “It’s tiny, and stinks…”

“Not as bad as out here. Up and away,” encouraged Frank.

“I’m not going in there. I refuse,” declared Mrs Claus.

“There’s no time!” shrieked Einstein.

“Albert’s right. Please Mama.”

“I’ll go first,” said Frank. “Can’t be as bad in there as out here. That stench is horrendous. I can just about taste it. Horrendous.” Before climbing up and into the passage he said to Goering, who had rolled as far from Hitler as his chain would allow (Hitler looked dead – from the great shock, no doubt – and Einstein almost scolded Mrs Claus but then the retired housepainter twitched violently, burped, hiccupped and vomited), “Hermann, Hermann, please see a doctor first thing when you get out of here.”

“Yes,” yelled Einstein, to Goering, “a psychiatrist, you schmuck!” And then to the others, “Move it! No more idling.”

Frank saluted Einstein, hopped up onto the ledge, and then shimmied into the passageway. A shot rang out, and then a second and a third. Santa and Mrs Claus spun around, Mrs Claus wielding the Luger, but Hitler and Goering were still down and out and the dungeon door sealed tight.

“It’s coming from inside the passageway,” said Einstein crouching.

Santa hopped up onto the ledge. “Frank, Frank.” Another shot sounded, ricocheting off the dungeon wall. Santa ducked down, counted to three and then leaped into the passage. Two more bullets whizzed past him through the passageway, smashing off the dungeon wall. A third and then a fourth sounded as Santa tumbled out of the passageway entrance hauling Frank. They both toppled to the floor. Santa got up. Frank didn’t.

“You’re bleeding,” said Mrs Claus rushing to Santa’s side.

“It’s not me,” he replied, shaking his head.

Einstein bent over and helped Frank to his feet.

“How bad is it?” asked Santa.

“Not too bad,” replied Einstein.

Clutching his shoulder, Frank said, “I’ll live, I think. But not if we stay around here much longer.”

There was a commotion on the other side of the dungeon door. They could hear the raised voice of the Castle Commandant. He wanted in. But Volker and Hodgar were holding him at bay, adamantly refusing him admittance – informing him that only Hitler was permitted to enter, or the third spy, and since he was neither, there was nothing they could do under the circumstances. Orders are orders, after all, and they were good Nazis and had theirs. The Castle Commandant raised his voice even louder. Volker and Hodgar told him that as soon as Hitler arrived, they’d be happy to accede to his request. The Castle Commandant started screaming. Volker and Hodgar replied coolly, “We are waiting for Hitler.” They were both counting on medals and promotions and weren’t going to go and spoil it all now. The Boobstein twins would be impressed, truly. Might even invite them as dates to the ceremony.

Frank asked Santa, “What’s your Plan B?”

Santa didn’t reply.

Roared Einstein, “Plan B, Claus. What is your Plan B?...Plan B!”

Santa said, “Plan B, hmmm…”

“This way,” said Mrs Claus, pointing. “Stand over there, right there…No no, more to the left.”

Frank, even with his wound, and Einstein were the quickest. The racket on the other side of the door was ratcheting up some. Gunshots sounded. As Santa strolled past Mrs Claus, she said, “You’re lucky you married me.”

He replied, “Yup.”

As more gunfire erupted and Hodgar sounded like he was dying, Mrs Claus punched the loose brick: once, twice, pause, thrice, and moments later they were all standing in Gestapo Captain (and favorite Torturer of Hitler) Christophe Shultz’s rather large bedchamber.

“Holy mackerel!” exclaimed Einstein, as he set eyes on the two bloody corpses. They’d been moved from under the large bed (where Mrs Claus had stuffed them) and flung into the middle of the room (by the Gestapo Watchers during their search).

“They deserved worse, trust me.”

Frank conducted his own quick search of the room and found a rifle and pistol. He flung the rifle at Santa and the pistol to Einstein, asking, “Know how to use this?”

“Of course, I’m no philistine. I just missed bagging my first reindeer today.”

“Sh, shh,” said Mrs Claus.

Said Santa, “Shut it!”

It sounded like a heard of elephants was trampling down the corridor. “Perfect, they’ve summoned the entire castle guard to the dungeon. I think we can get to the cable-car station without being detected – if we’re quick. It’s not far.” Mrs Claus opened the door a smidgen. “It’s clear. They’re past. Follow me and stay close. This bus don’t stop for stragglers.” Mrs Claus slid out sleekly, Einstein behind her and then Frank. Santa was at the rear, covering their retreat.

From the corridor to the castle gate was clear, with the exception of one Nazi straggler, who’d probably been in the john when the call had gone out to storm the dungeon. Frank mowed him down in a burst and Mrs Claus put an extra slug in his forehead for good measure. “Better safe than sorry,” she mentioned as they continued stealthily down the corridor.

Still pulling up the rear Santa said, “All their troopers are on the move. I can hear ‘em. They’ve breached the dungeon and figured out what’s what and are headed back our way.”

“Poor Hodgar and Volker,” mumbled Mrs Claus to herself, racing through the castle gate. “Now they’ll never know the pleasures of the Boobstein twins.”

A cable car was approaching. But…something wasn’t quite right.

“Get down,” snapped Mrs Claus. She turned and pointed. Einstein flopped onto his belly.

Santa sprinted the last 30 yards to the courtyard. He said, “The whole Castle Garrison will be on us in thirty seconds.”

A cable car was just docking at the station. It was packed full of soldiers, with another dozen standing on the roof, preparing to jump.

“They’re SS,” said Frank. “Hitler’s own personal army. I guess the call’s gone out.”

Santa was scanning the castle and cable-car station. He looked to Mrs Claus who nodded. The roar of the fast-approaching Castle Garrison was rising. He looked to Frank who nodded. Frank said, “Shooting fish in a barrel.”

“Right,” replied Santa, cocking the Tommy Gun.

“What, what?” said Einstein.

“Just keep your head down, Albert…OK, here goes.” Santa took off at a sprint across the courtyard, finding cover just as the cable-car Nazis started disembarking and the Nazi Castle Garrison reached the courtyard.

As the SS troopers stormed from the cable car into the courtyard and the Castle Garrison stormed out of the castle into the courtyard, Mrs Claus and Frank – and even Einstein – from their hidden position took aim at the SS with Lugers, while Santa from his perch peppered away at the Castle Garrison with his Tommy Gun.

The trap set, a great firefight took place. The Nazi Castle Garrison vs the Nazi SS Storm Troopers.

It wasn’t even close, not really. Although outnumbered, the SS Storm Troopers cut down the Castle Garrison in under a minute; losing half their men, however, in the engagement. After which, two troopers were left to secure the entrance while the remainder crept into the castle on a search-and-destroy mission. Their orders: to kill with extreme prejudice the Nazi imposters and foreign spies.

As soon as the main body was clear, Mrs Claus popped up and took out the first guard with two bullets from the Luger. From across the courtyard Santa picked off the second with the Tommy Gun.

“Nice shooting,” said Einstein.

“Are we clear?” whispered Frank.

“Clear,” replied Mrs Claus.

The three of them sped across the courtyard joining Santa, and, with not another word spoken, this motley crew climbed aboard a cable car and started sailing down the mountainside.

Santa sat back, and put his feet up. After enjoying the view for a few moments – it really was spectacular – to Einstein he said, “Well, we’ve finally made it, haven’t we, Albert?” Santa patted the Professor on the shoulder and then to be fair, he did the same to Frank.

“Oouuw!”

“Oh sorry, forgot you got shot.”

“I can still see the castle, Claus,” said Einstein, sat on the edge of his seat.

“Not for much longer,” replied Santa, reclined back in his.

“We’re in a gondola, you fool. Where are we going? And what do you think is going to be waiting for us at the bottom of this mountain, a division of beer-wenches?” Einstein still seemed agitated.

Santa started climbing out one of the windows.

“Where are you going?”

“New Jersey, unfortunately. Should never have agreed to that.”

Said Mrs Claus, “We’re not going to New Jersey!”

Santa paused to shrug and then continued out the window and onto the top of the gondola.

“What is that infernal husband of yours playing around at now? You know he is always getting me in trouble,” said Einstein.

“Me too,” said Mrs Claus, with feeling.

“I expect he’s calling the reindeer,” was Frank’s input.

“Look!” exclaimed Einstein.

Mrs Claus perked up. “Rudolf?”

“No,” scowled Einstein. “The SS!”

“What?” Frank stood up.

“There! Another bunch of those SS bums. In and on that gondola, headed straight at us.”

“They’re not headed straight at us; they’re headed up the mountain.”

“Eh – it’s not really a striking difference. They’re going to come within, what?…Pass us at three yards. Everyone wave!” Einstein was getting worked up. “Scuppered again, damn it!” he cried.

“Calm down. They are going to go right on past us. They don’t even know we’re here.”

“There’s an imbecile on our roof making duck noises.”

Frank pounded the roof. “Get down, get down, Santa.”

Santa did, lying flat on the roof, but, he also said, “I see them. Don’t worry. I’ve got perfect vision, you know.”

“Keep your voice down,” scolded Einstein in a cruel whisper.

“Those SS bums are a ways off. We’re not going to get anywhere near them. Dasher, Dancer and Rudolf will be here in, well, no time. No time at all. I’m surprised they’re not already here.” Santa looked around. Was he concerned? He continued, “We’ll be long gone, Albert, before that SS gondola passes this empty gondola. Trust me.”

Mrs Claus looked concerned, she was searching the horizons – they went on forever – north, south, east, west. No sign. She said to no one in particular, “They should be here by now.”

Einstein moaned.

“Nonsense,” replied Santa. “They’ve performed splendidly on this op. Probably in the midst of a hearty carrot, oat and ale feed up. Give ‘em a break. They’re on their way by now, I’m sure. They would never let me down.”

Einstein shushed Santa, mentioning, “Sound travels,” and, “they’re getting closer.”

“Then be quiet,” said Santa, as he scanned the sky – in vain. He tried to lie flatter on the gondola roof. The enemy gondola was too close now to attempt climbing back in; it seemed to be approaching quicker. “Where are they?” he muttered to himself, as he attempted to lie even flatter. He wondered if closing his eyes would help. He said, in a whisper, “Everyone down on the floor. They’ll pass us right by. Easy-peasy, no worries, so long as everyone stays cool.”

“What if they saw you?” said Einstein gulping.

Santa shushed Einstein, mentioning, “Sound carries.”

He could see three SS men atop the gondola, which, after a few moments’ contemplation, he determined a good omen. For, it meant the gondola was filled beyond capacity and therefore his team was unlikely to meet any opposition when they reached the base camp, as all the available men must already be enroute to the castle. Not a one Nazi would be awaiting them at the bottom of the mountain. ‘Right? Right!’ Santa concluded mentally.

He was also experiencing a terrible, sinking feeling. He almost felt winded and his throat was drying up. No matter how succulent and hearty the carrots, oats and ale, his reindeer team would never leave him high and dry, not in a million years. ‘They’re in trouble,’ he thought to himself. ‘Or worse.’ He gave one more quick look. They weren’t coming. What could have happened? Santa was racking his brain.

The SS gondola was almost even with them now. It would pass them at what?...Three yards, maybe, four? ‘Ah, they’ll never notice us, intent on their mission, focused on getting to the castle and then searching for and then finally destroying without mercy the American spies and saboteurs, like good Nazis, ha. They’ll slide right on by us and never know how we slipped just past them right under their noses. Piece of cake!’

A half beat later, three SS men leapt onto Santa’s gondola. Santa rolled and kicked the first intruder in the gonads. The second SS trooper jumped on Santa and the third into the gondola. Mrs Claus launched a kick, which the SS trooper caught, grinning fiercely. He twisted her leg viciously, sending her down, hard, and stomped her twice. A shot rang out. The Nazi stopped and flinched, but quickly realized he wasn’t hit. Frank wasn’t so lucky, however. Struck in his good arm by Einstein’s wild shot, the impact sent him hurtling backwards. Having no functioning arm to grab hold of anything with, Frank toppled out the gondola window.

The Nazi charged Einstein. Einstein fired again, and missed the SS trooper, again. Luckily for Mrs Claus, she was supine and unconscious on the gondola floor, so the wild, stray bullet missed her also. Einstein attempted to let off another round but the SS trooper was too quick. First, he judo tossed Einstein against the gondola door. Next, he picked him up, banged his head twice off the ceiling and then body slammed him onto the floor. Finally, the SS trooper stomped Einstein, and then with only one hand picked up the Professor and chucked him out the same window Frank had exited the gondola from only moments earlier.

Meanwhile, on the gondola roof, Santa had managed to turn the tables and had both his Nazis in a headlock. He tried to edge right, but there was no give, so he attempted to go left. His plan was to fling one of his Nazis off the side, so he could concentrate on whooping the other one. There’s no winning a war waged on two fronts (even fools know this). He’d just about sidled to the far edge, when he noticed the third Nazi – the grinning bastard who’d pummeled Mrs Claus and sent Einstein flying – making his way back up onto the gondola, wielding a Luger and taking aim. Santa spun and two slugs ripped into the Nazi in his right arm, who fell dead and then rolled off the gondola. Santa flung up the Nazi on his left hip while ducking. Two slugs tore into his flesh. He screamed, fell and rolled away, landing somewhere on the mountain with a great thud only the wolves heard.

The third Nazi hadn’t budged. He was standing tall on the other side of the gondola roof, pointing his Luger with great flare at Santa. He was still grinning. He said, “Who vill you hide behind now, Clauz? You are Santa Clauz, aren’t you? We heard rumors the Fuhrer had you. No one believed it but I tell you, I did. And that old boffin below with ze schtupid hair, I bet that was Einstein. How many medals vill I win? Perhaps they’ll make me the mayor of Paris, after we take it. It won’t be long now. If we can get you, who could possibly stop us? You know, you look good. And you fight well, I vill hand you that. If I were you, I would have had those Coca-Cola artists killed. They mock you but you do nothing. This is weakness. Probably why we could catch you so easily. In fact, you know who you look like, er, that film star, what’s his name? Grant, that’s it. Cary Grant. I hear your wife is also beautiful. You like the ladies, eh, Clauz? Ha, a real sucker, I bet. That beer-wench below is something special. I don’t think it would be possible for anyone’s wife to be more beautiful. Up until I stomped her, eh, twice. She won’t be vinning any beauty pageants now. Might be dead, come to think of it. Yeah, probably.” Santa started to charge. The Nazi fired. The bullet whizzed past Santa’s ear. “The next one vill be between the eyes.” Santa stopped. “I knew you were a sucker. Tut-tut, Clauz, kidnapping a citizen of the Reich is one thing, but getting all mushy about her is quite another. Don’t worry, I vill deliver her to Hitler, if she’s not dead, with your body. She’ll be tortured. But you, sorry, I don’t care if the Fuhrer wants you alive because I want you dead. Nine years. Nine years in a row I hung out my stocking on Christmas Eve and in the morning, what? Coal! Only coal, for nine years. I did my best, I tried, but, it was never good enough for you!”

Santa smirked. “I did my best, wah wah. I tried, boo hoo. Talk about weak! Does everyone make the Nazis?” Santa looked around feigning a look of befuddlement. “Aren’t there any standards in Germany nowadays? Jeez, the Marines would have bounced the likes of you out on your striped, candy-ass before chow on the first day of bootcamp.”

The Nazi stopped grinning. He looked solemn. “It was the Fuhrer who lifted me out of my malaise. The Hitler Youth that set me on the straight and narrow. And the SS which gave me purpose. But, Clauz, I kill you for no one but myself.”

“Selfish. Nothing’s changed. You’ve always been a pathetic little punk.”

The SS Nazi trooper let out a primordial cry. His arm stiffened. He raised the Luger an inch and licked his lips. “Here’s your cookies and milk, Clauz.”

A shot rang out, then a second and a third.

The body fell forward and lay in the middle of the gondola roof, motionless. “Beer, a pint or even half pint – or some schnapps. At least some brandy in the milk. The cookies and milk myth, now whoever started that – I’d like to see that useless propagandist drawn and quartered. On the other hand, the silly red-suit-and-white-beard-and-belly story: Keeps the paparazzi away. Jeez, one glimpse of the misses and they’d be staking us out in igloos and pine trees, trying to get a shot of her icebathing.” Santa reached down and gently slid the stone-cold dead SS trooper off the roof. He climbed back down into the gondola. He said to Mrs Claus, “Nice shooting, Mama.”

Mrs Claus looked real tired, her face bashed and bruised. Somehow though, thought Santa, she looks more beautiful than ever.

She said, “It’s just a good thing he had so many issues and a booming voice. Otherwise, I might have slept right through your demise…I got a splitting headache.”

