The Good, the Bad, and the Nazi
Written by David Trajanoski
BLACK TITLE CARD: “CHAPTER I: SCHMIDT’S GOLD” EXT. ARGENTINIAN COUNTRYSIDE. SUMMER DAY. Somewhere in the Neuquén Province of Argentine Patagonia. A handful of horses trot about a paddock, sectioned out of dry shortgrass prairie, extending far and wide in every direction. In the B.G., we see some rolling foothills, and in their B.G., the snow-capped peaks of the Andes. Chile lies on the other side. The horses scatter, as an old Bantam 40 BRC army jeep tears along the country road bordering the paddock, kicking up a big ol’ rooster tail of dirt in its wake. The jeep’s canvas roof is down, and stored in folds in the back seat. SUBTITLE: “ARGENTINE PATAGONIA, 1948” EXT. JEEP’S CAB. We get a good look at the man behind the wheel, bumping and thumping around in his seat as he guides the jeep down the cratered dirt road. He’s a military officer in his early fifties. He has a hard face, with a blonde-grey fringe visible under a light brown field cap. He wears an olive tunic (standard issue for desert dispatches) with the collar open and sleeves rolled up, a wifebeater underneath the tunic, a pair of cream-coloured civilian cargos, a pair of soft toe slip-ons, a pair of cool driving gloves, and a pair of super cool aviator sunglasses. Around his waist, he has a two-holster gunbelt with a loaded Luger P08 and a field knife, and thrown over the back of his chair, a sand-coloured gabardine two-breast overcoat. EXT. VILLA BLANCO. The jeep speeds out of the stunning brown sea of grass and into the rocky rural village of Villa Blanco (as indicated by a wooden sign) at the base of the foothills. The Officer belts the jeep down Villa Blanco’s main street. His U.S. made jeep draws looks of inquisition and suspicion, the roaring of the engine bringing a few people chicken-necking out their doors and windows. The Officer stops the Jeep out front of the cantina, a two story building with a porch and a saloon door.
He kills the engine, peels off his gloves, then wipes down his sweaty face with the sleeves of his shirt. As he goes to put his gloves into the glove box, we hear a voice from inside the shop. Americano?
The Officer looks up at the shop, just in time to see the barrel of a rifle settle on the windowsill, pointing straight at him and his jeep. He cranes his head sideways to see a dozen lookie-loos gathered eagerly on the shop’s periphery. The Officer turns back to the shop, then replies in a calm voice, and a heavy German accent: Nein.
The Rifleman quickly lowers the gun, then exits the cantina, going over to greet the Officer in his jeep (keeping his rifle at halfmast). Their whole conversation is carried on in subtitled Spanish. RIFLEMAN I don’t know German, so that leaves English or Spanish. OFFICER Spanish is preferable. RIFLEMAN Good, because it is preferable for me too. May I see your identification? The Officer goes into his pocket and retrieves his Schutzstaffel (SS) identification papers and hands them over. SS?
The Rifleman flips through the papers until he finds the page showing name and rank, as the Officer removes his cap and sunglasses. RIFLEMAN (CONT’D) Major Rudolf Holz. If General Major Schmidt is expecting you, he didn’t tell me.
MAJOR HOLZ He shouldn’t have, because he’s not. But he should be happy to see me all the same. The Rifleman hands the papers back, then points to the gunbelt around the Major’s waist. RIFLEMAN In any case, I’ll need you to turn that over. Major Holz puts his papers away, eyes moving to the gunbelt. After a lingering moment, he unfastens the belt and hands it over. SENOR FRANCO Haben Sie vielen Dank. My name is Franco, and this is my cantina. Please, come inside for a drink. Major Holz looks around at the townspeople, who seem a little disappointed at the lack of outcome. They all scatter off, as Major Holz follows Franco into his cantina. INT. FRANCO’S CANTINA. Major Holz enters the bar, greeted by a surprisingly decent-sized crowd, a mix of daytime drunks, working men on a liquid lunch, younger unemployed men playing trick-taking card games, gauchos on a quick pit stop, and a PRETTY YOUNG BROWN HAIRED GIRL sitting by herself, way off in the corner. Major Holz joins Franco over by the counter, who tucks his rifle and the Major’s gunbelt out of sight underneath it. SENOR FRANCO You’ll excuse the General Major, as he’s currently in a meeting. We hear a symphony of sex noises through the paper thin ceiling. Major Holz looks up the ceiling, then back down at Franco, raising an eyebrow. MAJOR HOLZ So, what’s your duty around these parts? Are you the sheriff? Or the barman?
