Chapter 7: Disappointing the Fuhrer

Interview with Roxy Smothers, 1973:

I was floored by the explosion of our car but for only a moment. When I came to, Hozzenka was running across the road, pistol in one hand and dynamite stick in the other. In her wake followed a horde of gunsels that would have put George Raft to shame. Some of them ran over to the village tavern and began firing at the SS she-wolves that had come out of the hovercraft. The rest followed Hozzenka who was tearing towards the big tanks that were coming up the road. She had a look of homicidal joy on her face.

We could sure use the help. The three lead tanks were almost into the center of the village and they were wrecking everything in sight. A shell came overhead and hit the tavern, destroying it. A big fireball flew out of it when all the hooch went up and I was sure I could hear Hummingbird’s cry of anguish when this happened.

While all this was going on, up pulls the big taxi we had arrived in. Zoya was behind the wheel and she yelled to me that, with all the tanks and Germans coming, it might be a good idea to leave. For a moment I actually thought she might not be a complete chowderhead. We sheltered behind the big car while we tried to get Chicolini up, knowing he was a far better wheelman than the dimwit ballerina.

Tura was up already but he must have still been suffering from the concussion of the blast since he wasn’t shrieking with terror as he had been for the last twenty minutes. As shots from the she-wolves’ machine guns pinged all around us, I noticed that he was fumbling with one of the grenades. He had somehow accidently pulled the pin and was tossing it between his hands like a hot potato.

“Throw it, you bone-headed chump!” I yelled.

Tura threw the grenade, with his free hand clinched firmly over his eyes. Amazingly, the pineapple hit square in the middle of the pack of she-wolves. This happened about the same time that some of our heroic village militia came back, inspired by Hozzenka’s arrival and hurried along by the brigands’ bayonets.

When they saw the blast knock down several of the she-Nazis, they began cheering Tura, yelling things like, “The Poles are great warriors! God be praised to have such allies!”

Of course, this went right to Tura’s already oversized head and the ham got caught up in the moment in a big way. Seeing all the eager faces around him, he shouted for them to charge. Of course, he was not completely out of his mind and let the rest of them take the lead, saying, “Men, I want you to know that if things get really rough, I’m behind you every step of the way.” The rubes cheered themselves silly over this. They flung themselves forward, Tura “leading” them from a safe distance behind.



At least this should distract the Krauts, I thought, as Zoya, Chicolini, and I jumped into the taxi. Chicolini manned the wheel and I thought we were going to head out of town. But he had a queer look in his eyes and kept muttering something like “vendetta!” and “fascista puttanas!” He drove straight at the line of the remaining SS women. I braced myself as machine gun bullets hit the car. We ploughed into the line and several of the dames flew over the hood.

Chicolini managed to bring the taxi to stop just short of plowing into the hovercraft. That was when I saw that Waggsie had polished off the pug-ugly stormtrooper that was on top of the craft and he was in the process of dropping the big dame onto the pilot and captain. When the big brute hit them, both collapsed and we charged onto the hovercraft.



In the meantime, Tura’s boys had finished off the she-wolves and stormed aboard as well. In a few minutes, we had captured the hovercraft with the militiamen going crazy shouting Tura’s praises.



In the turret above us, Waggsie was blasting away with one of the craft’s machine guns toward the chateau and the SS goons that had gone after the Grand Duchess.

Before any of us could catch our breath, Tura had jumped into the pilot seat and was firing the engines up. In a moment we lifted off, albeit as unsteady as Hummingbird on a bender.

Now I had mentioned what a horrible driver Tura was. Well he was an even worse pilot. He apparently had a role as a pilot once and spent a whole afternoon at the Warsaw Airport doing research for the part. Of course, in his mind this made he the equivalent of Lindbergh. So keep in mind when I say “fly” it really was more of a wobbly, motion-sickness-inducing, fluttering sort of thing.

Probably guessing Tura’s abilities, Waggsie jumped off the hovercraft while we were still only a few feet above the ground and headed towards the fight.

Tura called out to him, “Professor, don’t be a fool. The rest of our friends will find a way out. Remember ‘Discretion is the better part of valor.’”

“Sorry old boy, but never went in much for that discretion thing,” he said and then he was gone into the smoke and fire.

Excerpt from And A One and A Two, My Life Following the Demon Rhythm of the Polka, the unpublished autobiography of Stanislaus Shmengy

Okay, so maybe we not have best plan to fight Fascist baddies. We not expect them have so many walking tanks that can come through swamp. So sue me.



Now one little walker tank comes over and shoots up cabin we hiding in. We shoot back but no such luck, bullets bounce off. Most of guys with me, they, how you say, take powder and run away. I say to self, Stash, you not gonna get out here unless you show much guts and not in puking way. So I sneak out of cabin, just before little walking tank smash it. Then I sneak around back of walking tank and climb up it from behind. So far so good. I knock on lid but driver, he just make with fingers at me. He very much mad I on tank and he can’t shoot me since I standing between guns. He tries shake me off tank. No such luck, I used to breaking wild tusked djikis to use for children amusement rides in village fair back home. So I stay on no problem. Then I start shooting at lid and shooting at driver. Since I am closer now, bullets hit mostly glass in lid. Glass break and driver fall over. This what I like to see. I can now open lid and dump driver out. I get in and am surprised that inside controls not so different from tractor back home. I think Boy if only Yosh here but still I can drive too.



So I make tank to walk and I think I go look for Yosh since last I see he was in church which in now all wrecked. I go toward back of church and what is right in front of me but big walking tank with back towards me. I shoot cannons at it but shells just bounce off. Then I try to ram but I not realize my tank too short so I miss but am now right underneath big walking tank.

Big walking tank now try to turn around to shoot back to me. But it no can turn since it stuck between edge of church and big trees. So big walking tank tries back up but I too quick and back up little tank, keeping little tank’s leg stretched out to trip big tank when it back up. Thump Bang Crash! Big tank fall over like in motioning funny picture, Policemen of Keystone.



All this noise bring other small walking tank over to see what happened. I shoot little walking tank and Boom Boom it go up in much boomings and smokings.

But I forget more regular tanks coming into town. I feel big Thump. I see shell has hit top of legs of my tank. Now my walking tank not walking so much good anymore. Also many more shells of guns coming toward me.

I figure is now good time to amscray which I learn in Chicago is word for getting hell out of place very fastly.

Excerpt from The Sun’s Also Shiny, The Great American Novel, by Ernest Hummingbird:



The writer felt the destruction of the inn before he saw it. He felt the thousand bottles of beautiful amber nectar cease to exist, felt the skill and the love that went into making them slipping from the world, leaving a hole in his soul.

In his mind’s eye he saw every shard of glass glistening like diamonds as they fell to earth; every drop of that life-sustaining liquid soaking into the earth like his life’s blood draining from center of his heart. He had seen the cruelty of man, from the Halyi Gubbi to the Picu Urriellu but this was beyond cruel; it was profligate in its senselessness.

He knew he had to fill the hole in soul with something. Ordinarily it would be alcohol. Now all he had left was fury. So be it. His retribution against the Germans would be perfect.

He left the copse of trees from which he had been killing the Germans one at a time. He needed to kill more of them more quickly. He moved swiftly but silently through the underbrush that paralleled the road. He passed the tanks and half-tracks and trucks until he came to what he was looking for.

It was an open-topped armored vehicle, a tank from which the turret had been removed and replaced by a heavy artillery piece. This would be the instrument of his vengeance. One instrument, anyway. He remembered he had a bandolier filled with grenades and the large bullets for the elephant guns. It also had several bottles. The bottles had been filled with alcohol. But not anymore. That time was over. He had finished them this morning.