Santa replied, “I had him. I was just letting him spout, picking my spot.”

“Yeah yeah yeah.”

Looking around sadly, Santa said, “Albert? Frank?” He knew the answer.

Mrs Claus shook her head. Santa sat down beside her. He put his arm around her. He said, “Nazis.”

Mrs Claus was taking in the mountains and peaks. “The view’s spectacular,” she replied, resting her head on his shoulder. Neither spoke for some time.

Approaching the base camp, Santa stood and collected what weapons were scattered about. He put a Luger in his belt and slung a rifle over a shoulder. He passed Mrs Claus a Luger. She’d dropped hers after gunning down the Nazi problem-child.

“Do you think they’ll be waiting for us?”

“Nah, should be clear.”

Mrs Claus gave Santa a look.

“What?”

“You’re never right about these things.”

“That’s absurd.”

“What’s the plan?” asked Mrs Claus.

“Eh…”

“Wing it?”

“Hmm, yeah, I’d say that sounds about right.”

The cable-car station looked deserted. Santa could see troop trucks but no troops.

Mrs Claus said, “They must have all headed up the mountain already.”

“Yeah…see. Told you.”

“Yeah, yeah yeah – let’s get out of here before another battalion arrives.”

Santa and Mrs Claus exited the gondola slowly, and then sped up and exited the station. Santa was hit but didn’t go down. Mrs Claus took cover. Something leapt at Santa, which he dodged. Mrs Claus trained the Luger on the assailant, and then dropped it, charging forward. And then she hugged him.

“Albert,” said Santa, “How the heck did you get here first? You really are a master of space and time. But you make one crappy snowball.”

“Ha ha,” said Einstein.

Mrs Claus dashed, ecstatic, across the station yard, climbing over a large snow bank and jumping off it. She asked, “Is he OK?”

Boon replied, “He’ll make it.”

Frank was sitting up, propped against the snowbank. Shot in both shoulders, his arms were just dangling at his sides. They looked like Jell-O. He said, “To think, I couldn’t even drink a beer right now…Well, if someone were to hold one for me, I could manage, I suppose.”

“He’s delirious,” said Boon.

Jill said, “We tried to stop the other crazy guy with the weird hair, but as soon as he saw Santa, he said he wanted to kill him.”

“Wonderful job, girls. Just wonderful. I am so proud of you.” Mrs Claus hugged both Jill and Boon.

Santa and Einstein climbed over the large snowbank, where the team was hiding from the Nazi horde, which seemed to have cleared out, into the castle by now, or food for wolves on the mountainside.

“How’d you see us?” asked Jill to Mrs Claus.

Mrs Claus, laughing, replied, “You are not so clever that you can hide from me, young lady…Now, where’s Elmer Elf?”

“Where’s my reindeer team?” demanded Santa.

“Captured,” replied Boon.

Santa shook his head and cursed and then shook his fist. He barked, “Where are they?”

“About five miles from here,” replied Jill.

Boon continued, “We were trying to figure out a plan to break them out when we heard you whistle.”

“We came as fast as we could.”

Einstein breathed deeply, “By a hair…A whisker! I was certain I was a goner this time. And I blame you, Claus.”

“Hey,” began Frank, “he didn’t shoot you.”

“I am sorry, I told you already. What do you want, a letter? It is however, I feel I should mention, a scientific fact that you shouldn’t stand in the way of a bullet.”

“Enough,” said Santa. “I’ve got to go free my reindeer team. Everyone stay here. I’ll be back in a jiffy. Boon, let’s go.”

“Stay here?” shrieked Einstein.

Jill bristled. “What about me?”

“Everyone stay put, right here. It’s the safest place. They’ll never look for you here. Jill, you stay with Mrs Claus. She might need you.”

Mrs Claus first patted Jill and then climbed aboard her. “Yes, dear. I do need you, in fact, presently. We’re off to rescue your friends and family.” Mrs Claus looked at Santa. “If you want, you may join us.”

“I’m coming too,” said Einstein.

“Don’t give him a gun,” said Frank, propelling himself up awkwardly.

“How many times can I say I’m sorry?…and point out that it’s not prudent to stand in the way of a bullet.”

“No no no,” said Santa, “You’re wounded, thanks to Albert here. You’re definitely staying. Sit back, relax.”

“I didn’t shoot him the first time. You’d think he’d learn.”

“Relax eh?” replied Frank to Santa, ignoring Einstein. “What am I going to do? Go to the pub. I’m not sitting around here, bleeding to death, alone, waiting to get captured by the next SS troop truck that’s bound to pull up any minute. Now let’s move. I’ve got dinner plans.”

“We can’t all go,” said Santa.

“Of course we can. I’ll fly ahead with Jill and reconnoiter the enemy camp. You guys steal a truck. Boon will drive.”

“What…Why not Santa?”

Mrs Claus replied, “He doesn’t know how to.”

“You can’t drive a car?” asked Frank.

“You can’t fly a sleigh!” said Santa.

“Boon is an excellent driver,” was Mrs Claus’ input.

“What about Einstein?” asked Frank.

“He has no practical usefulness at all,” replied Santa.

“That’s ridiculous. Can you play the 1812 Overture on violin, harp and harmonica?”

“At the same time?”

“What?” replied Einstein.

“Stop nattering and get going!” barked Mrs Claus. “Before any more Nazis turn up,” and she took off, up and away on Jill.

“How are we supposed to steal a truck?” yelled Santa. Mrs Claus either couldn’t hear him or wasn’t listening.

“Follow me,” said Frank, who started jogging over to the troop trucks. Santa looked at Einstein and Einstein at Santa. Both fell in behind Frank.

Boon, pulling up the rear, said, “I’m an excellent driver.”

When they reached the troop trucks, Frank said, “We’ll take this one. Santa, cover us.”

“Roger.” Santa took up a defensive position behind the truck, from where he could monitor both the road and the cable-car station. Boon was crouched beside him. Santa gave her a quick petting and said, “You’ve done fine on this mission, Boon, just fine.”

“Does that mean I’ll make the first reindeer team next Christmas?”

Santa pulled the bolt on the machine gun he was wielding. Not taking his eyes off the road or the cable-car station, he said, “Don’t get cocky.”

Meanwhile, Einstein was bent under the steering wheel, attempting to hotwire the vehicle. “No no no,” said Frank, “The red wire and the blue wire.” Einstein did as he was instructed and was met with a nice jolt of electricity when he touched the tips of the wires together. The truck didn’t start. “No no no, not that blue wire. The other one,” said Frank.

“There is no other blue wire!” shouted Einstein, his hair a touch more pointed, and crisp.

“Keep your voice down. That one. Right there.”

“Where?”

“There.” Frank was attempting to point with his nose.

“That’s green,” said Einstein matter-of-factly.

“It’s not green,” replied Frank matter-of-factly.

“Greenish!” said Einstein with some verve.

“It’s blue!” replied Frank with equal verve.

“Greeny-bluish, you could theorize, I suppose.”

“No you couldn’t. It’s blue, Professor…Now hurry it up.”

Einstein cursed and tapped the wires together and the truck started. “Shove over, Albert.” Boon hopped in. Santa, at the window, continued, “I’ll ride in the back. Keep an eye on things.”

“Useless eh, Claus, ha. I’ll have you know that it was I who started this vehicle.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

As soon as Santa was aboard, Frank said, “Boon, hit it.”

Boon threw ‘er in reverse and spun out of the parking lot at just about full speed. They could hear Santa tumble over in the back. “This is my first time in a truck,” Boon said. “My training is in luxury vehicles.” As she barreled around the first turn, she had to swerve past another troop truck hauling Nazis. Frank gave his best Nazi nod. Boon saluted and even roared, “Heil Hitler,” as the other truck sped past them.

Einstein swore.

“What now?” asked Frank.

“They are sure to have noticed a goddamn reindeer driving…and saluting!” Einstein was turned, gaping out the window. Frank was paying careful attention through the mirror. The troop truck wasn’t turning around. Finally, they could see it pull into the cable-car station and park. Nazi troopers piled out and raced into the station.

“I can’t believe it. Fools,” said Einstein.

“Nazis are petty conformists. No imagination,” said Frank. “They only see what they’ve been taught to see.”

Boon shifted gears and the troop truck started picking up more speed, “Not far now,” she said, banking around a sharp left. It sounded like Santa went for another tumble in the back. “This is a short cut, I think,” said Boon.

“Think?” muttered Einstein.

“Aerial navigation is much simpler. Although I’m taking to this driving thing, I think I still prefer flying.”

“What’s that?” asked Einstein, his eyes slightly ballooning.

“Crap!” This time it was Frank.

“What…is it?”

“Yup…Messerschmitt...Boon, step on it.”

“Roger that. Almost there, five minutes to the Luftwaffe base where they’re holding Dasher and the gang – at most.” Boon threw it into fifth. “Perhaps three and a half.”

The Messerschmitt dove and buzzed them. It flew up and away, turned and began another run. Einstein and Frank could hear movement in the back of the truck. Boon was concentrating on the road. It sounded like Santa was off his butt and on his feet again. In fact, he was climbing onto the roof, wielding something. The Messerschmitt had begun to descend. It was headed straight for them.

“Swerve,” yelled Einstein.

“Steady,” roared Santa from the truck rooftop.

“Boon, start zigzagging, or, zagzigging.”

“Steady,” boomed Santa.

The Messerschmitt was just about on them. “Something…Do something!” shrieked Einstein. “Zig or zag – zag or zig – tic or tac or toe – something…in 9, no, 8.17 seconds we’ll all be minced meat.”

“Steady,” said Santa, calmly.

“Crap,’ said Einstein with a complete lack of calm.

Frank just sat back in his seat while Boon held the wheel, steady. The explosion was spectacular, which was too bad, thought Santa. ‘Someone we don’t like much at all is bound to notice…Oh well.’ He tossed the bazooka and climbed back into the truck. “Now that we’ve lost the element of surprise, we’re going to require a diversion.” He pondered, “But…what?” Santa was racking his brain, when Jill and Mrs Claus buzzed the truck and then the Luftwaffe base. Machine guns roared and a few anti-aircraft guns fired. Jill performed a loop-de-loop and a figure-8 over the base and Mrs Claus dropped a few grenades, and then up and away to the west they fled. Two Messerschmitts quickly scrambled in pursuit and then a third. Boon slammed on the brakes just outside the east gate. Through the west gate barreled two jeeps in chase. Santa hopped out of the truck. He could see his reindeer and sleigh, which had been placed on blocks. The reindeer were all chained to a steel railing just adjacent the runway. A Panzer III tank was parked on each side of the sleigh.

Einstein yelled out the window, “Mrs Claus is real classy – much too good for you, Claus.”

“Keep it down, Albert. There could still be more Nazis around…You guys stay put.”

“Yes, exactly, we will stay put,” said Einstein.

“But be ready to move…quick…when I give you the signal.”

“What’s the signal?”

“Er – you’ll know it when you see it.”

“Roger,” grunted Frank, who Santa noticed was in agony. Frank, doing his best, smiled, sort of. Santa waved and crept off to the fence line, all the while surveying the situation. It wasn’t a big base. In fact, it looked like it had only been built recently. There were no guard towers. After a few moments, Santa decided there was no other way, so he started climbing. The fence was rather high and, he hoped, not electrified.

Once over the fence, he’d need wire cutters to free his reindeer. There was a tool shed across the compound, not far from the only barracks, from which he could hear…music. Polka music. It sounded like they were having a party. First, Santa would go have a look. Find out what he was up against. Next, he’d have to get into that tool shed. From the barracks he could now make out laughter. Who? Nazis? Not likely. The laughter rang out louder and sounded all nasally, and…familiar.

Santa crept as low as he could across the compound. The polka music grew louder. He peeked in through a window: There were two very pretty, busty beer-wenches dancing enticingly. Two Nazis were also dancing, swinging and gulping beer clumsily. But they weren’t dancing with the exquisite beer-wenches, who seemed to be performing specifically for a third Nazi, who was sitting quite comfortably with his back to the window.

‘Another Nazi pervert,’ thought Santa, peering in the window.

In an eerie, nasal voice, Santa heard one of the Nazis shout out, “More beer. Now.”

One of the beer-wenches – they were twins, Santa determined – waltzed over to a large crate; she searched it for a moment and then said, “Nein!”

Another order was barked out by the same eerie voice, along the lines of, more beer! The two polka-dancing Nazis looked to have a brief argument and then flip a coin. A scowling Nazi opened the door and stomped out of the barracks. Santa quickly slunk out of the way, ducking. The Nazi on the beer-run stumbled left and then slipped right. Santa, staying back a ways and crouching, followed. The Nazi slipped a touch this way and stumbled a tad that way, all the while attempting to goosestep. What luck! thought Santa, they keep the beer in the tool shed and he’s hammered…My timing couldn’t be better!

The Nazi pulled out a key, dropped it, picked it up, dropped it again, cursed, picked it up, and opened the padlock and then the door, stepping inside. Santa clobbered him, and then turned on the light. He quickly secured the tool he needed and then…and then he made a mistake. For, he went for the beer, jamming the wire cutters in his belt so he could free his arms in order to lug the two crates of beer to his sled. No longer bothering to crouch – it’s too difficult when carrying a significant load of beer – he made his way over to his chained reindeer, who were ecstatic to see him, but also wondered aloud why he’d taken so long.

“Been busy. Up to my ears in it!” Santa started freeing his reindeer, after he’d loaded up all the beer in his sleigh.

But the small, seated Nazi inside the barracks with the eerily familiar, nasal voice was impatient, for he was celebrating and thirsty, and after the first Nazi hadn’t returned quick enough, he dispatched the second Nazi to get the beer posthaste. This fellow, a good Nazi, ran.

If Santa had just left the beer alone, all would have been well and their escape clean, for the second Nazi would have almost certainly determined that the first Nazi had simply passed out dead-drunk and stepped over him, which he in fact did. But then when he couldn’t find the beer, he investigated, and discovered that the first Nazi had been cracked across the skull. The oozing blood was hard to miss.

Santa was almost done freeing his reindeer when he spotted another two Nazis sprinting across the compound. They were headed for the tanks. Santa, sweating, finally cut the chain on Cupid, as the Nazis leapt into the tanks. Now Santa had to harness his team – which he accomplished faster than ever. The tanks started and their turrets bounced. Santa cried, “Dasher, Dancer!” And his team rocketed up, pulling Santa’s sleigh off the cinder blocks just as each Panzer III fired – obliterating the other Panzer III.

Santa wiped away a bit of sweat. “That was close.” His reindeer did a loop-de-loop, stretching their legs, and then a figure-8, before landing beside the troop truck.

“Was that the signal?”

“Yup.”

“Claus, you don’t do anything quietly. Well, you do have style, I’ll give you that. Now, let’s get out of here, finally.”

Santa hopped out and helped Albert with Frank, who was unconscious. They took off but then landed again just as quickly, on the roof of the guards’ barracks.

“What what what…what?” It was Einstein.

“Dancer says Elmer’s in there. They were all taken together.”

“Who?”

“My elf, Elmer. He got pinched by the Nazis with the reindeer.” Santa slung the Tommy Gun over his shoulder and tucked the Luger in his trousers. “We’re not leaving without him…They must be holding him in the back somewhere.”

“What’s that sound?” asked Einstein startled.

Santa listened for a moment. “That’s a Messerschmitt, ah...make it two, they’re on their way back. I’ll be quick.”

Einstein was about to say something, but Santa cut him off. “We’re not leaving without Elmer. He’s my buddy.”

“I was just going to say, good luck…and…step on it.”

“Will do.” Santa hopped down the barracks’ chimney. The music had stopped, the party over. Santa could see two doors. He approached carefully and then remembered he had to act quickly. The Messerschmitts would be back in minutes, and be sure to spot his sleigh parked atop the barracks. Santa kicked down the first door, and gasped, and then swore, “Villains!” He was shocked. The busty beer-wenches were dead, executed: one bullet between the eyes, each. Santa scanned the room fast, hoping for a glimpse or sign of Elmer. Nothing. He spun out of that room and charged to the next door, kicking it down while wielding the Tommy Gun. Nothing, again. Where’s that elf for crying out loud? But…then he heard a familiar squawk and spotted another door, to a closet, which he walked up to and flung open. “Elmer, thank God.” The elf was alive, yet bound and gagged. Something wasn’t quite right, however. Santa was taken aback by Elmer’s eyes – they were ballooning, his face seemed clenched. He was desperate to say something. Click. It was too late. Santa dropped his weapon. Cold metal pressed against the back of his neck. Santa started raising his hands and then spun, knocking the gun away, but his left-hook missed wide. Santa took an expert kick off the left knee, ribs, right knee, and side of the head.