SENOR FRANCO General Major Schmidt saw fit to make me both, seeing as the station and the bar are the same building. MAJOR HOLZ I guess you could call that an efficient allocation of resources. SENOR FRANCO Tell me, from where did you dig up that American monstrosity on four wheels? MAJOR HOLZ Ah, that I picked up as ex-Army surplus from the port in Fortaleza. The foreman told me a cache of Bantams were unloaded in port in 1941, a month after it was succeeded by the Willys. And there they stayed, cooping up a warehouse, for seven years, because the Yankees had commissioned all their freighters to be moving more valuable cargo. But what he didn’t tell me, and what he didn’t know, was the Bantam gets more than twice as many miles to the gallon as the Willys, and three times as much as the Kübelwagen, making that vehicle extremely valuable for anyone travelling with a closed billfold. SENOR FRANCO Still, you’re liable to be shot, galumphing across this part of the country in that beast of a contraption. Then where do your savings leave you? MAJOR HOLZ You were quite reasonable, Senor Franco. SENOR FRANCO Don’t consider me a valid example. Next time you may not have the luxury of enquiry. The truth is, tensions are high. We’ve had a handful of visitors in the last few days.
Most of them innocent, no doubt, but it’s not something myself and the General Major are particularly fond of. Take this girl. He points to the pretty young brown haired girl. She’s in her early twenties, and wears a pair of corduroy pants and a grey button-down blouse. SENOR FRANCO (CONT’D) She arrived just this morning from Bahía Blanca, claiming to be the English granddaughter of an old lady who lives on the outskirts of town, Señora Perez. She wants to see the General Major on some business on behalf of her alleged grandmother. But the good Señora Perez has not been seen since this girl’s arrival. Peculiar, no? Sick in bed, our stranger insists. I do not know enough to be pointing my fingers in accusation, but I am all but certain her mastery of English is insufficient to be native born. Major Holz gives the girl a long look. MAJOR HOLZ Two shots of whiskey, and you shall have your answer. Franco fills two shot glasses with whiskey. Major Holz brings them over to the pretty young girl. They speak in English. MAJOR HOLZ (CONT’D) The war is finished, so I hope our two countries can find a way to be friends again. The pretty young girl looks up, recoiling ever so slightly. Mm?
PRETTY YOUNG GIRL
MAJOR HOLZ You’re British, are you not? That’s what the barman was saying.
PRETTY YOUNG GIRL (in her best accent) Yes, I certainly am. Thank you very much. The young girl accepts her glass, chinks it with the Major’s and drinks. MAJOR HOLZ What brings you to Villa Blanco, if you don’t mind my asking? Family.
PRETTY YOUNG GIRL
MAJOR HOLZ You have family in Patagonia? PRETTY YOUNG GIRL My maternal grandmother. My mother married an Englishmen, and we emigrated there in my youth. MAJOR HOLZ That’s a strange pairing, I must say. PRETTY YOUNG GIRL They met during the Great War. They get along famously, as long as no one mentions the Falklands. MAJOR HOLZ And you are just visiting your grandmother? PRETTY YOUNG GIRL That’s correct. MAJOR HOLZ What’s correct? PRETTY YOUNG GIRL That I am visiting my grandmother. She says the “v” in “visiting” awkwardly, like a crippled “w”. MAJOR HOLZ Well, best of luck to you and your dear old grandmother. Auf wiedersehen, Fraulein.
Major Holz goes back to Franco at the bar. They pick it up again in Spanish. Well?
MAJOR HOLZ That girl, my dear boy, is a Jew. A Jew...?
MAJOR HOLZ A Polish Jew. Polish, or something Slavic. SENOR FRANCO How do you figure? MAJOR HOLZ Jew, because when I called her “Fraulein”, her asshole tightened tighter than Stalin’s when the Wehrmacht entered Stalingrad. Polish, because she speaks like a Pole speaking English. Slavs have a tendency to pronounce their v’s as w’s in a ridiculous overcorrection. The sex noises from upstairs stop, after an intense orgasmic duet. SENOR FRANCO General Major Schmidt will see you now. INT. GENERAL MAJOR SCHMIDT’S OFFICE. Major Holz pushes the open door even opener and enters General Major Schmidt’s spacious warlord-spec office. There’s a mini-bar in the corner, a king-sized bed, a thick oak desk, and a portrait painting of Adolf Hitler hung up on the wall. GENERAL MAJOR SCHMIDT lies face down and naked above the bed sheets, as the WOMAN he’s just finished fucking gathers clothes into a hamper. She is neither attractive nor thin nor young, but neither is the General Major. His sixty year old body is saggy and wrinkly, with a big fat beer belly, and a prominent wifebeater and shorts tanline (the skin covered is milk white, the exposed skin is leather.) Like all Germans, he has a German face.