He leapt onto the back of the gun track. The two crewmen there were completely surprised. He disposed of them quickly. It was perfect.

He saw a platoon of infantry marching up the road next to his track. They had not noticed him. He threw the bandolier into their midst. They were gone in a flash. Perfect.

The explosion from the bandolier set fire to a nearby halftrack that also exploded. Perfect.

The explosion from the half-track set a nearby truck on fire until it too blew up. Perfect.

Then he went to the controls of the big cannon. He aimed it quickly at the tanks advancing up the road in front of him. He fired the big gun into the rearmost tank. The treads blew off and the crew ran screaming from the vehicle. Perfect.

He fired again and the next tank’s turret exploded. Perfect.

Then he heard a noise behind him. It was a large tank coming up the road, now. It was twice the size of any tank he had ever seen before. Its main gun looked like it came from a battleship. Perfect. He would capture it.

Anything was possible for him today. As the Hindu poem said, he had become Death, the Destroyer of Worlds. Well, at least not a particularly nice guy.

Interview with Roxy Smothers, 1973:

While all of our problems with the she-wolves and hovercraft were going on, von Schnitzel and Fat Shmengy were trying to rescue the Grand Duchess. They had quite handily dispatched the rat butler with a combination of bombast and skillful posterior manipulation.

Now they faced the SS Anenerbe as personified in the nasty but diminutive form of Colonel Schwartz who packed an incredible amount of evil into a travel-sized package. In this he was ably aided by the cruel but credulous Ilsa and the dramatically faceless goon Stalhelm as well as a supporting cast of Russian mystics, Tibetan monks, and Creatures Made Using Secrets That Man Was Not Meant to Know.

Schwartz demanded that von Schnitzel turn over the Cup of the Kurgans. Now even if Eric had wanted to, he simply couldn’t do it since good old Waggsie had knicked the thing, assuming quite rightly that it was best not to be left lying around.

After von Schnitzel’s curt refusal, Swartz sicked the Frankenstein’s monsters on him. Now when angry, von Schnitzel was known to have an incredible capacity at intimidating anyone, be they actors, crew, or studio executives. In this case, it was mindless inhuman constructs, which I guess really isn’t that different from studio executives. Von Schnitzel really worked himself into a lather this time and the poor green flat-heads went running whimpering out of the courtyard.

As he wiped the froth off his lips, he saw that Ilsa had drawn her pistol and was pointing it as his head, “Don’t think your bluster will have any effect on me, Herr Direktor. I am an Aryan woman and not some dumb brute.”

“Wait, repeat that line.”

“What? ‘Don’t think your bluster will have any effect on me, Herr Direktor. I am an Aryan woman and not some dumb brute.’ Why?”

“Say it again, only this time, control the anger more, make it more full of pride.”

Ilsa did so again and von Schnitzel clapped his hands.

“Have you ever done any acting?”

Ilsa blushed and said coyly, “Well, I did have the lead in my local Strength through Joy spring operetta three years in a row.”

“Well, liebshen, how would you like to be a star?”

The SS woman lowered the pistol, obviously star struck, “Really?”

Von Schnitzel responded by shoving his director’s megaphone over her head and giving it a good bash. He grabbed the Grand Duchess’ hand and ran towards the courtyard gates.

Fortunately, this was the point when Waggsie’s burst of machine gun fire tore into Stahlhelm, killing the brute before he could react. Another burst hit the mad Russian priest.

Fat Shmengy, using his ever dexterous buttock muscles had the tractor ready for this moment. It shot forward, knocking down the courtyard wall and running over the monks and one of the Karloffs.



Von Schnitzel and the Grand Duchess followed after the tractor. They were crossing the front lawn only to be confronted by Schwartz and the remaining Frankenstein. The Monster seemed to have gotten over his fear of von Schnitzel and was advancing menacingly.

“Hey Good Looking!” von Schnitzel cried. “Yes you, tall, dark, and bolt-necked. I know you are not such a bad fellow. You just had a few bad breaks, All you really need is your Mommy.”

The confused monster stood there confused and then, with tears in its eyes muttered, “Ja, Ja! Mutti!”

Von Schnitzel then pointed at the Grand Duchess and said, “Well I’ve found your mutti. She is right here.”

Grand Duchess, for the first time a smile crossing her face, crooned, “Oh, you poow deaw, whatevew have they done to you. Mummy wiww make it aww bettew, my wittwe dawwing.”

The green monster collapsed into her arms, tears streaming from both of their eyes.



“How do you do keep doing that!” screamed Schwartz in frustration.

Another burst from Waggsie machine gun made Schwartz realize that his inning was over for now, so he legged it towards some Kraut infantry that was just coming into the village, leaving von Schnitzel go.

Meantime, I could see that the Shmengys had reunited and traded their tractor for our taxi. They picked up von Schnitzel and sped to the road out of town heading east.

The Grand Duchess was also heading out of town. She was perched on the shoulder of her new “baby” as it strode towards the forest, several of the villagers following after her. She had one of her elephant guns in hand and shouting something about “fight on against the dweadful invadews fwom ouw sacwed fowests.”

As Tura began to lift the hovercraft off the ground, I saw that most of the brigands lay dead in the streets. They had suffered heavy losses in an unequal fight against the main German column. So Hozzenka, in a fit of pique, had run up on her own to the advancing tanks with her dynamite. She had blown the tracks off two of the vehicles before they got her. One of the disabled tanks managed to swing its main gun around and fired at her as she sprinted towards another tank. The gun blast hit near enough that she was struck by several bits of shrapnel. The few remaining brigands were dragging her hulking frame down the village street when we spotted her.

Tura sighed, “Oh the tragedy of war, and he began to turn the hovercraft away from the village.

There was a loud click and we turned and saw Zoya was pointing her pistol at Tura.

“Now Mr. Tura, I don’t want to be mean about this but I won’t allow you to leave Hozzenka behind. She saved my life several times and it just wouldn’t be nice to leave her like this. Besides, Mamushka would be very cross and believe me, you don’t want to have my Mamushka cross at you.”

You could see Tura’s mind wrestle with the two threats to his life and limb. Somehow he decided that the Germans were less an immediate threat than a vacuous blonde so he turned the ship back. We left down a rope and soon had the prostrate form of the big ruffian aboard.

That was when we saw the monster tank.

Excerpt from The Sun’s Also Shiny, The Great American Novel, by Ernest Hummingbird:

The big beast turned its massive gun at the gun track and fired, destroying it. The Writer had already leapt off, a dry ironic laugh in his throat at the Germans having to destroy their own vehicles. The big tank rolled forward to clean up the remaining resistance in the village. Several parties of infantrymen were following up, moving past the burning hulks of their panzers.



As the massive tank passed him, the Writer leapt onto its back as easily as if he were riding one of the Sand Worms of Thark, a feat for which he achieved such reknown among the native Hill Martians. Like the Sand Worms, the Germans were completely unaware of his presence. Perfect.

As the great iron war machine rolled into the village, blasting everything in sight, he realized that another figure had joined him. It was the Professor. Plucky fellow. The Writer would have preferred to tackle the great tank by himself, a true contest of soulless machine against the Spirit of Man but he could probably use help steering the thing. The Professor had the Cup of the Kurgans with him, a thing that was ancient when Alexander marched into India. Using the Writer’s cigar, they lit a beam of fiery light that cut the hatches of the tank open. The Writer drew his pistosl, a .45 Colt Automatic given to him by a grateful Colonel whose life he saved on the Isonzo Front and the Tokarev he had taken from Sanchez’ dead fingers after the fight at Caramba. He leapt into the belly of the beast, firing all the while. The six crewmen were dispatched in an instant. Perfect.