“Ow!”

“Santa?” inquired the assailant.

“Mama?”

“Come on,” cried Mrs Claus, both disappointed and happy, “Let’s go go go, go!”

Santa climbed to his feet – he was sore – whipped Elmer over his shoulder and started running. Once out of the room, they darted to the chimney. Moments later they were back up on the rooftop and then in the sleigh. “Dasher, Dancer,” and they were off, but down again just as quick.

“Where are you going now?” asked Mrs Claus.

“Where are you going now?” shrieked Einstein.

“Back in a jiff.”

Mrs Claus took the reins.

Santa dashed to the troop truck, climbed into the back and then just as quickly hopped out again, carrying something.

“Dasher, Dancer,” said Mrs Claus. The sleigh started lifting off just as Santa landed back inside and the “tut-tut-tut” of machine guns roared from behind.

“Soar soar soar,” chanted Mrs Claus, and the reindeer pulled up, up, up and up, directly. The Messerschmitt’s hotshot pilot attempted to stay with them, but it was no use, not even close – too steep by a long shot for the Messer, whose engine failed, the plane spinning out; it crashed into the tool shed.

“Good thing I saved that beer,” Santa said to Frank, who was still passed out.

Machine-gun fire ripped into the sled, sending Einstein toppling over. The second Messer was on them. No matter, Mrs Claus initiated counter-measure and in minutes they were clear.

“Home?” inquired Mrs Claus.

Santa could see the Messer banking west and then swinging back around. He was attempting pursuit from the east.

“No, Mama. No more fooling around, due east, and step on it.”

“Roger that…Dasher, Dancer, you heard the man.”

Said Santa carefully, “And three, two…hold…hold…hold…one: light up, Rudolf.”

“Rudolf,” roared Mrs Claus, “Hammertime!”

Suddenly, instead of pitch-night it seemed midday. The Messerschmitt veered left and then titled right; it slowed and then sped up. The pilot had been blinded. Santa was standing on his sleigh bench now, just behind Mrs Claus on the reins. He was holding the bazooka he’d fetched from out of the back of the troop truck. Said Santa, “Steady.”

“Roger,” replied Mrs Claus, gripping the reins tight.

“Steady.” The Messer started firing but Mrs Claus didn’t budge the sleigh. “Steady…steady…and away.”

It was a bull’s-eye.

Einstein looked to be deep in thought. “It has broken into…14,987 distinct pieces…eh, no make that 14,989, not including the pilot,” said he, rubbing the bump on his head. “Mark my words, no more or less, exactly. Great driving, Mrs C.”

“Thank you, Albert.”

Santa coughed.

“Oh yeah, and you too, Claus. Good shooting…Now...can I have one of those beers?”

“Eh...what beers?”

“Don’t be coy, Claus. I saw you loading them into the sleigh. And to think, all the while Frank was bleeding to death.”

Santa pulled one from under his bench and tossed it to Einstein, who opened it with his teeth casually before taking a long and penetrating gulp. He said, “I don’t understand how people who don’t drink beer celebrate.” Einstein sat back, relaxed. “What would have been the point of the Nobel otherwise?...Didn’t sleep for three days!”

“Hey, what about me?” asked Frank, roused now, sitting up.

“I knew some beer was just what the doctor ordered. I got the crates for you, Frank,” said Santa, giving Einstein a look. He tossed a second beer to Albert. “Help him out.”

Frank opened his mouth and Einstein emptied an entire bottle. “Now that is what I’m talking about,” said Frank.

Santa opened a third bottle, took a big gulp and passed it to Mrs Claus, who was still driving. “Well, it’s about time,” said Mrs Claus; and then, after a very long, searching slurp, she opined, “That is good beer.”

“Darn tootin’,” said Frank, who with Albert’s help had just finished off his third bottle.

That’s when Santa heard that familiar nasal squawk, again. It was coming from under his bench. “Elmer, Elmer!” exclaimed Santa. In the commotion, he’d forgotten all about Elmer Elf, who he’d chucked under his sleigh bench, still tied and gagged. Santa quickly retrieved Elmer, taking out his gag. Santa untied his hands, mentioning, “Nazis…bunch of amateurs. These are so loose, you could have tied them yourself.”

“Maybe he did,” said a stone-faced Mrs Claus. Santa didn’t notice.

“Elmer, Elmer, my boy, are you OK? Speak.”

At first, Santa thought Elmer looked tired and angry, his face was contorted weirdly. Then, however, a big smile shone across the elf’s features. Elmer jumped up and hugged Santa. “I’m so glad to see you…I thought I never would again.”

Santa replied, “I’d never let that happen, my oldest friend. We’re a team. Heck, I’d never leave anyone behind, even Einstein. Isn’t that right, Albert?”

Einstein didn’t reply. Perhaps, he didn’t hear or was ignoring Santa or just too happy chugalugging a beer. He was on his third bottle. His technique was excellent. He could pour an entire bottle of beer down Frank’s gullet while simultaneously enjoying one himself, without spilling a drop of either.

“Thought or hoped?” was Mrs Claus’ question. But once again it went unheeded. Santa was caught up in the euphoria of the reunion.

“Thought or hoped, Elmer?” repeated Mrs Claus.

“Er – what?” said the elf.

“How about a beer, Elmer? I grabbed two crates back there. Nothing more satisfying than stealing beer from Nazis.”

“What happened?” demanded Mrs Claus.

“What ‘er what? What?”

“You heard me, elf!”

“Yeah,” asked Santa. “How did you get captured?”

“Caught in a crossfire-hurricane, Santa, with the reindeer, under pressure, waiting for the all-clear signal from you guys. We were overwhelmed, overrun and done for, swept up by the SS. There was nothing to do but surrender, you must understand. It was the only option.”

“How did the SS know where to find you, and the reindeer?” It was Mrs Claus again, asking the questions.

“I don’t know, they’re clever…I’ll have that beer now, Santa.” Elmer looked flustered. He sat back nervously.

“Yes, of course, sure sure, buddy,” said Santa. “Hey, we also got some of that Polish vodka you love.”

Mrs Claus said, “It must have been the traitor, Elmer.”

Elmer sat up. “What? Who?”

“The traitor, Elmer. You know, don’t you? It all started with the message.”

“What message?” asked Santa.

“The message that started all – this. It was Elmer who received it, and who showed it to me.”

Elmer stood and pointed. “There! You got him, Santa. Great job. He sent the fake message, luring Mrs Claus to the castle.”

“What?” said Santa.

“Who?” asked Einstein. “Me? I am certainly, of course, no Nazi. Are you kidding, shortie!?!”

“Hey, don’t you call me short. I don’t like it!”

Mrs Claus was laughing. “He means Frank, Albert.”

“Frank, what? No! It can’t be – no way. Really? You’re kidding? I can’t believe it…but that makes sense, come to think of it. He did have the opportunity. I knew I must have shot him for a good reason.”

Frank was sleeping, again, either unconscious from his wounds or the five beers he’d shot-gunned (or both). So, he couldn’t defend himself on the matter.

Elmer snatched the Luger from Santa’s belt. “I’ll finish what Einstein started, Santa. Right now, for what he’s done; a traitor and a Nazi, he deserves worse.” Elmer spat.

“He does?” asked Mrs Claus.

Elmer squawked, “Yes,” meekly – uncertain all of a sudden.

Santa said, “Whoa, hold your horses, Elmer and stop waving that Luger now. What’s this all about? Frank’s no Nazi – or traitor.”

“You just can’t see it, Santa,” began Elmer, trembling. “He’s a fiend and a monster and needs to be destroyed.”

“No! We never would have made it through without Frank. He’s indispensable. This was his plan. Well the first part...I still don’t quite understand what you’re doing here...Or you, Mama?”

“Ask Elmer.”

“It must be some long-term plot, Santa. He’s trying to gain your confidence – to lull you. He’s planning something big, he’s the Fuhrer’s man, remember. He’s up to no good and has to be taken care of, now, right this second!” Elmer leveled the weapon at Frank.

“Are you nuts? Off your rocker and out of your gourd. Like I said, Frank was the mastermind behind the whole operation, instigated at the behest of President Roosevelt, to save that fool Einstein.”

Einstein twisted around, spilling his beer. “Hey, I told you – I had a plan. Almost foolproof. Very theoretical. Just needed a little more time to work out the kinks. The scientific method.”

“Elmer, Frank is a double-agent; he’s on our side. Put the gun down, Elmer. Now! I’m not asking.”

“You’ve been brainwashed by the Nazis. It’s obvious. He is the enemy!”

“Who killed the Boobstein twins, Elmer?” asked Mrs Claus.

“What?” replied Elmer, looking pale. He started to shake.

“Who?” asked Santa, getting more confused by the moment.

“The busty beer-wenches in the barracks – murdered. Who did it…Elmer?” Mrs Claus’ voice was stern and unforgiving.

“Er – the Nazis of course. What are you talking about?”

“I think you’re right, Elmer. For the first time since Santa tossed you into this sleigh, you speak the truth.”

“Thank you, Mrs C. Now, I will sort out this matter, once and for all. Unless, that is, you would like the honor, Mr Einstein. Finish what you started.”

“Oh no, thanks, you go ahead. I’m a lover.”

Mrs Claus said, and with a certain fierceness evident in her voice, rage flowing, “After the explosions, I saw the Boobstein twins run into the barracks’ backroom with the only Nazi left alive in the building. They all looked scared. Deathly scared, Elmer. And then the Nazi shot both Boobstein twins in the head. I think he panicked. Next, he grabbed some rope and a gag and just about jumped into that closet. You see, Elmer, I was at the window. It was dark, so I couldn’t see perfectly. Only moments later, a figure entered the room and then darted across it and opened up that closet door. It turned out to be Santa, and do you know who he found half tied up on the other side of that door? It is funny, isn’t? Not funny ha ha, but funny nonetheless. Can you believe it? Turns out that it was the same Nazi – shivering and sniveling behind that door – who’d kick started this whole wild goose chase, with that spurious message, supposedly sent by Frank. Any guesses, Elmer.” It wasn’t a question.

Elmer had edged his way over to Einstein.

Santa, shaking his head, yelled with violence in his voice, “Elmer, what do you have to say?”

The elf was quick. He grabbed Einstein, shoving the Luger in his ribs. “You think you are so smart!” snarled the elf.

“I am so smart, of course. I am the smartest man in the world.”

“Not you, you moron,” screeched the elf all nasally, jabbing the Luger further into Einstein’s ribs. “Well well, if you’re so smart, Mrs C, how come you didn’t know I was unhappy with my situation? How is it that you didn’t understand that I wanted more? I require more!”

“Maybe I did, and just didn’t care,” said Mrs Claus.

“I hate you!”

“There are no excuses, Elmer,” said Santa.

“One more word out of either of you, and the Boffin buys the farm. Just like the Boobsteins. Understood. That wasn’t a question.”

“Farm?” chanted Einstein. “I would rather you kill me than send me to a farm, you little twerp…well…unless it’s on the water.”

Elmer dug the Luger deeper into Einstein. “You shut up, too. Everyone shut it. This is Elmer’s time to speak.”

“And what do you have to say, old friend?” asked Santa, in some despair.

“Old friend, nothing! If we’re friends, why didn’t you take me with you?”

“For your safety.”

“We were a team, Santa, and you left me behind. Well, not everyone thinks I’m so dispensable.”

“What? You’re a wonderful elf, Elmer…or were, anyhow.” Santa seemed downcast.

“Well maybe elf doesn’t cut it anymore. Maybe, I want more…No, that’s not quite correct. I demand more. It’s my right, because, you know what? I deserve it. I am moving up in the world. I’ve had promises and guarantees. By better men than you, Santa. Men who refuse to sit back and accept the world as it is; instead, men who are determined to forge, shape and mold it, with an iron fist if that’s what it takes, to suit their own needs and desires. I expect these promises and guarantees to be kept. A career change, you might call it.”

“More like a midlife crisis.”

“Hey, I told you to shut it, Egghead…Mrs C, turn us around and take us back to the castle. Me and the Professor here” – Einstein started to speak; Elmer, however, pre-empted any soliloquy by jabbing the Luger deeper into his ribs – “shall be returning.” Elmer, gritting his teeth now, “Santa, Mrs C, next time we meet, it is I who will have the upper hand, and you can count on it…Now, I am not going to tell you again, turn us back, nice and easy now, no more stalling, hop to it, or, the Professor here buys it. I got nothing to lose.”

“I do.” This time it was Einstein who squawked, and swung. He didn’t connect with the elf’s head, more like his shoulder. But it was enough to knock the elf off balance, for a moment. They grappled and then the elf shook off the Scientist. Einstein slipped to the sled floor, pulling off Elmer’s cloak.

The elf was still wielding the gun. “Not another step, Santa.”

Santa had cut the distance between them by half. Elmer grabbed Einstein by the hair, pointing the Luger at his right temple. “Who wants to see if the Professor is really all brains, ha!”

“Nice costume,” said Mrs Claus.

Elmer’s sharp, neatly pressed Nazi uniform was gleaming.

“Eh, what? Oh, yeah, nice, isn’t?”

“Can’t believe they made you a Colonel. Shocking really. What a bunch of hacks,” said Mrs Claus.

“It’s going to be Field Marshal, someday.”

Einstein burst into laughter.

“Shut it. This second! You can’t laugh at me.”

Said Einstein, “Anyone without a sense of the incongruous is by definition a hack – and an amateur. Do you think for a second I could have become a master of space and time without the ability to laugh?”

“You think this is funny?” Elmer pressed the Luger harder into his temple.

The Professor said, “Ha ha.”

“I’m not fooling around here. You don’t laugh at me, not anymore. I’ll do it. Dead or alive is no matter; so long as I bring them the Professor, one way or another, they’ll make me a hero of the Fatherland.” The elf was red-faced and drooling with cruelty.

“OK OK,” said Santa. “You win.”

“Damn yeah!” said the elf, now grinning viciously.

“You can have Einstein. We never really wanted him, truth be told.”

Einstein raised a fist – at Santa. Nevertheless, the elf rammed the Luger deeper into his forehead. “Ouuwww!” cried Einstein, and then, “You little shrimp.”

The elf pressed harder, and even considered biting Einstein. He said, “Get up.”

Einstein did, slowly.

Santa said, “Mama.”

“Yes, Santa.”

“Turn us around. Back to the castle.”

“Roger that,” said Mrs Claus and she snapped the reins in a certain rhythmic pattern. Dasher and Dancer bolted. Cupid and Vixen bucked; Comet and Blitzen darted. Donner and Prancer both deked while Rudolf rode the wave. It felt as if Santa’s sleigh had hit a gigantic speed bump at 130 mph on a rough, sleek, rainy night. Einstein and Elmer both flew up and away. Santa leapt forward, grabbing Frank’s legs so he wasn’t swept out of the sleigh also.

“Mama, nice move…now go get them.”

Mrs Claus didn’t budge, not an inch. She held the sleigh steady.

“Mama!”

“Are we really going to take Albert to New Jersey? Is it necessary?”

“Mama, quick.”

“If we are going to go all that way, could we at least stop off in New York? I haven’t been in ages.”

“Mama? What? We’re not going to be taking him anywhere, if we don’t go after him, pronto. Jeez, it might already be too late. I know he can be difficult; I mean, I see your point of view, but…I promised Roosevelt.”

Mrs Claus didn’t turn the team, she just kept it sailing straight ahead at a nice, moderate, easy pace, holding the reins steady. There was a smile breaking where her lips and cheeks met.

Santa stood and walked quickly back over to his sleigh bench. He said, “Mama, I can’t believe you.”

“Oh, stop your whining. It’s a beautiful night.”

Santa didn’t quite know what to say. He was befuddled. Shocked by her cold callousness.

She laughed at him and then said, “Look at the moon, Dear. Isn’t it wonderful?”

“How can I think about the moon for crying out loud?…when…when…poor Albert…” Not until that moment did Santa actually look to the moon. He jumped up and down. “Oh, Mama, it is wonderful,” said Santa, laughing heartily, for, streaking across the moon in silhouette was Jill and a fellow with wild, weird hair – strangely similar to Einstein’s.

Mrs Claus chortled, “You silly nincompoop, Jill and Boon have been shadowing us since we took off from the barracks’ rooftop. You didn’t even notice.”

“I was busy – killing Messerschmitts.”

“Now that Albert is perfectly safe, what course should I set?”

“And Boon, does Boon have Elmer?” asked Santa.

Mrs Claus shook her head.

“Eh?”

“No,” she said.