Shoving the bodies out of the way, the Professor got behind the steering controls while the Writer went to the great gun. It was belching death to any that were in range. The tanks that the brigand girl had immobilized went up in fiery blasts. The great behemoth then struck into the midst of a crowd of infantry; the Writer recognized the death’s head of the SS on their caps. Perfect.



He saw that the hovercraft his friends had captured was heading eastward. He also saw that the Musicians, both the fat one and the skinny one along with the Angry Director were leaving in the omnibus. He knew they would need his help. He also knew that it was time to leave. He could sense that the troops he fought were just the beginning. There was a whole division behind this initial thrust. He had done enough damage for one day.

His revenge had had been perfect.

Interview with Roxy Smothers, 1973:

As we flew out of town, we saw the big tank coming up the street, Hummingbird operating the turret, blasting away at any German vehicle or troops that came within range of the terrible big gun.

Tura whistled, “Boy, that Hummingbird sure liked his booze.”

Chapter 6: All God’s Children Got Guns

Diary of Zoya Bupkis

September 3, 1939

Dear Diaryushka,

Well there I was in command of an army! Who would have thought that a simple country girl like me would become an army commander! Well, all right, it wasn’t much of an army, just the Shmengys and about a dozen villagers and it was only for a day, but still…

Everyone seemed to think that the village was in danger of being attacked because of the Grand Duchess living there and because a big road that went from Grauheim to Strelzov ran through the southern end of town. So the Grand Duchess called out the militia and put me in charge.

She even made me a temporary, honorary colonel or something even though she thought it wasn’t quite proper for girls to be in the army where they don’t wear bustles. But the title was still written down and had her official seal and everything. She gave out lots of titles and ranks, even to the Shmengys. Of course, she couldn’t bear the thought of Leutonians being officers so she made them Sergeant Majors, which I guess meant they were only studying to be sergeants like at University but it did mean they got to wear lots of stripes on their sleeves.

She also told me to train the men. Now, even though I am an officer, I wasn’t ever really trained or anything except someone showed me how to salute. But I figured that a little bit of exercise never hurt so I began teaching the men using the Vaganova Technique. We started simply with a few demi pliés, tendues, and ports de bras, followed by pirouettes and pas de deux. Some of the men showed some real talent, working their way up to sautés, changements, sisonnes and even grand jeté en tournant. These last movements proved especially useful, as it turned out, since it made them much harder for the Germans to shoot them. I think the tutus I was able to fit on them also confused the Germans’ aim quite a bit.

Fortunately, the Grand Duchess had lots of guns and bullets in her basement. Previously, these had been for her hunting safaris but now were mostly used for taking care of household pests. She said the Lewis machine guns were especially good for rooting out clogs in the plumbing. I was puzzled about all the hand bombs she had and asked what she used those for. “Why, fishing, my dear, what else?” was her response.

The other thing that was good was that the Shmengys could shoot the guns really well, even for being stupid Leutonians, so they showed the men how to do that. I asked Skinny Shmengy if they had learned to shoot so well in the Army but he said no, they learned to shoot that way living in Chicago.

Mr. Hummingbird and Mr. Chicolini were also very helpful, coming up with all sorts of ideas of where to plant hand bombs and hide trenches filled with pointed sticks.

Mr. von Schnitzel came up with a plan to dress up the scarecrows out in the wheatfields on the west side of the town with some of the old uniforms that the Grand Duchess had lying about the chateau. He laid the scarecrows down in the wheat, rigged up to a frame that he would pull up suddenly using the village steam tractor. He thought this might surprise the enemy into thinking there were a lot more soldiers defending the village.

We all worked really hard the whole day, except the Professor who kept trying to figure out meaning of all the scribbled notes in the little book he took from the little German back in Emeric’s. They did have the best drinks there, you know. Lest you think the Professor was a shirker, he was trying to figure out what the little book said about the chalice or bowl or whatever it was. The German he took it from must have had terrible penmanship since it took so long for him to figure out what it said. Occasionally, the Professor would look up and say things to nobody in particular, things like, “Why they had a run in with the Ruritanina Postal Service in the Himalayas!”

To which I responded, “Yes they will deliver absolutely anywhere!”

Then he said the chalice or bowl or whatever might be some sort of key which I thought was just plain silly, how could you fit a bowl into a lock? I noticed that the Professor was very good at taking things from other people’s pockets and opening locks with hairpins but not particularly good at, well, professory things. I suspect he would do better teaching locksmithing rather than archeology or astrology or whatever it was he teaches.

All in all, it was a very exciting day but scary so I didn’t sleep very well last night and everyone was up by dawn getting into their assigned positions, ready to fight the invaders.

Well, at least we thought we were ready…

Excerpt from The Sun’s Also Shiny, The Great American Novel, by Ernest Hummingbird:

As the morning sun rose, so did the mists of dew, vanishing like the peace that was evaporating from the soon-to-be wartorn Earth. The Writer knew what was coming. He had seen it from the deserts of Tigre in Abyssinia to the banks of the Ebro in Spain. Death was stalking him, stalking them all now. But Death would also be coming to meet the Germans. He had made sure of that. His plan was perfect.

The Germans would come down the road that ran south of town, probably in a long column with their reconnaissance troops in front. He could hear the motors thrumming in the distance already.

The road was the only way they could come. To the south and north were thick forests. To the west, except for the road and a set of railroad tracks running north to south, there were a few small wheatfields and then nothing but swamp. No tank could come through there and infantry would take days to cross the mire.

No, they would come down the road. Into the traps and the fire of his men. It would be perfect. He sipped on his flask of bourbon while he considered their position.

First they had dug a trench across the road, just before it crossed the railroad tracks. They filled the trench with stakes and then covered the trench. If motorcycles led the column, as he knew they would, they might miss spotting it and crash into it.

Chicolini prepared the next traps. Chicolini was good at coming up with ways to kill and the Writer wondered about where he learned the skill. But he didn’t ask Chicolini. That was something one didn’t ask a man about, sort of like asking him the circumstances when he lost his virginity. Oh, a man could volunteer the information, maybe brag about it, or make up stories about it, or at least hide the embarrassing parts of it. But one didn’t ask a man about it…

Chicolini placed several grenades under the railroad ties. Any vehicle going over them should trigger them. The Writer approved. Then they buried grenades in the road on the other side of the tracks, connected by wire so that any vehicle or anyone on foot would trigger them. They got the wire from the Duchess’ piano. She didn’t like that but he promised to return the wire when they were done. They would probably need to tune the piano after that though.

There was a windmill on the side of the road, just beyond the spot where they placed the grenades. The Writer put Chicolini in the windmill with a Lewis gun. He had also given Chicolini the case of empty scotch bottles from his room. They had filled them with brefnish, the local flammable drink, and put cloth wicks in the bottles. The Writer invented something like these when he was in Spain. He had used them to blow up some of Franco’s tanks. Only he used gasoline then. You couldn’t drink gasoline; he knew - he tried. The Writer knew he wouldn’t get credit for inventing them. That was probably for the best, a Hummingbird Cocktail should describe something creative, some work of art, or at least something someone actually drank.

Across from the windmill was an old roadside shrine. The Actress was there along with Tura. She had insisted that she be allowed to fight.
Tura had not. He had to be found. He was hiding under one of the beds in the chateau. His nails carved grooves in the floor as the Leutonians dragged him out to join the fight.



The Actress had come up with the idea of dressing herself and Tura up as ghosts. They would hide in the shrine and spring out when any of the Germans got past Chicolini’s traps. It might disorient the attackers and maybe even scare them. It sounded like a hare-brained plan but it showed that she had guts. She also insisted that they give her some of the grenades. That showed she had brains. Guts and Brains. And gams. Beautiful, shapely gams that went all the way up…The Writer shook his head to clear the thought of the Actress - such thoughts were dangerous at times like these. Death was approaching. On swift legs. Swift, shapely legs, perched on high heels, with her skirt swishing back and forth….What was he supposed to be thinking about? It was so hard to think straight what with all the whimpering that Tura was doing. That and all the bourbon he had drunk that morning.

He was in a copse of trees just beyond the shrine. He had taken one of the Duchess’ elephant guns, the .416 Rigby, the gun he first used when he was hunting elephants in Alabama because there the Tusca-- wait a minute -- that wasn’t right, he had never been to Alabama. Who had said that? Maybe he shouldn’t have so much bourbon this morning. On top of the Scotch last night… No, on second thought, he should have had that much.

The Professor was there in the copse of trees with him. The Professor looked uncomfortable. The Professor was a thinker not a fighter. The Writer, he was a lover not a fighter. But he was also a fighter, so don’t get any ideas…

The Fat Leutonian was perched in the church tower with his anti-tank rifle.
From there he had a clear shot up most of the road. The Fat Leutonian was an eater but the writer hoped he was also a fighter. A big, hungry, grotesquely fat fighter.
Some of the village militia under his brother, the thin Leutonian, were inside a couple of cabins at the end of the village. They would open fire on any German who managed to get to the village itself. The Dancer was in the center of the village with the rest of the militia as a reserve. They were right by the tavern. He had to stop back every half hour or so to make sure they were still there. And that the tavern vodka supply hadn’t been tampered with.

All of the women and children and old men, went off to hide in the woods as they had done since time immemorial. All that is except the Duchess who stayed in the Chateau with her loyal butler. Also staying was the old man Yoda who said, “Damned will be I if filthy Non-speakers drive me my home from I let.”

Over in the fields to the west of the village, he could see the Director was perched on the steam tractor prepared to pull his mannequin army out of the weeds, to make the Germans think a flank attack was coming. The Writer didn’t approve of this part of the plan. It was too subtle and the Fascists were not noted for their subtlety.

But there was no time to argue the point. He heard the rumbling of the engines. Death was now coming down the road - at 40 miles per hour. And Death wasn’t wearing high-heels or swishing a skirt this time.

Interview with Roxy Smothers, 1973:

Now, you may ask, darling, whatever possessed me to get involved in the fight that day. To be honest, I wasn’t really sure back then and am still not entirely sure today. Now as you know, I have never been one to run from a fight, whether it was a contract dispute with a greedy studio exec or a fascist blitzkrieg of a near-helpless little nation. Ruritania may not have one of the more fashionable places on earth but it had been my home briefly and I had found that most of her people were exceptionally kind, in a quaint, eccentric way, chiselers like Broni notwithstanding.

So I suppose that is how I found myself that morning, crouched behind the shrine to the Saint of Perpetual Fatulence or whatever, with a purse full of hand grenades, dolled up as if I was about to meet Topper. Of course, Tura was hardly Cary Grant and it wasn’t a kindly old gentleman that I was waiting for.

I could see the German column coming down the road. There were four motorcycles with those little cars on the side, two by two, followed by a couple of small cars crammed with troops and a big armored vehicle with wheels in the front and tracks in the back.

The first two motorcycles hit the hidden trench at high speed, crashing into heaps of bodies and twisted metal. The rest of the column skidded to a stop. The remaining motorcyclists jumped off their bikes and crouched down in the weeds along the side of the road.



Then I heard the shot from Fat Shmengy’s anti-tank rifle. It made a loud clank of the front of the half-track. Although it didn’t seem to do any damage, it must have rattled the Blockheads inside because they too tumbled out into the road.
It wasn’t long, however, before the Krauts sorted themselves out. Several groups on foot began moving into the village, using any cover they could to avoid the machine gun fire that Chicolini was shooting at them from the windmill.
They also got a big mortar set up and began firing shells into the church. Despite hitting it several times, Fat Shmengy kept firing away, seemingly no worse for the artillery coming his way. Maybe his fat cushioned the concussion from the mortar shells.

Suddenly the two scout cars made a dash forward. They jumped the narrow trench and the first one hit Chicolini’s grenades as it crossed the railroad tracks. The car rolled to a stop just in front of me. It showed some signs of damage but the crew seemed unscathed but was clearly disoriented.

I grabbed the cringing Tura and we charged towards the car, our ghost costumes billowing about us in the smoke from the damaged car. Tura’s terrified wailing actually added to the effect and the disoriented Aryan Supermen ran from the car in panic. I ran after them and tossed a grenade their way. One of them fell when the pineapple burst behind him.

What? Oh, heavens, darling, why would you think that was the first time I ever killed or maimed anyone? Tosh!

All the while, Hummingbird and Barqueless were taking pot-shots at the approaching Germans with the big elephant guns. Hummingbird began dropping the Krauts with considerable frequency despite being obviously three-sheets to the wind.
The other scout car had tried to follow but Chicolini began lobbing the fire bombs at it. It quickly turned aside and the crew dismounted and rushed towards the windmill.

This was what von Schnitzel had been waiting for; he pushed the tractor forward as fast as it would go. The uniform-clad scarecrows popped up, startling the advancing troopers who went to ground.



Then out of the morning mist, I made out the silhouettes of several large objects lumbering through the swamp. The biggest was one of those walking tanks like the one that Skinny Shmengy had destroyed during the parade in Graustark. Two smaller walking vehicles were on either side. These looked like the front ends of fighter planes on top of mechanical legs with big cannons and machine guns perched atop their shoulders. They moved deliberately and without hindrance through the swamp. No tank could have crossed it but the big pads at the end of their legs must have spread the weight more evenly. So Hummingbird’s plan wasn’t so perfect after all.
We didn’t have much time to think about this. The mortar finally got a direct hit on the church steeple. Only a panicked yelp of “Chicago Bang Bang!” indicated that Fat Shmengy had managed to escape in the nick of time.

The smaller walkers fired their machine guns into the wheat field, easily shredding the scarecrows. Von Schnitzel dropped the ropes linking the tractor to the scarecrow device and throttled the ancient tractor forward. As he passed the wrecked church, Fat Shmengy jumped, or rather oozed, onto the tractor.



The smaller walkers moved into the village. Skinny Shmengy and his men fired at one but the bullets bounced off the steel frame. The walker returned the favor with its machine guns and several of the militia men fell. Oddly, most managed to avoid being hit by pirouetting out of the line of fire. These survivors headed away from the fight, leaping in unison over the intervening walls and hedges with enormous grace.

The other walker moved the center of the village, firing into the cottages, setting several on fire.

The big walker fired its cannon into the windmill. As the thin wooden mill disintegrated, the force of the blast shot Chicolini out and he landed at my feet. The Germans were coming towards us. I wrestled the cameraman to his feet and we headed toward the abandoned scout car. Tura was already behind the wheel preparing to drive off.

“Hold it, you chump. Don’t even think of scramming in that breezer without us!” I shouted.

This startled Tura enough to give me time to dump Chicolini into the car and dive in after him. Tura then tore off into the center of the village.