Santa, looking up again, could make out Boon streaking behind Jill, solo.

“What about Elmer?”

“What about him?”

December 26th

Skidding down into the blue-pristine Caribbean Sea, Santa just hoped his reindeer could manage the waters. The sandy-white beach was too short by a long shot for a proper landing. So, Santa had his team touch down in the lagoon just short of landfall. The sleigh glided the last 50 yards across the sleek Caribbean while the reindeer swam. When his team hit the sand they darted hard left, swinging the sleigh right. It came to a halt less than three yards from the beach bar. Mrs Claus hopped directly onto a stool. She was sipping a pina colada before Einstein had even got to his feet. ‘At least he’s not snoring any longer,’ thought Santa, who was second to the bar.

***

On the way, they’d stopped off in Bordeaux, France – where they’d picked up a case of wine (which was mostly gone) – and had a doctor take a look at Frank. He was going to be fine. The doc had stitched up his wounds, applied a double-sling, and offered the wine. It was from his own vineyard and the best in the region, he’d assured Mrs Claus. Santa had offered Frank the opportunity to stay and rest up, promising to fetch him later, but Frank was adamant:

“The mission’s complete and a success. It would be bad luck to go to bed before celebrating. No no no – there is only one destination: the Caribbean, mon!”

You see, Frank was in the mood for rum and cigars and steel drums. Mrs Claus was all in; it was only Albert who seemed reluctant.

“No way. No how. No can do. Out of the question.”

“You sound like a Nazi,” said Santa, chuckling.

“Ha! Drop me in New Jersey.”

“It’s out of the way,” replied Mrs Claus.

“I could be in a lot of trouble with the University President, if I left that damn kettle on. It was his cottage. But I don’t think I did. I didn’t expect to be out so long. Anyhow, you promised, Claus.”

“Yes, I did and of course I will. On the way back, it will be my pleasure. You’re going to love the Caribbean, Albert.”

“It’ll be a ball,” said Mrs Claus.

“Nuts,” replied Einstein.

“The girls are beautiful, shockingly gorgeous. Nothing relative about it,” said Frank.

“Hmm…well…when you put it that way, I guess a day or two wouldn’t hurt, all in all. And, just perhaps, we all do deserve a relaxing vacation, after such a harrowing adventure. I was sure I was a goner there at least a couple of times. And then where would the world be, eh? I blame Santa and just hope next time the President doesn’t scrimp and sends the Marines. Otherwise I won’t vote for him again.”

Santa snapped the reins and up flew Einstein, but only a few yards this time. He landed abruptly on his butt, and rolled into the back of the sleigh.

“Sorry about that, Albert. Turbulence over the Atlantic can be troublesome. In fact, I should warn you, we’re closing in on the Bermuda Triangle. No telling what could happen. Probably be for the best if you sat still and didn’t speak. I’ll let you know when it’s all clear.”

Einstein snarled, yawned and sat back, accepting a half bottle of wine from Frank, from which he took a long and salutary, hearty gulp. After a few minutes, he asked, “Anyone have a violin?”

By the time Santa’s team hit the Bahamas, Einstein was sleeping loudly.

***

“Sir, what be your pleasure?”

“Anything with rum,” said Santa to the bartender. “And a cigar, if you would be so kind.”

Frank was next to prop himself up on a stool. He said, “Make that two.”

Einstein: “Are you sure rum is the way to go?”

“This is the Caribbean, mon!” said Frank.

“OK then, rum it is, and a pipe, please.”

The barkeep went to work quick and passed over the bar three daiquiris. Einstein, Mrs Claus, Santa, and Frank, all spun on their stools in order to take in the glorious Caribbean. The sun was just descending over the lagoon.

Mrs Claus said, “Now that we know the reindeer can execute a perfect water landing…and seem to enjoy it here –” she pointed: Dasher and Dancer and Prancer were all splashing about (it looked like they might be partaking in a game of Marco Polo) in the sea while Rudolf, Vixen, and Comet were playing Frisbee on the beach, just at the edge of jungle. Cupid was sunning himself and Blitzen had chased a monkey up a tree – “maybe we should move the shop.”

“Mama,” said Santa chuckling, waving a good-natured hand, drinking his drink.

Frank said, “Well, you should at least start making regular stops after Christmas. Why not? After the presents are all delivered, head on down for some sun, fun and good old-fashioned relaxation. You could make it a new tradition.”

Einstein was grinning. He said, “I wonder if they have a university down here. I want to get as far from Germany as I can. They’d never find me down here.”

“Who could find the time to study in a place like this?” said Mrs Claus.

Santa slapped Einstein on the back and said, “Albert, why don’t you open one?”

“Hmmm,” contemplated Einstein before slapping Santa back, twice as hard. “Very astute. Perhaps the most intelligent thing you have ever said.” Einstein swigged his daiquiri. “Yes, yes…yes! I could both think and sail freely. During the evening, I could play my violin for the tourists. How much do you think they would pay me? Most importantly, there are no Nazis down here. Nazis don’t travel well. This drink is delicious. I could swim and think. I wouldn’t even need a pencil – or a blackboard. I could write my equations in the sand. The more I think about it, the more of a genius you become, Claus. Of course, I would have eventually thought of it myself – certainly. In order to complete my Unified Theory, I must retreat back into Nature, with no distractions. Delve deep into it, and then all will be revealed. For the answer, even if you don’t know the question, is right there – in that ray of sunshine…and there, in that rolling wave.” Einstein climbed off his stool and picked up some sand that he allowed to fall between his fingers and back onto the beach. “Here, in these grains of sand, and…” He picked up his glass, “…in this drop of rum,” which he drained. “Barkeep, hit me…You’re right Frank, the rum is delicious. It might even be better than that Polish vodka.”

“Who would be your students?” asked Mrs Claus.

“Beautiful women uninterested in science.”

“Sign me up,” said Mrs Claus, slamming down her glass. “I’ve always wanted to go to college.”

Einstein laughed. He said, “Oh indeed, certainly. Mrs Claus you will be the first pupil we enroll, and…she will be the second.”

A beautiful lady was headed directly for them. Einstein started correcting his hair. She said upon arrival, “Hello, nice to meet everyone.” But she was looking at only Mrs Claus. “My name is Mia. I’m organizing a limbo contest. Are you interested? We would love it if you could join us. You look like a natural and would be guaranteed to pull in a crowd. What do you say?”

“Of course,” said Einstein, standing up while at the same finishing off his second daiquiri. “I’m great at games…I also play violin.”

Mia’s initial reply was, “Ahhh, er, umm…” But, she was a certified professional – bartending college in Miami – and quickly recovered. “O…K…great, we are happy to have you...er…sir…”

“Call me Al.”

“OK, Al, excellent. You are contestant number 7, and we’ll be starting in a few minutes.”

“Do I have time for another drink?”

“Of course, Al – for two, or three, or fourteen.” Mia, smiling, walked off.

“What is limbo…exactly?” asked Einstein. No one answered, so he asked the bartender, adding, “Is it kind of like a Caribbean version of Chess?”

“Yes yes, mon, kind of…very deep and poetic. What’s Chess?”

Einstein said to his group, “Never lost a game of Chess in my life, well, except to my cousin and wife.”

Frank, Santa and Einstein all ordered another daiquiri. Mrs Claus said, “Rum, straight up.”

“Mama…”

“It’s delicious.”

Some rhythmic music started playing softly and lucky number 7 was hailed over to the small, make-shift stage just adjacent the beach bar. Einstein, after chugging back his daiquiri, joined the other eight contestants, all of whom were almost certainly qualified to enroll in The Einstein Caribbean Institute of Advanced Thought. When he asked, “Are we playing strict rules?” all the other contestants giggled. Three of the ladies ran their hands through Einstein’s hair. Two of the ladies pinched his cheeks, one each – and one of the bolder contestants, swatted ole Al on his backside.

Said Mia, “Why of course.”

A man walked up from a hut on the beach and asked, “Number 1?” A young lady raised her hand proudly and the man proceeded to paint a luxuriant numero uno across her midriff. “Number 2?” inquired the man from the hut on the beach and another equally impressive young lass of distinction stepped up and the procedure was repeated. This continued without interruption or controversy up until number 7. The man from the hut on the beach turned out to be another quick thinker, again, a professional. He was stumped for only the briefest of seconds, and after conducting a quick survey of the situation, painted a fine number 7 across Einstein’s rather large forehead. Said the man from the hut on the beach: “His head is huge. I bet he has some big bamboo too, ha!” The ladies smiled and the man from the hut on the beach laughed wildly; he was, like all true pros, a man who obviously enjoyed his vocation greatly. Numbers 8 and 9 stepped up. The man completed his work, saluted the bartender, and returned to his hut on the beach, where it looked like he was working on a still-life of the lagoon.

The bartender sang, “Let the festivities commence, friends. In order now, ladies…and Al. The Lord commandeth: Let the limbo begin.”

The music was cranked and each of the ladies became a work of art, as she passed, with Einstein, under the limbo bar. The first couple runs were meant as warm-ups, but as the pole was lowered, the screws were turned on Al, who didn’t possess quite the same physical flexibility and natural agility as the young ladies. However, the great thinker did seem to have very quickly worked out some very basic principles for lowering his gravity in regard to the limbo pole. The beach bar was surprised when number 4 was knocked out while Al still in the game. When number 6 fell – she’d been a favorite going in – and Al was still going strong, the crowd was shocked. And then when number 9 crashed and burned while Al was still alive, they were aghast. Could he do it? Momentum was shifting and Einstein the underdog became a crowd favorite. On the next run, Einstein cleared the limbo pole by a good inch while number 1 floundered and was eliminated. The betting odds underwent a great sea change. Einstein was now the frontrunner.

“Bring it on home,” yelled Frank.

“Don’t choke now, old buddy, Mama needs new shoes,” yelled Santa.

“I’ve got fifty smackers riding on you, Al,” yelled Mrs Claus.

A large, burly man with a wide grin holding a hot dog in one hand and a rum beverage in the other, in a booming baritone, said, “A thousand on the Professor. He’s going to knock it out of the park, sure thing, I’m calling it!”

“No way, Bambino. It’s impossible what you suggest. The maniac with the hair?…Just lucky so far. It’s the rum. His knees and or spine are going to snap – or turn to dust – on his next run under that limbo pole. He’s got to be sixty.”

“It’s all between the ears, Tony. That’s what counts.”

“Make it two thousand, Bambino.”

“You’re on, amigo,” replied the burly man, munching his hot dog and sipping his rum.

“Come on number 3,” yelled Tony.

But it was no use. As the limbo pole was lowered, somehow, Einstein managed to raise his game. His technique seemed to become even more refined and sleek. This man – defying the Universe and its dictates, at least to the naked eye and superficial mind – was nimbler with each run. He was playing to win.

Number 3 was bounced out of the contest on her next run and became visibly upset. In order to avoid a scene, security (the bartender and dishwasher) had to hustle her off the make-shift stage while she bellowed, whining loudly, “The fix is in. He’s a snake oil salesman…obviously a professional hustler. The whole shebang’s rigged. There’s no way…come on!…give me a break…Jesus! He’s geriatric, for crying out…”

The competition was fierce now, with only numbers 2, 7, and 8 remaining.

On the next run under the ole limbo pole, number 2 – a real trooper and true competitor – broke her nose, but somehow managed by a hair to stay on her feet. There was a great roar of applause from the crowd, and then an even louder barrage of boos when the doctor on hand (that is, the bartender, who swore he was qualified; credentialed out of Miami) determined number 2 was unfit to continue, citing health and safety concerns (can’t have her bleeding all over the joint, mon). Officially it was scored a TKO, leaving only two competitors standing.

It was Einstein’s at-bat now, and he swiftly limboed, by a clear inch, under the pole that had just splattered number 2’s nose. The crowd was in awe. That old master of space and time was getting better. He looked to be unbeatable. Albert Einstein had discovered the Zone. He was unstoppable. His concentration was firing at alien levels. He saw and knew all in that precise moment. He could have started bending spoons or split the Caribbean Sea, had it been his ambition, rather than limbo.

Number 8 was no amateur, however. And proud. On her next run she just scraped under the pole but tangled up her legs. She looked like a goner for a moment. Great excitement and woe rang out from the crowd. However, miraculously, she kept her balance. A close call, nonetheless, she pulled it off. A miracle.

Einstein had watched number 8 carefully – in slow motion. The world had in fact stopped spinning while he’d examined and studied every movement of her lithe limbs, every bounce of her wonderful bosom, the twinkle in her eye, her sweet tongue as it flared out of her supple mouth, her long free-flowing hair, the curvature of her taut behind, her fingers extend and curl, the salute and curtsy of her toes.

He saw it: he saw it all! It flared in neon before his mind’s eye as his own eyes witnessed the pure perfection of number 8. It was elegant and gorgeous and utterly simple.

“A pencil, I need a pencil!”

“It’s your turn.”

Einstein looked up to the sky and then out to the sea. He ran to the bar. “A pencil, please.”

“A what?”

“A pencil. Quick, there’s no time to waste…I must have a pencil!”

“Hmm, OK, OK, coming up, mon…just a moment,” replied the bartender, who surreptitiously slipped around the corner and started flipping through his drinks bible. But he couldn’t find anything on The Pencil. The limbo guy sounded German, thought the bartender. ‘The Pencil must be the rage in Bavaria these days. But…it hasn’t reached these shores.’ He didn’t say any of this. No self-respecting barman ever would. Instead, he followed the advice printed in bold on the last page of his Barman’s Bible, courtesy of the Epic Poet, Yasanoubu – When in doubt, wing it, and go fast and hard. The meek are chum.

And thus the barman poured a sound wallop of dark rum in a glass along with a proper wallop of light rum and then a fair wallop of spiced rum. Next, a slight gurgle of orange juice. A splash of Pellegrino. “Aha!” He picked up and poured out the remaining 5th of a bottle of red wine. And then (He was struck with a brainwave – maybe some of that Einstein magic was contagious), the coup de grace, instead of a tiny umbrella, he pulled the pencil from behind his ear and dropped it home.

Someone from the make-shift stage yelled, “No breaks. This is underhanded. He’s stalling. Twisted a nut or sprained a hammy!” Turns out it was number 8, full of fury. No idea she was inspiration to the infinite and universal.

Einstein picked up the glass and drained it; then pulled the pencil from it. “Excellent, excellent, my good man. Thank you! Now I need paper. Paper, I need a piece of paper. Lickety-split, on the double, quick.”

The bartender wanted to scratch his head. He was thinking, ‘What a particular gringo,’ all the while wondering whether he should consult his Barman’s Bible again.

Einstein threw down the pencil and ran to the beach where he started scratching equations in the sand. He’d scratch one in with his hands and then stand back for a moment admiring it. Then he’d kick it back out of the sand with his feet, before starting back at it with his hands.

“Hey, come back, or else you’ll be disqualified.”

“Get back here you fool. I’ve got 500 big ones riding on you!”

Einstein didn’t notice. For, the master of space and time had discovered a new dimension.

“Five...four…three…two...last chance…come back, Al…three…two…one…one...three…two…two, one…one. You’re out!”

Number 8, jumping up and down with joy, the crowned victor, was ecstatic. All of glasses, bottles of (empty) rum, a stool (with a leg already broken), coconuts and mangoes, and various silverware (including one machete) were hurled at Einstein. But he didn’t notice, as he was working intensely in the sand; he didn’t even lose his train of thought when a couple of the coconuts and a shot glass (but not the mangoes, machete or broken stool, which all went high or well wide) hit home.

The burly man, who was unenthusiastic about the outcome of the limbo contest but otherwise unperturbed, said to the barkeep, “Another rum and hot dog.”

The bartender waved a hand saying, “A moment Bambino, I gotta get this down before I forget. It could be gold. My ticket into the Barman’s Bible.” He was scratching away with Einstein’s soggy pencil. “Now what kind of wine was that?” he asked himself, searching for the empty bottle. Perhaps one of the dishwashers had chucked it at Einstein. Whatever the case, he had a winner, he was sure. Now he just needed to come up with a good name. ‘The Pencil’, wouldn’t do.

When Einstein finished, the man from the hut on the beach, slapped him on the back. He said, “It is mangnifico, truly.” He put his hand on his heart. “Such sheer beauty.”

“It should be,” said Einstein, smiling, “it’s the culmination of a life’s pursuit. That, my friend, is the Unified Field Theory. Physics is officially closed. I’ve done it.”

“What will you do next?”

“Drink.”

“Ariba!”

“Join me?”

“Of course.”

Einstein and the man from the hut walked back up to the beach bar. Al said, “Drinks all around, my treat.”

The bartender replied to Einstein with a half nod of the head, turning to Frank. He asked in a whisper, “Does this lunatic have any money?”

“You can send his tab to the President of the United States.”

The bartender blew on a conch shell.

Within 10 minutes, eight fishing boats had pulled up into that lagoon. Around 50 or so workers from various coconut plantations had come down from the mountains.

The joint was rocking and Einstein jitterbugging.

Another gang – from out of town – pulled their dinghy up onto that sandy beach. Entering the beach bar they didn’t mix with anyone and all sat bunched together at a corner-table with no view of the beach. Suspicious! They didn’t want rum, only beer, and, further, they requested polka music. When denied, they offered to trade swag for an accordion.

Everyone in the bar went out of their way to shake Einstein’s hand, except for the weird bunch, although they seemed – from their corner-perch – to be paying him special attention.

After Albert had made his happy rounds, the big burly fellow snuck up on him, grabbed him, bear-hugged him, shook him wildly, and then swung him like a Louisville Slugger before plopping him back down gently onto his barstool.

“Albert, it’s me, you numb-skull. You know, you lost me 500 real dollars.”

It took Einstein a few moments to focus due to the booze, adulation of solving physics, and the windmilling he’d just endured. “Herman? Herman, how are you? You look fine. Stronger than an ox, as always. Forget about the 500 bucks. It’s small beer. I solved physics. The answer was in how number 8 lunged and twisted her hips while her tits bounced. Fantastic, isn’t it?”

“Have a hot dog, Albert. And introduce me to your beautiful acquaintance.”

“What? What are you eating hot dogs for down here?”

“Are you crazy, Einstein? These are the best hot dogs in the world. Better than Yankee Stadium. Ernest took me fishing last year to a fine, fine spot. In the late morning we pulled into a small atoll, not far from here, and all went skindiving. The water was beautiful. I saw a wonderful turtle. A big sucker. He waved at me. Well, at lunch, the crew put out a great spread. All the local delicacies. We had sword fish, tuna, snapper and crab callaloo, conch fritters, goat water…Don’t make that face, Albert. Great stuff, first-rate. Although, yeah, it could probably undergo a name change with no loss. It was a stellar day. We washed the beers down with rum punch. But, I noticed a couple of hot dogs on the grill – kept separate. They were for the crew, Ernest said. I asked the first-mate and he was more than obliging. They had freshly baked buns. He threw me together one in a jiffy, no condiments, no nothing. It was excellent. Best damn hot dog in the world. I couldn’t believe how good it was. Now I come down to the Caribbean strictly for the hot dogs. I eat at least five a day…Albert, you’re being rude, introduce me to your friend.”

“Mrs Claus, this here is Herman Babe Ruth.”

Mrs Claus smiled and extended her hand. The Babe kissed it. He said, “Whaaat? Wow! A pleasure, ma’am. Hot damn, you are beautiful…so that means, you…you sure don’t look like your picture…You should have those Coca-Cola artists shot, Santa…Pleased to meet you. I thought you’d be fatter, and older.”

“Hello, Herman,” said Santa, “I thought you’d be thinner, and younger.”

“Ha!” cried the Babe. “I do my best…I can’t believe it’s you, Santa. Why, I am sure glad to meet you. I want to thank you personally for that mitt you gave me when I was 12.”

“It was my pleasure, Herman.”

“That mitt gave me purpose in life. It put me on the straight and narrow, Santa. That’s what sports do for young fellows. I never stepped out of line again, well, there was that one time in Philly, ha.”

“You’ve done fine, Herman. Just fine. Mrs Claus and I are your biggest fans. We saw you play back in ’31. We had more time in those days.”

“You hit three home runs. Put on quite a spectacle,” said Mrs Claus.

“Well, I am glad. It was my pleasure. If you’d let me know, I would have shown you the town. I’m an even better host than baseball player, believe it or not. The three of us could have lit it up.”

Frank put out his hand, “It’s a pleasure, always, Babe.”

Einstein said, “Herman, this is Roosevelt’s man. He’s a secret agent.”

“Whoa, hey, we’ve met,” said the Babe.

“That’s right. I was with you in Japan, on your barnstorming tour.”

“Sake and Matsuzaka in the Ginza. I remember, you were supposed to be some sort of attaché.”

“It was a fine afternoon.”

“And evening…hey, what’s it going to be? Is it going to be war with the Japs?”

“Yes,” replied Frank. “It’s unavoidable.”

“That’s too bad. Wonderful, good-natured folks. Mad as hatters but wonderful. A terrible system, though. It grinds them down into nothing. All totalitarian governments need to be destroyed. Give me liberty or a Tommy Gun!”

“You said it, Babe,” said Mrs Claus.

“There ain’t nothing like freedom, eh boys?”

“You said it again, Herman,” said Santa.

“Santa, Frank, Mrs C, have you noticed that table? Over there, in the corner…don’t look Albert! Play it cool. They’re eyeballing us, you specifically, Albert. I think they’re squirrelly. I heard them threaten the barman when they asked for an accordion and he offered a harmonica. I’m going to keep an eye on them.”

Said Einstein, “Nonsense, Herman. You’re a paranoic…More rum, please…I solved physics. If you had any idea what we’ve just come through…But we’re safe here. This is paradise.”

Another small craft had just entered the lagoon. The Babe was now eyeing it. It was also a dinghy. He said to Frank, “Looks like another bunch of squirrelly polka-perverts are coming ashore. Sons of the Fuhrer, I think. What are they doing down here? And where are they coming from in dinghies?”

Frank looked out to sea, wondering. His puzzlement was, however, startled by a large craft presently speeding over the horizon. It was headed straight for the lagoon and with great velocity. Frank pointed and the Babe squinted, and then smiled. It was barreling into the lagoon – a collision course set with the dinghy, whose sailors were all frantically waving for the larger craft to steer either starboard or port.

It didn’t.

The large craft just kept racing forward and was in fact accelerating. No choice, all aboard the dinghy had to jump for their lives as the large craft shredded the smaller vessel.

The Babe was laughing as the large craft drove right up onto the beach. Out of it leapt a big, grinning man, who marched straight up to the beach bar. But…he became distracted when he noticed Einstein. He rubbed his eyes. “Fidel must have mixed the rum punch especially strong.” He rubbed them again. “Albert, is that you? Or do my eyes doth deceive?”

“Yes, yes, Ernest. It’s me. I guess I should have expected to see the likes of you in the Islands. I solved physics. Have a drink.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

“The President of the United States is buying.”

“In that case, make it a double…Oh ho, Frank.” They shook hands. “I should have guessed you were around – if Roosevelt is buying. How long has it been?”

“Spain, I guess. How’s the book coming?”

“Slowly…Albert, introduce me to your beautiful friend.”

“Mrs Claus, this is Ernest Hemingway.”

Mrs Claus extended her hand and Hemingway kissed it. He said, “You don’t say? Wow! It is a pleasure...” – he looked up – “…which means…Santa, ha! I always thought you were fat, and old.”

Santa chuckled and said, “It looks like you’ve got a leg up on me there.”

“I do my best. You…you look like Gary Cooper.”

“He looks like me.”

Hemingway laughed. “I am happy to meet you, Santa. That typewriter you gave me when I was 12, it lit a spark under me. I couldn’t let you down and have been firmly on the path of righteousness ever since, well, there was that one time in Lisbon…”

“What about that time in Tijuana?” inquired the Babe.

Hemingway shrugged. Einstein asked, “Why did you wipe out those fellows in the dinghy? Bit rude.”

“Because they’re Nazis. I hate Nazis.”

“What?” Einstein shot to his feet and then just about fell over.

“Er, you like Nazis, Albert?”

“NOOO…What?”

“Speaking of,” said the Babe, “here they come.”

The drenched Nazis had made the beach. They were presently goose-stepping in the direction of the beach bar. They weren’t smiling.

Einstein asked, “How’d they get here?” yelping. Then he mentioned, to himself more than anyone else, “They shouldn’t be permitted in places as pleasant as this.”

Hemingway said, “In a submarine, I suppose. They’re probably parked just outside the lagoon.”

The wet-as-drowned-rats Nazi U-boaters entered the beach bar and barked some orders to the other U-boaters tucked in the corner, who all stood and approached Santa’s gang.

Their leader walked directly up to Hemingway. The Nazi was actually a couple inches taller. He poked Hemingway in the chest with forefinger and said, ‘You vust learn howz to operate ze boat. You ist schtupeed.”

“Maybe you need to learn how to drive, Bismarck.” And Hemingway poked the Nazi U-boater with a stiff ring finger, between the eyes.

One of the Nazis from the corner-table walked up to Einstein and pinched him.

“Ouw, hey!”

“Who are you? Who iz this man? I demand to know.”

“Take a pill, bucko,” said the Babe.

“You vatch it. I am notz talking to you. Now, answerz me!”

Another of the Nazis from the corner-table grabbed Albert and said, “You are Einstein?”

Another of the Nazis from the corner-table said, “I already told you, it can’t be.”

“Exactly, it can’t be.”

“It ist impossible. Ve already got him.”

The Nazi holding Einstein said, “It looks just like him. It sounds just like him. It acts just like him. You know what they say about a duck?”

“Nein,” said the other Nazi, looking confused.

The Babe was just about to say, it was on the tip of his tongue, ‘Hey Nazi! Of course he’s Albert Einstein. Smartest man in the whole goddamn world. Just solved physics. What’s it to you, schmuck?’

But Einstein said first, “Hello, my name’s Nick. I’m a hot dog vendor. Who are you guys? Ever met Phil from Arkansas?”

Santa didn’t like the tenor of the conversation, or, the mood of the conversation, or, where the conversation was headed, and, he felt it was likely to end in only one way, sooner or later. He gave Mrs Claus a nod; she twitched her nose. Santa, quicker than a panther, grabbed the Nazi harassing Einstein and the one bugging Hemingway. He smashed their heads together. It sounded like an anvil landing on a steel drum. Mrs Claus leapt off her barstool like a leopard, drop-kicking the Nazi charging at Santa.

Hemingway yelled, “Fight!” and launched himself on three Nazis.

The Bambino was swatting Nazis left and Nazis right and Nazis left again. Hemingway had caught two by the throat and was brutally head-butting them to death. Unfortunately, that meant there was still a whole bunch left, all of whom went for Nick the hot dog vender. Frank wasn’t much help as he still had no strength in either arm. Yet, he somehow managed to launch a flying cross-body, knocking down two of the rampaging Nazi stooges. That still, however, left a handful to go hammer-and-tongues on Nick the hot dog vendor. But, the Nazi U-boaters had misjudged, or perhaps not considered, the mood of that beach bar. Nick was responsible for drinks all around and thus 15 coconut farmers and as many fishermen jumped the remaining Nazis, making minced-meat out of the enemy horde quick. Hemingway complained later that there hadn’t been more Nazis to thrash – so he could have used a couple of his other moves. “It was over too quick to be much fun.”

But he made up for it.

After the Nazi U-boaters had been thoroughly beaten and poured into their only remaining dingy, and given a shove off by the coconut farmers back out into the tranquil Caribbean, Hemingway called for a crewman from his boat to fetch the speargun.

“Let me have first crack, Hem,” said the Babe.

“OK,” said Hemingway, figuring the Bambino would miss. “One shot only. Only one. No mulligans.”

“Only need one, ole buddy.” The dingy was probably 35 yards out when the Babe leveled the speargun, took careful aim, and missed – the dinghy, that is. He did manage to hit one of the Nazi U-boaters in the ass, however.

“That sounds like it really hurt,” said Mrs Claus.

“Right, my turn,” said Hemingway. “Unless you’d like a go, Albert.”

Einstein waved, “Nah.” He said, “I’m too drunk to speargun Nazis.”

Hemingway leveled the weapon, took careful aim and fired. No sound of a dinghy deflating could be heard across the lagoon; however, the many-decibeled cackle and yelp of a Nazi U-boater struck with a harpoon could.

“Huh,” said Hemingway dismayed. “Can’t believe I missed.”

“Here…give me that thing.”

“They’re going to be out of range soon,” mentioned Einstein.

Mrs Claus waggled the speargun and fired.

“Bull’s-eye!” sang Einstein.

In less than a minute that Nazi dinghy was already halfway to Davy Jones’ locker.

“Nice shootin’, Mama.”

Mrs Claus was smiling. She was always appreciative of Santa’s compliments. The Babe and Hemingway were nodding their heads with great reverence and admiration.

“You are one classy, chick, Mrs C,” said the Babe.

Einstein asked, “Do you think there are any sharks out there?”

“Er – oh, hadn’t thought of that,” replied Hemingway. He considered the question for a moment. “Doubt it. Hmm…Hey Fidel. Fidel!” he yelled.

Fidel was his first-mate and he came out onto the deck of Hemingway’s boat. It looked like he’d been sleeping. He said, none too politely, after yawning, “What?”

Hemingway gestured out to sea and asked, “Any sharks out there tonight?”

Fidel shook his head. “No. Not with this moon and current. Not tonight. Not unless there’s something to attract them. Like blood. Buenes noches.” And he returned down below.

Hemingway said, “Huh.”

“Hey, Albert,” said Mrs Claus, “Your equations are gone. Wiped out by the Nazi dinghy.”

Einstein laughed. “Don’t worry Mrs C. I’ve got it right here. Safe and sound. A steel vault.” He tapped his large head. “I just need to write something down once, and I never forget it.” He held up his empty glass and shouted, “More rum!”

“More rum!” shouted Hemingway, the Babe, Frank, Santa and Mrs Claus, along with 50 coconut farmers and at least two dozen fishermen.

And then the coconut farmers and fishermen started chanting, “Wet T-shirt, wet T-shirt, wet-T-shirt.”

Mrs Claus chugged her rum and hopped up onto the make-shift stage with the limbo girls. The applause was deafening – and didn’t stop for some time. Legend has it that they could be heard in Trinidad, Guadeloupe, Cuba, and Monserat. The night went on and on and on and then somewhere in space and time – even Einstein couldn’t calculate exactly when – it became morning.

***

The Babe woke up in the jungle. He’d been sleeping between a couple of reindeer and a few limbo dancers. Hemingway made it back to his boat but not his bunk. He crashed with the bait. Frank slept on the bar and Einstein under a table. Mrs Claus and Santa had managed somehow to bed down comfortably in the sleigh.

When Einstein woke he banged his head on the table but that’s not why it hurt. He wasn’t sure where he was. At first, he’d thought that he was back in New Jersey at The Institute for Advanced Study. But advanced thought had never felt quite so far away.

His mouth felt like the Gobi Desert.

Next, he was certain he was back out on the high seas in his small sailboat, stuck somewhere deep within the eye of a raging storm. ‘But, nah, this is rougher. Heavy weather indeed.’ He tried to move and staggered. “Crap!” he winced, rubbing his temples. His mind turned to the Bavarian Alps. ‘I must still be in the belly of that dark-and-sinister Nazi beast. Whipped and thrashed. Almost dead. Drugged. Left prone on the hard, cold floor of that hideous castle-dungeon.’ But…no matter how much his head ached, Albert couldn’t help but notice it was neither cold nor dark out. It was sunny and bright and pleasant. Einstein caught his first glimpse of the sparkling Caribbean Sea. “Ah right right right, OK. That kind of makes sense but how did I get here?”

Einstein jumped as he heard a loud thud. It was Frank falling off the bar. He didn’t wake up. It sounded as if a brick had hit a tin gong. The noise echoed and reverberated and echoed. Einstein continued to rub his temples. His head felt like a slipper piston gone wild and then berserk – in a bucket of acid.

Frank rolling around on the floor jarred his memory but it wasn’t until he saw Santa’s sleigh parked smack-dab in the middle of the beach that he could actually place himself. “OK, got it.” He stood carefully and wobbled to the beach. “Yikes.” He only fell twice. When he got to the lagoon he considered that, perhaps, he’d made a miscalculation and should head back to the shade of the beach bar and find an ice bucket in which to shove his head. If that didn’t work, nothing would. The sun was rising over the lagoon. Einstein had to step around a couple of coconut farmers, Blitzen, two limbo dancers, and a dozen snoring fishermen.

A small sailboat was just landing on the beach. “Hello mon ami,” said the man leaping from it. “You’re up early, ha. Some night!”

“Eh – yeah.” Einstein wasn’t sure if he’d spoken aloud, so he repeated, “Eh – yeah.”

The man hugged Einstein. He said, “Have you had breakfast? I’ve just caught some perfect groupers. Join me?”

“Oh, I don’t think…I could eat…anything…not just…yet…but…I’m dying…of thirst…here…Could I please have…some…” Einstein gestured meekly at the canteen slung over the Frenchman’s shoulder.