Overhead a whirring sound could be heard. Distracted by the fighting with the walkers, we didn’t notice the hovercraft streaming through the air. This was the same one that had pursued us from Graustark. On the top of the hovercraft, I could see a malignant little twerp in black uniform and at his side was that dish-water blonde floozy that Hummingbird had charmed in Emeric’s. Unfortunately, I had no idea where the blowhard scribbler was so he could repeat his performance.



The hovercraft landed in the very center of the village, not far from the gates of the chateau. The Nazi Munchkin and cut-rate Marlene Dietrich jumped down from the craft, followed by a big bald man with a long beard and dressed in flowing robes covered in arcane symbols. He was flanked by, of all things, a bunch of Oriental looking geezers in orange robes. Two inhumanly large green creatures with large scars crossing their bodies followed.

“Holy Karloff, what the heck are they?” I wondered out loud.

As this group marched toward the chateau, a squad of rather nasty-looking SS women fanned out from the vehicle, shooting at anything that moved.

“Colonel” Zoya finally decided to do something. She ordered the small party of remaining militia to attack the hovercraft. This ended rather abruptly when the SS dames showed a definite lack of respect for the fine art of the ballet. Zoya and what was left of her boys came tumbling back towards our spot near The Three-Legged Toad. The survivors fired a few shots in the general direction of the enemy before quietly heading out of town, leaving us behind.

Soon, we saw Skinny Shmengy’s men retreating towards us as well. There were several big tanks coming down the road, probably called in to help by the reconnaissance troops. Their cannons blasted everything around them.

Meanwhile, as Von Schnitzel later told me, Fat Shmengy got the tractor up to the chateau, tractor-driving being one of the few talents that Fatty had, aside from eating everything in sight and being beaten to a pulp by tiny old men. Von Schnitzel realized that with the walkers showing up, any chance of our stopping the Nazis was nil so he figured that somebody should go save the crazy old bat, just to frustrate the Krauts if nothing else.



They pulled into the courtyard just as the hovercraft was landing outside. The old lady was coming out of the chateau with Mausvarmr behind her. As expected, the Duchess looked about as pleased as if someone had spit in her buttered klopkies, but simple annoyance at trespassers wasn’t the problem. Before von Schnitzel could say anything, he noticed that Mausvarmr had a shotgun pointed at the Duchess’ back.



“What is the meaning of this?” von Schnitzel shouted in his most frightening tone of voice.

Although the butler paled a bit at the tirade of Teutonic temper, he gamely spoke up, “I am Volksgoth, Herr Direktor. It is time my people were freed from this anarchic mongrel excuse for a nation and joined in a greater Aryan state with the help of our German cousins. Taking a valuable hostage can only assist in the struggle to achieve that end.”

Von Schnitzel blustered but the butler stood his ground. All the noise that von Schnitzel made did keep the little man’s attention so that Fat Shmengy, who had never dismounted from the tractor, could slip the thing into gear. Using his extensive posterior muscles, he shifted the gears into reverse and nudged the throttle. The big behemoth – the tractor, that is, not Shmengy – shot backwards and rolled right over the flatfooted footman. Von Schnitzel was able to pull the Duchess out of the way at the last moment. Once the tractor rolled to a stop, there was very little left of the dirty little Fifth Columnist.

“Mausvawmw, considew that youw two week notice!”

Then the gates to the courtyard burst open and the two huge green creatures lurched in. The little SS man strode toward Eric and arrogantly asked, “Well if it isn’t Herr Schnitzelman. All right, where is the cup of the Krugans?”



While all this was going on, we were trying to figure out how to best get way to get out of town without getting our heads blown off. The tanks were approaching fast and their shells were screeching in faster and faster.

Suddenly, the world turned upside down and I felt myself hurtling through the air. I felt a huge impact as I hit the ground and I felt like I was going unconscious. I tried to see what had happened. I realized that I was no longer in the scout car. It was sitting a few yards away from me on its side and it was burning. I noticed that Tura and Chicolini lay beside me unconscious. I felt myself beginning to fade as well.



Just before I blacked out, I noticed some sights that at the time I thought were delusions but turned out to be real. Waggsie had some how climbed up on the back of the hovercraft unnoticed and was now pummeling the guard there. Skinny Shmengy was standing astride the top of one of the small walkers, blasting away with his Chicago typewriter into the cockpit, idiotically laughing with glee as the glass canopy shattered. The last thing I recall was a strong hand on my shoulder and a deep voice telling me to lie still, help had arrived.

It was Hozzenka.

Chapter 5: Mourning Becomes Woowa

Diary of Zoya Bupkis

August 30, 1939
(Continued)

While Mr. von Schnitzel and the Professor were playing with the bowl or chalice or whatever it was and the lighter, I thought how wonderful that this thing would be for magic lanterns shows, like when I was child in Hentzov. Of course, the heat ray part of it might singe the screen a bit. While I was trying to work this out, I looked out the window and noticed that more and more soldiers and police cars were arriving at the Museum. They soon began gathering in the large car park behind the Museum. There was Bronislav yelling at them and pointing all around the neighborhood. Then he held up several pictures, one was of Roxy and another was that gollywogged swimsuit picture of me! Will I never live that down? Roxy noticed this and said something about the heat being on but actually I found it a bit chilly in the old mill in which we were hiding.

A group of Walloons then surrounded an old factory just behind the Museum and began kicking in the doors and running in side, yelling “Hut Hut Hut.” Then we could guns shooting and grenades going off, all the while they kept yelling “Hut Hut Hut” which I think is Walloon for “kill” or perhaps “chocolate” or something like that.

Mr. Von Schnitzel suggested that we needed to leave soon or else we would be nabbed since it looked like they were searching the whole neighborhood.

We began arguing about the best way to make our escape.

Skinny Shmengy noticed some children playing just outside of the mill and he suggested we bribe them to distract the soldiers and police so we could sneak out.

This suggestion was so sensible that we could not believe it came from a stupid Leutonian and so ignored it.

Things really got tense when we notice a big brown lorry pull up in the lot and several men in postal uniforms got out and reported to Bronislav.

That was when von Schnitzl pointed to the large water tower on top of the factory which the Walloons were searching. He told Chicolini to go steal a car or lorry and then he told the Professor to point the beam from the bowl or chalice or whatever it was at the water tower. A thin bright red beam flashed out toward one of the tower legs. The leg turned bright red and suddenly it began to buckle, sort of like when Sister Otilia’s wooden leg, the one she got because of her gout, became too infested with termites and she toppled over in the middle of the combined evening vespers and cage match at the Convent. Well the same thing happened to the water tower but the results were almost as dramatic. The whole tower collapsed and a huge cascade of water came down on all of the men gathered in the lot. Bronislav made a particularly dramatic sight since he was standing on some sort of box which was washed away before him and he sort of hovered for a moment before coming down into the great pool of water and began flopping around like a fresh carp when its thrown in the frying pan alive. The postal lorry was knocked over onto its side and all the postmen were washed into the next street over.

While all this was going on and everyone yelling and trying to sort themselves out, we sneaked out of the mill, and ran to a lorry that Chicolini had quietly rolled into the alley behind the mill. We pushed it further down the street until we were sure that no one could hear us and then sped off out of the city.

There were a couple of police autos that were starting to set up roadblocks but Mr. Chicolini was very good at driving around them, through people’s vegetable gardens and clothes lines and cows and the like, and it got to be very fun to see whether he could avoid the next obstacle or not. Usually he did.

Soon we were out into the countryside. Mr. von Schnitzel told us something about a letter of introduction to the Grand Duchess, the King’s sister, who had written some sort of novel that he was hoping to make into a motion picture. He felt that if we could make it to the Grand Duchess, we could possibly find refuge with her.