“Hey hey, you old chien, of course of course, mon ami. A man like you cannot be stopped.” And he flipped the canteen to Albert, who put it to his lips and drank deeply. He fell to his knees, gasping, “What…? God! It’s…”

“Rum, of course.”

Einstein was choking it seemed.

The Frenchman said, “It is my firm belief that rum tastes best in the morning…My own personal petit dejeuner…You don’t look so good, mon ami.”

“I don’t feel so good. Water…water…” whispered Einstein hoarsely.

“Oh no, mon ami. I am so sorry, but I can’t help you there. It is very expensive here so I don’t keep any. I do have a bottle of Champagne I’ve been saving. Should I open it? Why not? What better occasion could there be – than the discovery of The Unified Field Theory.”

“What?” yelped Einstein, feeling all of sudden much worse, yet sitting up straight. “No? Who? Impossible. I don’t believe it. Not for a second. Who told you? There isn’t anyone capable. Has there been an announcement? When? Where? Germany. It’s out of the question!”

The Frenchman was laughing. “Yes, there was an announcement, mon ami. Last night, on this beach, by you!”

Einstein collapsed and rolled in the sand for a few moments before lunging for the canteen and drinking deeply.

“Excellenty, mon ami. That is the spirit. Should I grab the Champagne?”

Einstein said, “Nooo!” clutching his head. “Ohh, my mind feels like a French poodle’s turd on the late-afternoon Paris pavement on a humid summer’s day.” Einstein stood, wobbled, and then fell back to his knees. He looked like jelly.

The Frenchman, a caring and considerate fellow, attended to him, making sure nothing was broken. “Sit, sit, relax – feel the breeze. Breathe deeply. Focus on the gently rolling waves.”

Einstein started moaning. He sounded a bit like a cow, concluded the Frenchman. And then, the Scientist’s voice deepened, and the tenor of his wailing sharpened drastically. ‘He sounds like a large mama bear who’s just been stung most violently by a wasp,’ determined the Frenchman. “What is wrong, mon ami? I assure you, the Champagne is excellent.”

“I can’t remember. In fact” – Einstein massaged his temples – “I don’t know anything. My brain has stopped working.”

“Don’t be silly. You are just…”

“Give me a math problem, quick. My life depends on it.”

“8 x 7 + 9.”

“No no no, something more challenging. That’s too easy…Oh my God, I don’t know. I have no idea. Ohhh…” Einstein toppled back over. He was rolling around lethargically in the sand. “The agony. The pain. The humiliation. Not to be able to think. Is this how most people feel all the time? No it can’t be so…Is this how others live?…Oh, I couldn’t bear it!”

The Frenchman helped Einstein sit up, patting him gently on the back, and then giving him a neck massage. “Don’t fret, mon ami. Please don’t worry, at all. All will be fine. Here, first have another mouthful of rum. This is your first step to recovery.” The Frenchman put the canteen to Einstein’s lips and the Scientist took a soothing gurgle. “Now, you need some light exercise. Let’s try and stand.” The Frenchman helped Einstein to his feet. “Very good, now we shall walk and reminisce about last night. It was some extravaganza. You, mon ami, had a wonderful time, I assure you. You were dancing marvelously and telling everyone you’d solved physics and how the physics’ bureaucracy would have to eat it. Oh yes, you were quite stirred up. Like Napoleon at Leipzig. I was thrilled to watch. You said that all the world’s physicists would all have to bury their own heads up their own asses, beaten, embarrassed and outdone every time by a Swiss patent clerk, an outcast, a man blocked from the Academy by petty civil servants, aka, the modern man of science. Yes, yes, oui, I was thrilled to listen to you. What else happened last night? Hmm, oh yes, I have to admit, I was even more thrilled to watch Mrs Claus. And the look of pride on Santa’s face. He was awfully proud of her.”

“Oh, why?”

“What? You don’t remember that! Oh, mon ami, I feel pangs for you. Mrs Claus won the wet T-shirt contest. First and second prize, one each.”

Einstein collapsed again.

“What what, what now, mon ami?”

“I can’t believe I missed that.”

“Oh but you didn’t, mon ami. You were one of the judges.”

Einstein let out a great cry. “If I had my trusty Luger right now, I’d blow my own head off. Do Hitler’s dirty work for him, the little rotter…What’s any of it matter? What difference does it make? Who cares? So what? I had it. The solution to the Universe. That equation – was the most beautiful and elegant thing I’d ever seen.”

“That is not what you said last night.”

“What? You’re nuts!”

“During the wet T-shirt contest you said it was the second most beautiful and elegant thing you’d even seen, if you count a pair as one; you were very specific. And both in the same day, you were quite amazed to be alive and in the world! I was touched by your devotion and eloquence. And, you were always calling for more rum. Such ambition, mon ami.”

Einstein toppled over and started moaning again, like a bird with a toothache, this time, thought the Frenchman. “Get up, get up. I told you, all will be well. You don’t trust, Pablo? We must walk in order to shake off last night’s backlash. You, Monsieur Einstein, are you not an art lover?”

Einstein said, “Yes, good art, yes,” as he climbed to his feet and followed the Frenchman knee-deep into the lagoon.

“Would you do me the pleasure, mon ami, of coming back to my hut for some breakfast? I will cook the grouper and open the Champagne – and if you will permit it – I will show you some of my art. I completed a painting, just last night. I don’t want to – how do they say? Blow my own horn – but it is quite good. A masterpiece, if you don’t mind me saying. But, mon ami, not of my own design, no no no – Nature’s.”

A fresh breeze was working wonders and there was much solace in both the Frenchman’s words and demeanor. Somehow he inspired confidence. Einstein was all of a sudden feeling better.

“Yes, OK, I don’t see why not.”

“Excellent. I would like to know the thoughts of an artist so great that he defeated all the world’s science professors – ‘drudges, hacks and posers!’ Your words.”

“But I haven’t. Not now. Yesterday, yes, sure, but today, no.”

“You, mon ami…I can see some pep behind your eyes already. You are feeling better…Oui? After breakfast, you will feel just fine – as good as new, as they say. I guarantee it. Fresh seafood, cold Champagne, good company and fine art can remedy anything.”

Einstein stood a little taller. He was feeling much better. “Ha, the answer to the equation is 65 and its square root is 8.06226.”

“I would never doubt you, monsieur.”

Einstein had a hankering. He was looking out to sea. It looked like a beautiful day was just settling in. He said, “Excuse me, but may I borrow your boat for a lap around the lagoon? I love sailing and it always makes me smarter.”

“Why of course. Excellent. I wish I had suggested it myself. Now, that is the spirit. And, it will give me time to clean the grouper and chill the Champagne.”

“Thank you thank you, I won’t be more than 15 minutes. Twenty max. I just need some fresh sea air and a little nautical wheeling.”

“No no, no no, no mon ami. Take your time. I insist. Do not rush. Do not ever rush. It is bad for the digestion and ages a man most egregiously. Makes him petty and his ballzens shrivel. No no, I’ll hear nothing of it. Enjoy the sea, and Nature, and the Universe. When you return, we will eat and drink and talk. You can tell me what you think of my artwork. It is my belief that you will find the Champagne and fish and my masterpiece from last night…well…how else to put it? Inspirational! Until then, I bid you adieu. Happy sailing.”

“Thank you, thank you.”

With those words, Einstein pushed off, with the help of the Frenchman, out into the lagoon. The Frenchman returned to his hut and started preparing breakfast.

Somewhere just out behind the lagoon, 30 or so feet down below

“Lies, lies, lies!”

“Einstein is on that island I tell you!”

“Albert Einstein is in the Fuhrer’s castle-dungeon on a secluded mountaintop in Austria.”

“It was him! I am sure of it. Does he have a twin?”

“Then why didn’t you take him?”

“We tried. But he has an army protecting him. We have suffered greatly…for the Fatherland.”

“And where are Schmidt and Bech?”

“I told you!”

“Tell me again!”

“Eaten by sharks.”

“Lies, lies, lies, you Uber-fools! They are gallivanting with tropical beer-wenches. We are supposed to embark for our new mission in an hour! Why do you lie so? Why do you make up such codswallop and utter nonsense? You are a Nazi. If you are going to lie at least lie intelligently! I am furious! Furious! Now…When will Schmidt and Bech be climbing off their strumpets? We have been ordered back to the Fatherland.”

“I told you mein Uber-Fuhrer, they were eaten by sharks.”

The Nazi U-boat Captain sat down with head in hands. He looked up. “I should just get it over with and shoot you right now.” He pulled a Luger from his belt.

“I swear!”

“How?”

“Any way you would like Uber-Fuhrer.”

“Idiot! How…how did they manage to get eaten by sharks?”

“I told you already. The Babe shot Schmidt in the arse with a speargun. And then that brute Hemingway hit Bech.”

“Yes, yes, and Mrs Claus destroyed the dinghy. Fairy tales. How schtupid do I look, Ensign? Why didn’t they eat you?”

“I don’t know, Uber-Fuhrer. Bech was already bleeding and quite fat, for a submariner. He loved thick crusts of pumpernickel slathered in creamy country butter. The sharks must have been full after him, I guess. They left us treading water and that’s when you found and picked us up.”

“Should have left you.”

“None of it is unreasonable, I assure you, mein Uber-Fuhrer. Einstein is there, so why shouldn’t Hemingway and Babe Ruth and the Clauzs?”

“Because Albert Einstein is not on that island. You were there when we captured him on the high seas!” The Nazi Captain raised a fist. “We earned this trip to the Caribbean because of our fine and illustrious work capturing him! So how could he be here too? You, Ensign, were with us when he delivered him to Sicily. Yes or no?”

“Yes but…”

“Yes but what, idiot? Fool. Fat head! After all the trouble we went through to capture and deliver him to the Fuhrer…You think…what? That the Fuhrer turned around and sent him for some fun and sun in the Caribbean with the likes of Babe Ruth and Ernest Hemingway and S. Clauz. Nein nein nein! I assure you, Ensign, the Professor was dispatched immediately on one of Baron Goering’s bombers to the Fuhrer’s mountain prison-fortress – where he remains. There can be no doubt!”

“Maybe he escaped.”

“Ha! What? Escaped? ESCAPED? You are surely insane. I should just shoot you. No one has ever escaped from the clutches of the Fuhrer. Impossible! It is unthinkable that one could escape from the Fuhrer’s mountain castle-prison. You are an imbecile….and another thing, I lived in New York from 1925 to 1928. I saw every Yankee home game when I wasn’t at sea. When Herman ‘the Babe’ Ruth calls his shot, he never misses. Know this Ensign, when Schmidt and Bech are found, they will be shot. You, luckily, do not have to wait.” The submarine Captain raised the Luger.

“Noooo,” began the Nazi Ensign, before falling dead.

The submarine Captain holstered the Luger.

“Sir, you might want to see this,” said the Seaman Second Class who was manning the periscope.

“What?”

“Sir, it is…”

“Not now.”

“Sir…you need to see –” gulp – “this.”

‘What insolence!’ thought the Captain. ‘The whole crew is mutinous. Do I have to shoot them all?’ He considered raising the Luger but then thought better of it. ‘We’re not going to have enough hands to get home if I keep shooting them. What, with Bech and Schmidt already sentenced…’ The Captain grunted before walking over to the periscope. The Seaman Second Class fled.

The Captain looked through the periscope. He looked very carefully, then looked again, then looked harder and then not at all while shaking his head with some vigor. He jumped up and down twice. He closed his eyes for a full ten seconds and looked again. He hopped on one foot and shook his head as if he had water in his ear. He looked again and then across the submarine, to the Seaman Second Class, who was nodding, almost mystically. Next, he took a moment to look at the dead Nazi Ensign on the submarine’s floor. He said aloud but to no one in particular, “I’ll be darned.” To an Ensign Second Class he said, “Surface and grab him. And not gently this time!” The U-boat Captain mused, “Hmmmm…” Thought he: ‘Capturing Einstein twice. I’ll either get a medal…or shot!’

***

Hemingway was stumbling about the beach when the Babe, staggering, joined him. “Oh,” said the Babe, rubbing his temples, “some night!”

“Some night…Perhaps a Bloody Mary is in order,” replied Hem, rubbing his temples.

The Babe strode out into the lagoon and executed a near-perfect shallow water dive. He, after a minute or two of floating about, returned to the beach at a pace brisker than that which he’d left it. He said, “Feeling better already,” and followed Hemingway to Pablo’s beach shack. Hemingway didn’t knock; he opened the door and the Babe entered.

“Yes, yes, mon ami, come come…Monsieur Hem! My old friend, always a fine, fine pleasure, entree, entrée…sit sit, gentlemen. Just like olden days in Paree…Today is already lucky, mon ami. Not even lunch yet and already a success. Some days there just ain’t no fish, but not today. And now your company…sit sit.”

Hemingway and the Babe did. The Frenchman skilleted out fresh grouper, and then poured each man – to their obvious great delight – tall flutes of Champagne. “Bon appetite!”

The Babe and Hem dug in. Soon they were enjoying a second Champagne flute.

Not long after which Pablo poured out a fourth of freshly squeezed orange juice, a fourth of freshly squeezed pineapple juice, a fourth of freshly squeezed grapefruit juice, and a fourth of light rum into the Champagne flutes. Hem and the Babe, after having thoroughly enjoyed their breakfasts, sipped their morning beverages.

Said the Frenchman, “My apologies gentlemen, I hope you can enjoy this concoction. You see, I promised Monsieur Einstein a glass of Champagne and have only the one bottle remaining. I must save it for the great artist.”

“Where is he?” asked the Babe.

“He’s out on the magical sea, mon ami,” replied Pablo.

“Sailing?” asked Hemingway.

“Yes, yes, he felt it would help ease his great brain. The stress from the excitement was too much.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” said the Babe.

“Oui, he certainly must be having a grand time.” said the Frenchman.

There was a knock at the door. “By all means, please,” invited Pablo, waving a hand.

Mrs Claus entered. The men started clapping. Mrs Claus curtsied. The applause abated. The Frenchman was to his feet, ushering Mrs Claus gently to a chair, which he first had to clear of paints and brushes. Next, he skilleted out some fish and buttered up some bread.

“Why, thank you,” said Mrs Claus.

“My undying pleasure.”

Pablo picked up the second bottle of Champagne and popped it. “I apologize most infinitely to Monsieur Einstein, but when a beautiful and learned woman comes a-calling, what is a serious gentleman to do, eh?” He poured, and Mrs Claus accepted, a tall flute of Champagne.

“Where is Monsieur Claus?” asked Pablo.

“Still snoring. Somehow he manages to sleep like a baby under that sleigh bench.” Mrs Claus dug into her breakfast and gulped her beverage, which Pablo was quick to refill. When she’d finished, she was struck with a pang. She looked around and asked, “Where is Albert?”

“Gone sailing, good for the brain, so they say,” replied the Babe.

“Hmm,” replied Mrs Claus, dropping her folk. “He’s never been all that bright, now has he?”

“How do mean, Mademoiselle? There is nothing quite like being out on the ocean. There are few other pastimes more uplifting,” replied Pablo, refilling her flute.

“Yes but how about being under it?”

“Excusez-moi, but I don’t follow. I am – how do you say? – confused.”

“It’s Albert who’s confused.”

“What’s wrong, Mrs C?” asked the Babe.

“That is how all this got started in the first place and I don’t plan to go through it again. A German U-boat on the prowl scooping him up.” Mrs Claus put down her glass. “How long has he been gone?”

The Babe and Hem both shrugged, looking to Pablo. “I don’t really know.” The Frenchman gazed out the small window (it looked like a porthole), studying the waves and sunshine. “For some time now.” He threw up his hands. “Two bottles of Champagne to be precise…I guess, not that long,” said he, as he poured out the last drops of the second bottle into Mrs Claus’ flute. “We had some rum too.”

Mrs Claus finished her glass in a gulp and said, “Thank you, Pablo.” She stood. “Now excuse me, I will go and find Albert. It’s time he had some breakfast.” Mrs Claus exited the shack and quickly located Cupid, who’d been sleeping behind the bar. Climbing aboard, she said, “Come on boy, let’s go and find that maniac scientist.”

***

Santa was still sleeping soundly, snoring lightly in fact, under the bench in his sleigh. He was quite used to it and didn’t mind at all whereas Mrs Claus preferred their bed at the North Pole. She nudged him and when he didn’t budge, pulled a hair from out of his nose.

“Ooow, what, ouch!”

“Get up.”

“What?”

“Snap snap. We’ve got work to do.”

“What is it? I was just dreaming a most wonderful dream. You were…”

“They’ve got him. Again.”

“Who…has…what…who?”

“The Nazis. They’ve got Einstein.”

“You’re still drunk, Mama,” said Santa good-naturedly, chuckling. “Nothing to be ashamed of – now, come on back to bed.”

“Up and at ‘em. I’m not kidding.”

“Maybe you should go for a swim. Clear your head…and stop annoying me.” Santa rolled over and Mrs Claus plucked another hair from his nose.

Santa sat up. “What are you talking about?”

“Albert went out sailing this morning and that Nazi U-boat operating in these waters grabbed him. He’s gone. Missing. There is no other explanation. He’s really not too bright, is he? How did he think those German sailors got here?”

“Ah,” Santa waved a hand, “he’s probably just got lost. Blown to the other side of the island. Or perhaps Cuba. So what? Who cares? I’m sure he’ll make his way back, eventually. He’s a big boy, and quite an experienced sailor, so they say. It is hard to believe though, isn’t it?”

“I’ve checked everywhere. I took up Cupid. He’s nowhere between here and Trinidad. He’s nowhere between here and the Bahamas. The Nazis must have grabbed him, again – and now he’s on his way back to that mountain-castle-prison-fortress. I am not going through all that again. So, come on, before he gets too far.”

“I’m going to have to round up the reindeer. Who knows where they’ve got to? Get ‘em rigged up. Could take a while.”

“Done,” said Mrs Claus, pointing.

Santa stood, trying to clear his head. His reindeer team was harnessed and ready to go.

“Nice work, Mama. OK – well, let’s get crackin’. I really do hate Nazis…was hoping for a lie-in and perhaps some breakfast in bed.”

“It’s almost lunchtime.”

“Exactly. I’m going to ring his neck when we find him.”

Hemingway and the Babe pulled up to Santa’s sleigh, slightly winded. They’d been jogging. “What’s up?” asked the Babe.

Mrs Claus said, “Albert has been taken...”

“Again!” exclaimed Santa.

“…by a Nazi U-boat.”

“You’re going after him?” It was the Babe.

“Yes…I guess,” replied Santa, with little enthusiasm.

“YES!” cried Hemingway, and then, “hot dog – I love hunting Nazis. YES! They can’t be far. You cover the air. We’ll take the sea…Come on, Babe. Let’s roll.”

The two jogged to Hemingway’s boat. And, not much later, they were plowing the clear Caribbean waters. Hemingway’s first order: “Fidel, please bring up the heavy weaponry and make sure torpedo bays one and two are loaded.”

“Yes boss,” replied Fidel rushing about.

The Babe asked, “Torpedoes?”

“You bet. Had ‘em installed last spring. This thing’s got twice the oomph of any Navy PT boat. Hell, I think we could give a destroyer a go.”

“Sweet!” replied the Babe, swinging a Louisville Slugger.

“Fidel, as soon as you get the torpedoes loaded, bring up the rum.”

“Yupper.”

***

That night, around the bonfire on the beach, Pablo wondered what had happened to his new friends. Einstein never returned and the others all took off in a flash. But, as he sipped his rum (it was a sipping night, no gulping [or chugging]) he considered it was the Caribbean after all and a transient way of life by nature. People come and go (not always with your boat but anyhow, C’est la vive. Pablo was too much of a philosopher to give it much thought [to make a big deal of nothing]). The coconut farmers and fishermen and limbo dancers were all still there and they all had a good time. But it wasn’t an Event. Instead, a night of laidback dancing, soft singing, puffing, sipping and storytelling, mostly about the night just past and Pablo’s work of art, which was a cubist rendering of the wet T-shirt contest. For modesty’s sake – “Really, mon ami, I couldn’t come even close to capturing their true elegance, grace and beauty. So, I substituted the next greatest thing” – Einstein’s equation ran approximately between bellybutton and neck, like a celestial bikini top. The limbo dancers were even more impressed than the coconut farmers, but not as much as the fishermen, or bartender.

Some hours earlier, out in the Atlantic, somewhere Bermuda-way

Mrs Claus dove and then Cupid pulled up and twisted east and out of range just as the machine gun started tut-tutting. It was an iron-whale firing away and it was angry. Mrs Claus sped off in search of Santa, who was likely somewhere off the coast of Georgia or South Carolina. Hemingway had speculated that the Nazi U-boat would either snake its way up the American coast and into Canadian waters before shooting across to Iceland and then into the Baltic, or, head straight dead-ahead for Bermuda, and then directly across the Atlantic to Madeira and then into the Mediterranean. In both instances, there was no doubt, Einstein’s final destination was the Fuhrer’s mountain-castle prison. Santa and his crack team undertook option one while Mrs Claus, saddled atop Cupid, and Hemingway’s boat covered the Nazi U-boat’s second possible route of escape.

Hemingway’s boat was fast, and running on the bearing he’d set from the Caribbean would soon overtake the Nazi U-boat. He’d requested dibs from Santa, which had elicited only shrugged shoulders. It was Mrs Claus who’d said, “Yes, fine, sure, Ernest, but don’t you dare sink it till Albert is clear.” Hemingway had reacted as if he’d stubbed his toe.

She could see Hemingway’s boat now and swung down, giving the signal. There was no need for any conference. She let him know that their quarry had been sighted and she was off to fetch Santa. As Mrs Claus soared off on Cupid, she thought she heard from below, “Remember boys, I get first crack.”

As Mrs Claus veered back towards the coast, she spotted a small speck on the horizon barreling her way. It was Santa. Who else could it be? There were no Messerschmitts in these parts. ‘Are there, hhhmmm?’ Santa must have finished his sortie and was already doubling back. Cupid slowed and soon maneuvered up and over Santa’s sleigh. Mrs Claus slipped off the reindeer, freefalling, landing on Santa’s lap. His first words were, “I knew I got the bum job. You found it! Where?” Mrs Claus was tired and pointed. She was glad she hadn’t had to go searching for Santa all over the Georgia and Carolina coasts. It’s hard work flying a reindeer solo and the trade winds were particularly strong that day. Santa’s sleigh slowed to almost a crawl while Cupid completed his midair reharnessing. After which, Santa flourished the reins and off they took at full-speed for Bermuda. When they arrived just off the south-westerly coast, the battle was already raging.

Two deck guns on Hemingway’s boat were hammering away at the U-boat, which looked like it was sacrificing its deck crew and attempting to submerge. As Santa swooped down to recon the situation, he saw a dinghy approaching from the opposite side. It looked like it had snuck up around the U-boat undetected. Both the Babe and Fidel leapt out of the dingy and onto the sub, scaling the side, still unseen. With two six-shooters Fidel crouched and covered the Babe as he charged the two Nazis manning the deck gun, firing away at Hemingway’s boat. Wielding only a Louisville Slugger, the Babe knocked the first Nazi to Florida and the second, likely, all the way to the island of Hispaniola. Next, Fidel was at the hatch, letting loose with both six-shooters. Dents but no damage. The Babe said, “Stand aside.” Fidel did and the Babe started hammering the hatch with his 48-ounce Louisville Slugger. He was making headway but the U-boat was submerging quick. They were knee-deep in water and then waist-deep with the Babe still swinging. Treading water moments later the U-boat vanished, “Try to swim back to the dinghy,” cried Fidel.

The current that night was strong and both the Babe and Fidel were quickly swept away. Santa’s team – who were now experts at water-landings – glided right up onto the Babe. Mrs Claus was at the reins now, and Santa, hung over the side, hauled in the Babe. Meanwhile, Hemingway was fishing out Fidel. Said the Babe to Santa before he’d even stepped foot in the sleigh, “One more at-bat and I would have smashed that hatch smack-dab over dead-center. Just one more swing and the ball would have been out of the park.”

Explosions sounded. And then more explosions...The sea rumbled. Hemingway was depth-charging the sub and with real verve. Mrs Claus took back off, did a loop and swung in low over Hemingway’s boat. Santa yelled, “Cut it out, Ernest.”

“I just want to scare them. Don’t worry, Santa…Try and persuade the U-boat back to the surface…before they get away.”

“They’re not going to get away!” roared Mrs Claus, as she did a second loop and skimmed Hemingway’s boat once again.

Yelled Santa, “Just stay close, Ernest, and follow my lead.”

“Will do,” replied Hem, raising a good-natured hand. The under-sea explosions stopped.

“What’s the plan?” asked Mrs Claus at the reins.

“I don’t have a plan,” replied Santa.

“You…What…eh?”

“I have an idea.”

Santa took back the reins from Mrs Claus, yelled a few instructions to his team, and the hunt began with his reindeer team zigzagging the ocean not more than a few feet above the waves.

The Babe asked, “Got an extra bat around here – Louisville Slugger, 48 ounces?”

“Nope, but just under the bench there...yes there, you will find something that might prove useful. Second best, you might say.”

The Babe reached under the bench and pulled out a Tommy Gun, which he cocked. Mrs Claus was presently loading her Luger. Santa said, “They can’t have gotten far…any second now and we’ll have them…I just hope they haven’t shot Albert yet…I know I would have.”

“It’d be wise,” said Mrs Claus.

Dasher made a rather loud noise.

“Bingo!”

“What?” asked the Babe.

“We’ve got ‘em.”

“Where?”

“Just ahead.”

“How do you know?”

“Dasher has exceptional reindeer hearing. We’re coming up on either a Blue Whale or a Nazi Iron-whale. My money’s on the latter.”

“Locked and loaded,” exclaimed Mrs Claus, slinging a rifle over her shoulder.

“Dasher, Dancer!” and up Santa’s sleigh tore at an impossible angle. “Hold on to your hat, Babe,” said Santa as his team completed a great windmill maneuver. “OK, now, get ready to jump, lady and gentleman.”

“I’m staying,” said Mrs Claus.

“No no, Mama. Join the assault team. The Babe and Hem and Fidel need you. You guys are going to have to be quick; otherwise it could be lights out for Albert.” Hemingway’s boat was coming up hard and fast. Mrs Claus gave Santa a peck on the cheek and then for some reason – good luck perhaps – so did the Babe. After which, they both bailed over the side of Santa’s sleigh, hitting the water just off the bow of Hemingway’s boat. While Santa soared up, up, up like an eagle into the night sky, Fidel and Ernest fished the Babe and Mrs Claus out of the sea.

Santa flew well beyond the U-boat, which was snaking its way under the sea. At a very loose angle, he turned his sleigh around, and then, first gathering as much speed as possible, held his breath and dove, setting a collision course with the U-boat.

A great game of Chicken was underway.

Either the U-boat would run scared and surface or the fishes of the mighty Atlantic would have an opportunity – first time – to sample reindeer chum.

To Santa’s great satisfaction, the reindeer proved to be even more versatile than he’d imagined. After all, they’d never been tested underwater before. Santa figured that they must be moving at better than 30 knots per hour. It might just do the trick, he hoped. Fingers crossed!

A few minutes later back on the surface

There was nothing to do but wait and remain alert. And then the great crash came – the iron-whale leaping out of the sea. Fidel was at the helm and quickly piloted Hemingway’s boat to within a couple feet of the Nazi U-boat. Mrs Claus was the first to make the leap, followed by the Babe and Hem. Fidel covered their assault with a deck gun. They approached the U-boat hatch cautiously. There was no opposition, yet. Santa and his reindeer swooshed up and out of the sea, swung high and around, straightened out and made a soft landing on the sub. His reindeer team barely fit but they were aboard safe and sound and breathing rather deeply. Santa looked blue, but waved a hand signifying that he was fine.

Hem said to the Babe, “What are you waiting for?”

The Babe replied, “10-4, good buddy,” and started swinging for that hatch with his 48-ounce Louisville Slugger. He kept a handful on Hem’s boat for just such occasions.

More than a few or so minutes earlier at about 35 feet down below

“Einstein, you will certainly be made to pay, and dearly, for your friends’ insolence. Their interference – in affairs that do not concern them! – has cost me two hard-working sons of the Fatherland. And now we must proceed underwater. Plus, the very capable Ensign I had to shoot because of you. And the two men eaten by sharks. What do you have to say for yourself? If you were not number three on the Fuhrer’s Enemies List, I would have you shot.”

“Number two,” corrected Einstein.

“I should just shoot you and get it over with. How you escaped? I wonder. It really is quite mind-boggling.”

“You couldn’t hold me then and you can’t now.”

“You got lucky once, Einstein. You’re not actually that smart, are you? I am a graduate of engineering college and have never been impressed with the likes of you. Your scientific papers are all Uber gobblygoopy-poopstick. You are a fraud! But you will learn; they all do: You will learn that the Fuhrer’s iron will cannot be defied. The world is changing and…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…another singular douchebag desperate to change the world because he’s a misfit-guttersnipe. It’s an old story and not at all original. I doubt he’ll be the last…”

“Ah, but you err again, Professor. He will be the last. You see…”

“So you admit it?"

“What?…Admit what? Quiet! The Fuhrer is building a new Reich. We vill change the world! The final word on all the world’s affairs will be his. The Third Reich will last a thousand years and then a thousand after that and so on. It is ordained and impossible to stop his inexorable march. And, allow me to assure you Herr Professor, any who attempt to do so will be crushed under the mighty wheels of history.”

The sonar man said to the U-boat Captain, “Mein Uber-Fuhrer, I’ve detected a large whale. It’s barreling straight for us and at a great speed.”

“Then change course, you fool. Must I do everything around here?”

“Uber-Fuhrer, I have, twice, already! Each time the mighty beast has adjusted its course accordingly, a collision course set. It’s faster than a Messerschmitt; I have never seen anything like it. We must surface, immediately!”

“No! What?”

“Yes, mein Uber-Fuhrer. By my calculation we have less than a minute till impact.”

“Nonsense. Change course. Due North.”

“I told you…”

“Do it – schtupid idiot!”

Thirty seconds passed, slowly.

“Well?” asked the Captain.

“The sea beast has altered its course and is still heading straight for us. Its speed is increasing! Should I surface?”

“What if it’s a Megalodon?!?” both winced and cried out a weeping sailor third-class.

“Dive!” roared the Captain. “Dive, I say!”

“Dive?” squeaked an officer, pale and trembling, not at all casual about a watery grave.

“We’ll break up if we go any deeper,” yelled another of the officers.

“Impact in 15…make it 13 seconds, mein Uber-Fuhrer. We must surface!”

“Over my dead body,” yelled the Captain.

A shot rang out.

The Captain fell into the arms of Einstein, who quickly dropped him, thud. From the sound of it, he was dead when he hit the floor.

Back on the surface

The Babe, on his second Louisville Slugger, pointed and said, “I’m calling my shot. One more swing and we’re home. Get ready.”

The hatch flew open and a white flag shot out.

The Babe had to check his swing, otherwise he would have broken the arm, and skull, of the man hoisting the pale paper napkin of surrender – which wouldn’t have been at all sporting. The Babe lost his balance, tumbled, and then spiraled into the drink. All were astounded at the absolute poetic athleticism of the big man.

After ascertaining that the coast was clear, the Nazi officer with the napkin climbed out the hatch, stood on the deck, and saluted. Hem saluted back. Fidel was busy pulling the Babe out of the ocean.

The ex-Nazi Naval Officer asked, “Are you the commanding officer?”

Hem shook his head and pointed. The ex-Nazi officer saluted to Mrs Claus, then said, “I present you with German U-boat 333, we call her, The Lowenbrau. And, I humbly request asylum for myself and my crew in your great country…eh, you are American, aren’t you? We would all like season tickets to the Yankees.”

“I’m from the North Pole.”

“Oh, it’s cold, isn’t it?”

It looked like the ex-Nazi officer was having second thoughts.

“Temperature is a mental exercise in discipline,” replied Mrs Claus. “But, yes, I guess you could say – generally speaking – that it’s cold.”

“Well, maybe the North Pole would be okay, if everyone there looks like you…”

“They don’t.” Santa was laughing. He said, “Don’t worry, young fellow. We know just the man to talk to concerning entry into the United States of America – the land of opportunity, where the pursuit of happiness is emblazoned in its founding documents. It’s your new home now and the American people will be happy to have you, I guarantee it, so long as you believe in freedom for all and responsibility yourself. Isn’t that right, Ernest?”

“You bet,” said Hemingway, and then, “Welcome.”

“What about season tickets?”

“Of course, sure thing,” said the bedraggled Babe, just clear of the drink. “To the Cubs.”

Einstein climbed out the hatch. Santa gave him a disapproving look. “Three times will be unlucky for you, Albert. Next time you get captured by Nazis, they can keep you. I won’t save you again.”

“Save me, eh? I had a plan all along. Who do think persuaded these fine gentlemen to surrender? Piece of cake. You should stick to delivering toys, Claus.”