Now I had once performed, or rather my ballet troupe had performed for the Grand Duchess. She was a very nice elderly woman, dressed in black for her late husband who had suffered a fall down the stairs or inadvertently eaten rat poison or something. But I did remember that she lived nearby, in a small chateau near the Graustark border, just about 20 kilometers to the southwest of Zenda. It was in village called Ktorevitsa.

I began giving directions and we only got lost two or three times.

About midday, we were traveling down one of these roads when we heard a tinkling sound, It was so pretty and reminded me of my childhood, sort of like the man who came around to sell frozen pickled tripe to us in summer. But then I noticed that Fat Shmengy had sat up and was pointed behind us, calling out excitedly, “Chicago Bang Bang! Chicago BANG BANG!” At first I thought it meant he had to use the WC and he had seen a tree that Leutonians favored for that business but then the others began looking back.

Behind was a man on a bicycle. He was round and middle-aged looking in a brown postal uniform with a large satchel on his back. He was ringing the little bell and waiving to us with a big friendly smile on his face. Everyone in the lorry got very quiet and the Shmengys began playing a slow dirge on their instruments.



Mr. Chicolini at first seemed not to notice the postman so the bicycle began to close in on us. When we called for Mr. Chicolini to hurry up, he seemed nearly paralyzed by fear when he saw the postman. Even when he belatedly sped the lorry up, the bicycle stayed close behind, the postman barely breathing hard to go as fast as us.

Mr. von Schnitzel then said that there was no use in trying to run from him and so we pulled over.

Like all the postmen we had met, this one seemed very kindly and spoke in a soft voice, “Well, at last I’ve found you. We have been looking for you for some time. Inspector Bogush will be ever so glad to see you. Now please get down from there and I will signal for other transportation.”

Everyone except me and the Professor and Chicolini got out of the lorry. Then Mr. Tura and Mr. von Schnitzel began to do such a strange thing, that I burst out laughing. They began to slap each other’s hands and alternated this with claps, all the while calling out a nonsense rhyme, something like “patty-cake.”

The postman got a suspicious look on his face but stared in fascination at the two. Then suddenly, they both turned and tried to hit the postman. Mr. Tura missed and struck his hand against the side of the lorry. Mr. Tura then ran off shrieking and cringed behind tree. Mr. von Schnitzel struck the postman hard but this barely seemed to hurt the man.

Suddenly everyone was hitting at the postmen, from the front, side and rear. All of these the postman managed to avoid, moving just like Bluebird in the Third Act of Sleeping Beauty. Finally Fat Schmangy tried to jump on the postman. The postman dodged this as well but the thought of what nearly happened to him, the effect of all that Leutonian falling on him, must have shaken his nerves for there was a look of fear and confusion on his face. That was when Roxy hit him. Then I hit him. He began to retreat from us towards the woods when Fat Shmengy, who hadn’t - or couldn’t - get up from his fall, rolled along and struck him right at the knees. The postman crumpled down and Fat Shmengy continued to roll over him, just like a big steam roller. The postman was very still after that but the creases in his uniform seemed much sharper.

The Professor checked the postman’s heartbeat and said he was still alive only unconscious and somewhat flat.

Von Schnitzel quickly gathered up the postman’s identification badge and his postal satchel. It had a small submachine gun in it, a lot of letters, and a big pork sandwich, which Fat Shmengy immediately gobbled up in one bite. We gathered this up and moved the postman and his bicycle into the woods and then quickly drove off.

I realized that the satchel had real letters in them and so I insisted, since I was still a Government Official, I was now responsible for delivering them. Everyone was very cross at me for this but since I was the only one who knew where Ktorevitsa was, they had to listen to me. It was a wonderful feeling, having everyone to listen to me for a change, even if it meant Roxy said to me a lot of short words with lots of “K” sounds in them at me.



Just after we finished delivering the last letter, we began to hear the sound of tingling bells behind us. They were the same bicycle bells as before but sounded far more urgent. When we looked behind us, there were two postmen on bicycles. They were younger than most of the postmen we had seen and were big in a muscular unShmengy way and had very unpleasant looks on their faces. They also had big guns strapped to their backs.

Mr. Chicolini noticed them as soon as the rest of us did and sped up. The lorry leapt forward but the postmen just began peddling faster. They gained on us.

Then we approached an intersection with a road coming from our left. As we approached we could hear the sound of bicycle bells tinkling from that road and as we neared the intersection, we saw two more postmen, just like the two following us, approaching. They looked very cross too.

The Professor and von Schnitzel fumbled with the old bowl or chalice or whatever it was and Bronislav’s lighter. Soon a beam was coming from the top of the bowl. Von Schnitzel grabbed at the bowl or chalice or whatever it was and flashed the beam onto the wheels of the two oncoming bicycles. The tires made loud popping noises and the two postmen tumbled over the tops of their bicycles, collapsing into the road.

The Professor said that he never guessed Mr. von Schnitzel’s aim could be so good, for the director was very ham-handed most of the time. That was when Mr. von Schnitzel trained the beam from the old bowl or chalice or whatever it was around the woods beside us and at a tree overhanging the road behind. The woods immediately burst into flames and the large tree collapsed into the road. The two postmen who had been following us slammed into the tree and flew into a crumpled heap beyond it.



“Terror gives me strength,” Mr. von Schnitzel explained.

Excerpt from The Sun’s Also Shiny, The Great American Novel, by Ernest Hummingbird:

The truck drove on into the waning day, one of the last days of peace that the continent would know. Ironically, the day was perfect. The lengthening shadows of the beautiful setting sun was merely a metaphor of foreboding for the coming darkness that the Nazi armies were about to bring to Europe.

They had escaped from the secret policemen by following the Writer’s plan which was perfect, of course. Realizing that the truck was too familiar now, the Writer suggested they exchange it for the next convenient vehicle they came across.

When they passed a small omnibus, Chicolini forced it off to the side of the road. Fortunately, there were no passengers and the driver gladly ran off when the Director waived the postal bag at him. Another of the Writer’s plan that was perfect.

A short time later, they arrived at the village. It was small but orderly with a fine whitewashed church and stone tavern. It was a rich village.



The chateau was on a hill at the end of the long single street. It was not large but had the dignity that age and being a true home sometimes gives to such places.

The Writer suggested they get the lay of the land before approaching the Grand Duchess. Of course, the others agreed. They went into the tavern. It was called The Six-legged Toad. It was crowded; a gypsy troupe had arrived earlier that day and was trying to entertain the crowd. The villagers seemed more concerned with the radio that was broadcasting the latest news of the coming war.

The crowd got quiet when the Writer and his friends entered. The Writer went behind the bar and began mixing drinks. He mixed them Manhattans for everyone and, even though he had to use pickle brine instead of sweet red vermouth, they were perfect.

With the first taste of the drinks, the villagers treated them like lost relatives. They told the Writer of their lives in the village, their hopes for a good harvest, and their fear of the war that seemed now bound to come. They told him of their love of the Grand Duchess who was like a grandmother to them and how they would all die to protect her. It was a good village. Not particularly smart but good.

A serving girl, a pretty young blonde, seemed particularly interested in the Fat Musician. She hung on his arm and kept rubbing his vast belly, saying, “So fat, must be rich man. You would make any wife happy!”

The Fat Musician gurgled a bit and moaned, “Chicaaagoo Baanng Baang.”

Chicolini fit in as well. He looked at one of the pretty dancing girls and ordered a bottle of wine and a dozen oysters. He took her by the arm and led her towards the back door. Her partner, another dark eyed beauty grasped his other arm.

“Make-a dat another a bottle of wine and two-a dozen oysters.”

Then he noticed the old gypsy fortuneteller coming toward them.

“Make-a dat two more bottles of wine and three-a dozen oysters.”



Suddenly, the radio behind the bar crackled to life with an emergency broadcast.

“This is Radio Strelzov. The Prime Minister today rejected the ultimatum presented by Germany, Graustark, and Sylvania, stating, ‘While this government strenuously condemns any act committed against the law of nations, the demand presented in this ultimatum would destroy the sovereignty of this nation and make us slaves to the fascist governments. To this we can never accede.’

“The governments of Great Britain and France have today reaffirmed the guarantees given earlier this month to both Poland and Ruritania in the event of an attack by an unfriendly power.

“In related news, the Minister of War again denied that the Royal Regalia were stolen by German agents. He noted that they had been removed to a safe location during the present emergency….”

A bearded man in dark clothes stood up and said, “Things sound bad my people. We should pray.”

They all began crossing themselves and followed him to the church.

Excerpt from And A One and A Two, My Life Following the Demon Rhythm of the Polka, the unpublished autobiography of Stanislaus Shmengy

Now as many school child know, official faith of Ruritania is Greco-Roman Catholic Church, only church in world in communion with both Rome and Constantinople, excepting that neither Pope or Patriarch is willing to admit it. Our faith is old and full of much holiness with big willingess to fight for faith since have done so many time especially against filthy heathen Turk.



Now big part of demonstration of faith of willingness to fight for faith is done by wrestling. Every service one man chosen to demonstrate faith. So we know when Bobo Mrko the village priest - “Bobo” is Ruritanian for “uncle” which is what all priest are called - says for everyone to go to pray, I think this good way for us to ingratitude us with villagers since I know wrestling will start service.
In Leutonia, this wrestling is done against bog boar and Yosh was best bog boar wrestler in whole province. So when Bobo Mrko calls out that winner of two throws out of three get two years off time in Purgatory, Yosh strip off shirt and I find big vat of axle grease, very big vat. I also find several brush and cover Yosh torso with grease.

Unfortunately, custom is different in Zenda Province, they being hoity-toity and stuck-up. So they no wrestle boar, only each other. And they don’t grease up before wrestle either! So they all look at Yosh very strange when he come forward. But Bobo Mrko say we all God’s Children and they must accept strange Leutonian ways, now matter how barbaric or ignoramousious. He call out for challenger and tiny old man come up.



I laugh and say, “Dadu, are you sure you want wrestle Yosh. He squash you like beet weevil.”

Old Dadu just grumble, “Stupid Leutonian are you! Kick your fat brother’s dupka I will,“ and he strip off shirt too.

They gather in front of church. When Bobo Mrko give word to start, Old Dadu run up and kick Yosh in throat. Yosh gurgle and fall down.

“One fall to Dadu Yoda!” says Bobo Mrko.

Yosh get up and get in position. When Old Dadu run at him again, he ready. He grab Old Dadu in arms in big hug of bear. But I guess I put too much grease on him since old Dadu get squirted out of his arm like he watermelon seed getting spit out. Old Dadu fly way up and over roofs of village. Over forest and into swamp.
“One fall to the Fat Leutonian!” says Bobo Mrko.

I think fight over since old Dadu now miles away. But suddenly, we hear big rumbling and see old Dadu running up path from swamp. When he about a yebach pitch length away, he yell and come leaping at Yosh, strike him in belly and Yosh fall down and make big hole in the ground.

“Second fall to Dadu Yoda! Two years off Purgatory!” cries Bob Mrko and everyone cheer. Even Yosh and I figuring that Old Dadu closer to Purgatory than Yosh so is OK.

All our foreign friends watch, looking confus-ed and much shaking of heads. When they see old Dadu beat Yosh, Professor ask, “Are all the old men in Ruritania so….”

“Psychotic? Yes,” answers Roxy the movie star.

Then we hear shots coming from Grand Duchess House so we all run there quick.

Interview with Roxy Smothers, 1973:

Well, when we heard the gunshots coming from the chateau, we all took off at a run. Except Fat Shmengy who was struggling to get out of the small hole he created when the old man blasted him into the ground - they had to bring out the village tractor to do that.

As we ran, Hummingbird began, “That sounds like a.416 Rigby, the gun I used when…

“I know, I know, it’s the gun you first used to hunt elephants in Alabama because there the Tuscaloosa.” He wasn’t happy about my comment but then his “deep introspection” was beginning to wear on me.

When we made it to the gates of the Chateau, we could still hear the occasional shot but otherwise nothing seemed stirring. Von Schnitzel knocked on the door and a thin middle-aged servant answered the door.

“We are here to see the Grand Duchess. I have a letter of introduction,” said von Schnitzel waiving the letter he had received in response to his offer to make a film out of the Grand Duchess tedious, probably non-existent book.

“Please do come in and I shall inform Her Royal Highness.”

I spoke up, “Excuse me, eh ….”

“Mousevarmr, ma’am. My name is Mousevarmr.”

“Well, Mousevarmr, we couldn’t help but hear the gunfire. What is going on?”

“Her Royal Highness does not like servants to do jobs that she feels she can handle herself, as you Americans say, she is a real do-it-yourselfer.”

“So what home improvement project is she working on?” I asked.

“Removing some of the bats in the attic.”

“With an elephant gun?”

“At her age, with her eyesight, she says it is the most effective method.” He said with a straight face.



He took us to a large reception hall that was filled with a vast assortment of dead stuffed animals. Now when I had previously lived in Ruritania, I had never met the old gal. She was something of a recluse after the death of her husband. He was some sort of count or baron from Sylvania and turned out to be a dreadful beast. Within a year he was found dead under mysterious circumstances. There was mumbling of a cover up and she was whisked off for a safari to Africa that lasted about five years. There has been bad blood and a couple of wars between Ruritania and Sylvania ever since.

When the old bird finally made an appearance, my jaw nearly dropped to the floor for the Grand Duchess was the spitting image of Queen Victoria, down to the widow’s gown and veil and the disapproving look. Apparently, she thought old Vicky was the absolute end-all in fashion.

“Weww? What can I do fow you, Heww von Schnitzew?” She asked.

“Good lord, she really is King Ruprikt’s sister,” I mumbled.

Unfortunately, her hearing was excellent. She turned her disapproving look on me and asked sarcastically, “And who might this chawming cweatuwe be?”

“I’m an American movie actress, Roxy Smothers.”

“Weww, Woxy, you don’t mind if I caww you Woxy, do you? You know Woxy, it’s not powite to mumbwe in a big woom wike this. Some peopwe, not me of couwse, might have a pwobwem heawing. But I’m suwe someone wike you isn’t used to being in a pwace wike this, yes?”

Looking around at the hall filled with stuffed dead animals, I had to agree, “I can safely say, I’ve never been in a place so grandiose, so De Mille.”

Immediately I could see that she like most Radziwill was dumber than a stump for she seemed to think I gave her a compliment. Then it slowly dawned on her that might have at one point been related but I didn’t hazard to clarify, not knowing how she felt about Broni.

Von Schnitzel interrupted while there was still a smile on her face. He went into a big spiel about how he was so moved by the Grand Duchess’ manuscript, he knew he had to make a film of it, to teach the world the tragic love story of Barbara Radziwill and King Sigismund of Poland. He hoped she would agree to give him the right to make this epic, a tribute to the Radziwill family.

You could see how she loved to be buttered up like that and Eric had her eating out of his hand in a few minutes.

Oh, pwease, we awe now awtists togethew, call me by my Chwistian name, Woowa.”
“Of course…Woowa.