“Albert, you’ve have been shot!” exclaimed Mrs Claus, looking concerned. “Are you okay?”

“Oh yeah, no er, that’s ah…that’s the Captain’s. A real bleeder.”

Three days later

The submarine rolled slowly over the gentle waves and came to a halt. They had arrived at Key West, Florida, where a team of U.S. Navy engineers would take her apart, load her onto a truck – and then somewhere else top-secret – put her back together again. They couldn’t have risked bringing her into any actual naval yard or military establishment, for the Fuhrer already had a vast network of spies at work across North America. The intelligence war had started the day after that first German soldiers had goose-stepped into the Rhineland. Nazi U-boat 333, nicknamed the Lowenbrau, would forever be recorded in German records as having been lost somewhere out in the Bermuda Triangle. A tragic, unfortunate event.

It had been a good cruise, the best the former-Nazis had ever known – a lot of singing and plenty of rum. Under the cloak of darkness, they’d even snuck into Havana in the middle of the night for a few hours of harmless fun.

Santa and Mrs Claus were waving, standing at Hemingway’s private pier. Frank was there too, but he wasn’t waving. Both his arms were in slings and plaster. Nonetheless, he was smiling. All in all, things had worked out and the President was happy. Yes, Frank’s cover as a top-tier Nazi agent had been blown, meaning that a valuable line of intelligence was lost. However, the capture of a top-of-the-line Nazi U-boat – one of their newest – was a ‘real coup’ – in the words of the Prez himself.

Standing just back of Frank, Santa and Mrs C was a team of Navy men, and a pair of FBI agents. The Navy men were there to interview the German sailors. After which, they were to be settled on ranches in Montana, with the assistance of the FBI.

Before departing, numerous toasts were had, involving multiple bottles of Champagne, rum and Jägermeister. Farewells were made. Hemingway promised to visit the next time he was Wyoming-way and the Babe also pledged to come a-calling someday. “I love the wide-open spaces and it would only be sporting after all. Give you a chance to win some good ole-fashioned American dollars, after losing all your German marks. Heck, I’m surprised they took them at the casino in Havana – even at 30 cents on the dollar.” You see, the Babe had won clear victories in a number of drinking contests during his three-day cruise on the Lowenbrau from Bermuda to Key West, pit stop in Cuba (Hemingway had remained on his own boat).

When the submariners, Navy men and FBI agents had cleared out, Hemingway looked around and took a deep breath. He said, “It’s good to be back…well, I think I hear Sloppy Joe’s calling. Mrs C, Santa, you’re going to love it.”

“Count me in,” said the Babe.

“I don’t mean to be the wet blanket, but it’s going to have to wait,” spoke Frank, looking solemn for a moment.

“What?” croaked Hem.

“First, we need to call in at your house.”

“Why?” replied Hemingway, looking none too happy.

“Someone is waiting for us.”

“Oh no…”

“It’s not your wife.”

“Whew!”

“Just follow me.”

“The cats? The cats are fine. Noble beasts, know how to take of themselves. Very independent.”

“This way,” replied Frank.

Not more than five minutes later Hem, Al, the Babe, Frank, Mrs C and Santa arrived at Hemingway’s front door, which was wide open. They all stepped through it and were greeted immediately by a merry, distinctive voice. A voice familiar to all Americans and the world: “Gentlemen, gentlemen, and lady, welcome, sit please sit…Ernest, I apologize for pulling rank, this is your house, but where else was I to stay. I knew you wouldn’t mind. So, allow me to play host. Sit, sit, please. Have a drink…Hendricks has just mixed up some ace gimlets. Have one…”

A well-dressed man brought over a tray and all helped themselves.

“I just wanted to thank you all…Ernest, Herman, your assistance was indispensable. And…” the voice started laughing, “and a wag of the finger at you, Albert. There will be no more sailing – unless it’s on a battleship – until Hitler is killed, or his other nut is lopped off. Is that understood? Either that or you are going to have become a lot less important. Oh, by the way, word has reached me that you solved physics.”

Einstein let out a great wail, followed by a cry and then a moan, before finally, a whimper. It seems, he still couldn’t quite remember the equation.

“Don’t worry, Al,” said the Babe. “It’ll come back to you. You’ve just got to give it time. Once, I lost my swing on a Friday in Cleveland…You bet, I’m serious, no kidding. Thought it was the end of the line. Next day in Cincinnati, hit five home runs in a double-header. Beers went down smooth that night, let me assure you…Don’t press, old pal, it’ll come.”

Einstein was sneezing uncontrollably. He said, “Damn cats.”

Hem replied, “Lump it.”

The voice continued: “There is also the matter of the cottage – it was University property – that you burned down.”

“What?”

“Left the kettle on, the fire department determined.”

“Oh…er, I…I thought I’d be back sooner.”

“Yes, I don’t doubt it. At first they wanted to take it out of your Princeton salary. But I convinced the auditor-general that it was surely a Nazi spy who left the kettle on – a blatant act of overt sabotage. We picked up the tab.”

“Well, I’m not completely certain that I did leave the kettle on, now that I think about it, deeply,” stated Einstein. “Come to think of it, I wouldn’t put it past them.”

“Indeed, right, exactly, Albert, who knows?”

“Mr President,” began Hemingway, “are you absolutely sure it wouldn’t be possible for me to keep the Lowenbrau? I’d love to have a U-boat, sir. I did capture her – my boat, that is. According to seafaring law, she’s my prize, lawfully.”

“Yes, perhaps, but I am not Elizabeth, nor are you Drake, Ernest. I wish it weren’t the case. I tell you what, if I get my hands on another one, I’ll let you have it, or, at least, borrow it.”

“Thank you, Mr President.”

“It is I who thanks you, all of you…Hendricks.”

The President’s man started to make his way over with another gin gimlet. “No no, no,” began the Prez, “well, okay, sure thank you…but, eh, the other thing, if you would.” Hendricks placed the gimlet in front of Roosevelt and walked off. The Prez tasted the beverage and smiled.

“They’re real tasty,” said the Babe.

“Yes, indeed, Herman. My favorite actually.”

“It’s a nice change up after all the rum in the Caribbean.”

“I’m sure.”

Hendricks returned with a large wooden box. It looked like a humidor. He placed it in front of the President, who pondered the box for a moment before opening it and reaching inside. He held up a beautiful medallion. He said, “I call it the Presidential Medal of Freedom and Imagination. And why not? You can’t have freedom without imagination and you can’t have imagination without freedom. Not in my book, anyhow. I had it specially minted for this occasion. I am happy to be here to present it…you guys had me on the edge of my seat there for a few days…Stand up Santa, please. You, sir, have accomplished a great feat…you married a wonderful woman, whom a little birdie told me, pulled yours and Albert’s bacon out of the fire on numerous occasions…”

“I had a plan,” interrupted Einstein matter-of-factly.

“I didn’t,” said Santa.

“Please, if you would, Santa, pin this medallion on your beautiful wife, in display of my deep gratitude, affection, and admiration.”

Santa did and Mrs Claus turned pink and kissed the President on the cheek, who said, blushing, “How come I’m always winning? It’s not fair to others.” The Prez held up two more medallions. “Santa, one for Ernest and one for Herman. Gentlemen, you didn’t hesitate to fight the good fight, not for a second. And for this I commend you – even though it did interfere with your well-earned Caribbean fishing trip.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it,” said Hem.

“Hear hear,” offered up the Babe.

“I am glad you both feel that way because, unfortunately, there is still plenty to do, for everyone who holds freedom dear.”

“Does that mean it’s going to be war?” asked the Babe.

“A people scared and confused are easily swindled. The German people have given their country away to gangsters in exchange for shoddy promises of wealth and cheap short-term gains in security. Next, I’m afraid – if the world doesn’t act – it will be their souls, and perhaps ours too.”

The President scanned the room.

“The American people – a free and independent people – are absolutely right to oppose war…presently. But, they don’t know what I know, thanks to agents like Frank. They don’t know what the Nazis are plotting and I can’t communicate it to them in any sort of meaningful way. They’d think I’m nuts because what the Nazis are capable of is insane – it’s beyond comprehension. Who could believe it? I almost don’t. I certainly wish I didn’t. Unfortunately the world will find out soon enough. There’s no way around it. These cruel, evil forces currently swirling and simmering, just waiting to be unleashed on a world-wide scale, will not extinguish themselves. It is up to us to stop them, or the whole great ship – from New Zealand to Greenland – will go up in terrible flames, and sink for good.”

The President paused for a few moments.

“Germany is no longer a nation but a detention block. Work and eat freely is the American mantra – obey and eat miserably, the Nazi. They are not compatible. Yes, war is inevitable.”

Silence.

Breaking the dark mood, Einstein asked, “Hey, where’s mine?”

“Your what?” replied the Prez, smiling again.

“My Presidential Medal of Freedom and Imagination. If anyone deserves one, it’s me.”

“Ha, and they say scientists have no sense of humor. It’s a lie, I tell you. That’s a real knee-slapper, Albert. A hoot, my mother would call it. I tell you what, when you find that lost equation and solve physics once and for all, I’ll reconsider the matter…Now come on Hendricks, let’s get this show on the road, pin Santa’s medallion on him. He shouldn’t have to do it himself.”

“I’d be delighted and honored, sir,” said Hendricks to the Prez; and then, out of the side of his mouth, to Mrs Claus, “He actually looks dashing. Not at all like in the magazines and Coca-Cola advertisements. It really is remarkable.”

“To Santa!” declaimed FDR.

“To Santa!” echoed about, as glasses were smashed.

“Drink up!” roared Hem.

After refills (and more refills), said Hendricks to Mrs Claus, “You should sue. Have you ever seen Topper?”

“Yes, yes! It’s one of my favorites.”

“Santa looks just like the star.”

“You mean the banker?”

“No no, what? No, the guy who can’t drive but dances real well.”

“You don’t think?...Really?” Mrs Claus examined Santa for a moment. “Did you hear that, Dear?”

“Er,” replied Santa.

Hendricks continued, “Absolutely, but smarter…And, you, Mrs Claus, have you ever considered a career in the movies? There’s no starlit out there who could hold a candle to you. I’m sure the President could arrange a screentest.”

“Happy to,” said Roosevelt chuckling. “I’ll talk to that ass Kennedy first thing.”

Mrs Claus laughing, replied, “Sounds good, right after Ernest gets his submarine, and Albert finds his equation.”

“Ha! I love it,” exclaimed the Babe.

“Hendricks, more drinks. How about some martinis?”

“Coming up, Mr President.”

“Excellent, and one for yourself, and don’t stint.”

“Another round here, and then let’s hit the road and head on over to Sloppy Joe’s. Jose would love to meet you, Mr President…Drinks half-price, I’d wager,” suggested Hemingway.

“I don’t believe it, not after the extensive tab I received from your time in the Caribbean. But hey, why not?” replied the Prez.

“You can say that again,” said Einstein.

“Why not!”

“Ho ho ho,” said Santa.

SANTA

VS

THE FASCISTS

Christmas Eve, 1937

Santa’s reindeer team zigged and zagged over the Coliseum then soared up hard-left before diving, doing a lap around the Vatican. The Eternal City, Santa loved it and always took out some extra time for joyriding when in Rome.

On this particular Christmas Eve, he was in a particularly good mood. It’d been a smooth ride and he’d just dropped off Mussolini’s present at the Parliament: Lipstick, rouge and a compact. He chuckled as he considered Il Duce’s reaction. ‘He’ll certainly be pleased,’ thought Santa. ‘May even wear it for Hitler next time they meet, ha!’ Santa jerked the reins and his reindeer team slowed to a crawl as they winded through Rome’s ancient city streets, skimming an unlikely dusting of newly fallen Christmas snow.

It was marvelous. Santa didn’t usually take such liberties but he couldn’t help himself. This was Rome. Santa loved Italy and the Italian people and was heartbroken that they’d fallen under the spell of Mussolini and in with the Nazis. The whole world was turning upside down. Santa’s team shot right then up an alley and over a rooftop, finally soaring up, up into the starry night sky again, before swooping back down and buzzing the Trevi Fountain and loop-di-looping the Spanish Steps and then gliding through and beyond the Piazza della Repubblica before checking in at St Peters and then soaring off again, straight up at approaching an impossible angle.

His reindeer team loved being put through the paces, especially in Rome, and always enjoyed a challenge. Santa cheered as they executed each maneuver with more precision than the previous. As they swung back across the night sky horizontally, evening out…well, that’s when Santa first smelled trouble. He shook his head. “It can’t be.” Then he saw it; just barely, but he saw it…or them. Two specks climbing out of the night sky, heading straight at him. Messerschmitts – the newest models. Real fancy machines. Fast and slick with unbelievable handling. Modern marvels. Santa chuckled, “They’ll never learn.”

“Dasher, Dancer,” roared Santa and his reindeer shot off and up just as the Messerschmitts’ machine guns started firing. “Amateurs,” spat Santa, wondering, ‘How should I handle this?’

The night’s work was complete, all his presents delivered. Mrs Claus would be sat up waiting. ‘I should just head home and leave them be, I suppose…’ he thought. And then, ‘Man, it is a beautiful night. What a Christmas Eve!’

Taking in the starry night sky, Santa ruminated and mused for a while longer, and then he snapped the reins, saying to himself, ‘Nah.’ To his team he said, “Dasher, Dancer, hit it! Rudolf, stealth, now.”

The hunt was on.

The Messerschmitts were flying at a low altitude in a defensive formation. It seemed, Santa considered, that they’d given up on their quarry and were heading back to base for a mug of whatever Fascists drink. Some sort of protein shake likely.

Santa maneuvered directly atop them. The Messerschmitts didn’t budge: Course, speed and altitude steady. Doubling back, he’d caught them unawares. “A little left,” said Santa to his reindeer team. And then, “Okay, okay…a tad right…perfect, excellent, steady now, hold.” Santa reached down with one hand – the other holding the reins tight – and from under his bench, he pulled out a bucket of coal that it turned out he hadn’t needed. “It’s always wise to be prepared,” was one of Santa’s mottos (actually its author was Mrs Claus). He took careful aim and then dumped it over the side, splashing it all over the unsuspecting Messerschmitt directly below him. The pilot was blinded and panicked and veered left, just about colliding with the other Messerschmitt, before veering right then up and then diving. Santa reached down and pulled from under his bench a turkey and a goose (gifts from a family in Switzerland; Mrs Claus would be disappointed but…). He pitched them over the side, the goose then the turkey. Bingo! Bird strike. Both propellers in the second Messerschmitt were disabled and it dove accordingly, in fact, directly in the path of the first Messerschmitt, which had been attempting to climb. The explosion was spectacular and probably seen in Florence and Naples. Santa whistled and set a course for home.

He heard it and felt it, long before he saw it. Blitzen and Vixen winced. Cupid cried out. Machine guns were a-blazing, cutting down his reindeer team. ‘That’s no Messerschmitt. It can’t be. Too fast. Too fast by a long shot.’ Vixen fell away first, then Blitzen.

‘We’re going down,’ thought Santa. His head was swimming, his heart sinking. Next, Cupid was gone, lost. Santa attempted evasive maneuvers but it was too late. ‘Where did it come from? What was it?’ Rudolf was shrieking and Dasher and Dancer were pulling madly in opposite directions. It had turned around. It was coming back. Santa all of a sudden felt weak. Blood was splashing down his face. He shook his head, trying to clear his skull. It made another pass but didn’t fire this time. Showboating, it rocketed past Santa’s sleigh in a shot. Santa could hear laughter: Great, insane high-pitched penetrating, familiar, nasal laughter. His sleigh and team were falling out of the night sky fast.

“Break off, break off, scatter,” yelled Santa. “Now!”

But Dasher and Dancer didn’t hear his command, or ignored it. They were free falling, spinning backwards. Santa, against the backdrop of the bright Christmas Eve moon, could see it clearly now. It was a sleigh. He couldn’t believe his eyes. It was a sleigh, larger and seemingly faster than his own, pulled by…he couldn’t believe it. It was being pulled by 14, no…16 reindeer. On the sides of the huge black sleigh – large swastikas were painted in blood red. How did he do it? How could he have? The Nazi sleigh had massive cannons mounted on each side and it was presently barreling hard and fast at Santa, hungry for the kill.

“Dasher, Dancer…old friends…break off and scatter – now! – please...please…”

The remaining reindeer turned their heads, searching Santa’s eyes. No choice, they did what was asked of them, breaking free of the reins and Santa’s sleigh, scattering into the night sky.

A grinning Elmer Elf, charging brazenly, at the helm of the Nazi sleigh, gave the order to fire.

By Trevor Pearson