No, not Woowa, Woowa.

“Of course…um….Laura.”

No, no, not Waura, Woowa!” She was beginning to lose her patience with us when Tura interrupted.

“Have no fear, madame. The leading roles are in the best of hands. Roxy will be playing Barbara Radziwill.”

“Excewwent, she’s pwacticawee a Wadziwiww hewsewf.”

“Only by contamination,” I muttered.

“Who wiww be pwaying King Sigismund?”

This was the in that Tura was waiting for, he loved advertising himself, “Why that great Polish actor, Janusz Tura!”

“I’m sowwy, who?”

“Well, perhaps in this part of the world, news of high culture may be lacking…”

“No, I fowwow aww of the theatwe and opewa news in Euwope and I can assuwe you that
I have nevew heawd of him. But I am suwe with such a fine diwectrow as Heww von Schnitzew, he’ww be fine, whoevew the heww he is.”

Unfortunately, at this point she noticed the Shmengys at the back of the hall, with Fatty still shirtless and oozing axle grease and mud.

“Good Word, awe those Weutonians? You can smeww a Weutonian fwom five weagues away! I nevew undewstood why we’ve kept that wwetched pwovince! The west of you awe wewcome to stay hewe but I must insist that they stay eswewhewe.”

Mousevarmr suggested that they could stay in the stall used for keeping the milk minks but she would have none of that since the Shmengy’s presence would make the brefnish go off. They finally agreed that they could stay in one of the villager’s barns nearby. None of the rest of us had any objection to this arrangement.

Surprisingly, neither did the Shmengys.

“Hey, Duchess Lady, if there is no krapluga on floor, is better than home!”
“Chicago Bang Bang!”

Mousevarmr showed us to our rooms, which were large and extensively, if eccentrically furnished, with statutes of bog spirits and stuffed vultures. Just before retiring, Mousevarmr provided von Schnitzel with a document that the Grand Duchess had prepared for him, a Mandat. This was an official document issued by a member of the royal family for everyone in the kingdom to provide whatever the bearer requested. It bore her signature, “Rula Radziwill, Grand Duchess of Zenda.”

“Well, one mystery solved.”

“One final thing, Herr Direktor” Mousvarmr added. “Since the Grand Duchess feels her time on this earth may be limited, she requests that you begin filming as soon as possible. To that end she places this palace and all her estate at your disposal. Also, when she received your letter she took a fancy into supporting film-making so she has several 35mm Debrie Parvo cameras with sound system and several hundred miles of 35mm film.”

Never before and never after did I see von Schnitzel cry but there he was in the hall of that palace balling like a baby.

Finally, he squeaked out, “We start shooting tomorrow!”

“Tomorrow?” I cried, “We don’t have a script!”

“We will tomorrow! Mousvarmr, please take Mr. Hummingbird his typewriter and a case of Scotch and then lock him in his room. Don’t let him out until we have a script or he is dead. Either way, we win.”

I dreamt that night about vultures and greased whales but it was otherwise a restful night.

Mousvarmr, who seemed to be the only servant in the whole place, came and woke us for breakfast. There was pleasant smell of frying potato klopkies but when we reached the breakfast table, there was Fat Shmengy with several dozen empty plates in front of him.

The Grand Duchess was not pleased when she was told she would have to wait until Mousevarmr could get additional potatoes from the next village. “What tewwibwe times these awe! No bweakfast, wumows of waw, and I hewe thewe is even a showtage of oyestews!”

There was still plenty of coffee and so we went to work. There were some old royal dress outfits, both male and female, in the palace that did the trick for wardrobe and the script that a bleary-eyed and hiccupping Humminbird handed to us was actually quite good. We even managed to pry Chicolini away from his gypsies to do the camera work.




After a full morning we heard the sound of a large car coming up the drive-way to the Chateau.

I was shocked to see it was Bronislav’s limousine with that rat Raoul behind the wheel.

He strode confidently into the hall where we were filming, that damned cigarette still clutched in his slimy fingers.



“Miss Roxy, what a pleasant surprise! I had no idea you were here.”

“If not what brings you here, you malignant excuse for a cabbie.”

“Oh ho, still fiery as always. No, Roxy, not for you. The Prince knows that war now is inevitable, he’s given up looking for you. He sent me to fetch his great aunt out of the way of potential capture or worse, she being so close to the border. I am to take her back to Strelzov personally.”

Although this made sense, I couldn’t figure out why a louse like Raoul would stick his neck out even if ordered by Broni. Hummingbird must have felt the same way. The writer had appeared from his room bearing a large glass of the hair of the dog. He immediately interrupted and offered Raoul a drink.

“I am sorry but I do not drink alcohol.”

Hummingbird, his mixology kit already in full display, stood uncomprehending at the driver’s words. The perfect martini in his hands began to shake violently as his whole world view suddenly shifted. Fortunately, Chicolini came to the rescue, sprinting out of nowhere to down the drink.

By this time, the Grand Duchess had arrived. She was adamant that she would not leave her home or her people just because of the inconvenience of a war.

Raoul, his shifty eyes showing the calculations going on in his brain, shifted his tactics. He offered to take us to the capital, assuring us that Broni no longer had any intention of betraying us to the fascists; he was too busy preparing for the war.

“Scram, bus driver,” I finally told him and the little rat climbed into the big limo and drove off.

Then I realized that he was headed out of town on the road leading not to Strelzov but to the Graustark border.

“That stinkin’ son of a sea cook! He’s off to rat us out to the Krauts.”

We talked a bit about what to do but couldn’t come to any conclusion.
Instead, for lack of anything better to do, we went back to filming and put in one of the best day’s work I’ve ever had. Tura was actually pretty good. Even von Schnitzel didn’t scream as much as usual.

I had a rough night, tossing and turning and then being awaken early by Mousevarmr. He told me that there was grievous news and that the Grand Duchess had ordered all of her people to assemble in the Chateau forecourt.

After dressing, I went down and there was a huge crowd of villager gathered in front of the Chateau.



Bobo Mrko and another man in rich traditional dress, some village official no doubt, escorted the Grand Duchess to a small platform set before the villagers.

The priest spoke first, “We have received reports that, at five o’clock this morning, Germany has attacked Poland and a fierce battle is now raging along that nation’s borders. Our Minister of War has declared a full mobilization of all reserves in preparation for an attack against us. He believes that we shall be attacked next.”

“My peopwe, hawd times awe coming. We must giwd ouw woins for battwe. I caww now fow the mobiwization of aww abwe bodied men in my domain to dwive off these nefawious wuffians!”

There was a big cheer from the crowd and everyone calling out loyalty to the Crown and death to the invaders. Dear Lord, how were these rubes going to stop Hitler’s panzers; they were doomed.

“Feaw not, my woyaw peopwe, we have the assistance of wegulaw twoops to twain you in defeating the enemy.

Suddenly, two figures appeared in rough approximations of Ruritanian army uniforms. One was thin and one was very fat.

“Hey, Duchess Lady sign our ticket! We no get shot!” Skinny Shmengy crowed as he waived his Tommie gun over his head.

“Chicago Bang Bang!” said Fat Shmengy patting the stock of his anti-tank rifle.

“And we even have with us, a fowmew high govewnment official, a wesewve officew in the awmy to wead you.”

I felt my stomach churn when I saw the thin, lithe figure approach the platform, an oversized officers uniform nearly drowning her small dancer’s figure.



It was Zoya.

Then I heard the sound of an engine droning overhead. I looked up and far above us in the dawn sky was a reconnaissance plane. On its wings were large black crosses.