The lovers bicker in Spanish. SCHMIDT’S LOVER You fat pig fuck. Who taught you how to treat a woman, you... disrespectful limp dicked faggot. GENERAL MAJOR SCHMIDT Just shut your cunt mouth already and get out of here you whore!! On “whore”, he digs his face out of his pillow, noticing Major Holz standing over by the door. All antagonism fades, and a smiles breaks across his face. They converse in German. GENERAL MAJOR SCHMIDT (CONT’D) SS Major Rudolf Osten Holz, in the flesh. MAJOR HOLZ That’s not my middle name. GENERAL MAJOR SCHMIDT Now that’s the name of a man I thought I would never see again. Schmidt’s Lover crosses by Major Holz, inspecting his face up close. SCHMIDT’S LOVER Who’s this? Your Nazi bum buddy from the war? General Major Schmidt throws a few items of clothing at her. GENERAL MAJOR SCHMIDT Get you and your Ally-collaborating cunt far away from me! She snatches up the clothes and promptly leaves. General Major Schmidt stands, manhood all hanging out, and approaches Major Holz with his arms extended. GENERAL MAJOR SCHMIDT (CONT’D) Bring it in, old boy. Major Holz is initially reluctant, but then decides “what the hell?” and embraces his former superior in all his naked glory.
MAJOR HOLZ Good to see you again, Lieutenant Colonel. Or should I say, General Major? GENERAL MAJOR SCHMIDT You should and you will. Drink? MAJOR HOLZ How about I prepare the beverages, and you put on some underwear, and maybe a few more items of clothing? GENERAL MAJOR SCHMIDT A grand idea. Major Holz goes over to the mini-bar and fills two glasses with peach schnapps and cranberry juice. General Major Schmidt goes back to his bed, collecting a pair of tightey whiteys, tan shorts, and a floral print shirt which, when buttoned, just barely contains his gargantuan gut. He looks out the window as he dresses. GENERAL MAJOR SCHMIDT (CONT’D) How’d you get here? MAJOR HOLZ The jeep out front. GENERAL MAJOR SCHMIDT In that zweitebananewagen? Have you never heard of the word conspicuous? MAJOR HOLZ Is that what you call this circus? Conspicuous? The Major points to the bigass canvas portrait of the Führer. GENERAL MAJOR SCHMIDT That’s what I call respect. Major Holz brings over his drink, and the two men chink glasses and knock them back. General Major Schmidt makes himself comfy on the bed, while Major Holz pulls up a chair. GENERAL MAJOR SCHMIDT (CONT’D) So, old boy, tell me a story. There was talk of your capture in Tunisia.
MAJOR HOLZ No doubt a few of you hoped it to be true. GENERAL MAJOR SCHMIDT (chuckles) Well, Marcus’ feelings towards you were never a secret. But sincerely, I’m glad to see you’re alive. MAJOR HOLZ That’s touching, General Major. But no. We fled Bizerte weeks before it fell, on Generalfeldmarschall Rommel’s charter. GENERAL MAJOR SCHMIDT Ah, Generalfeldmarscall Rommel. The Desert Fox. Tell me, how did his ass taste? Better or worse, in your reckoning, than Hitler’s ass tasted to him? MAJOR HOLZ I only got to try it once, and I only heard reports from the Fox. But, in my reckoning? I would say better. They both chuckle. GENERAL MAJOR SCHMIDT So this was back in ‘42. Tell me, how and where did you fill in those inbetween years without the likes of me hearing? MAJOR HOLZ Well, shortly after we landed in Italy, strangely enough, I found myself assigned to a freighter bound for Greece. When I arrived, and this is even stranger, and perhaps even ironic, I found myself assigned to the remnants of Einsatzgruppe Jugoslawien. And when the German heel was lifted off the Balkans, and this is the strangest part of all, I found myself assigned against my will to an internment camp.
GENERAL MAJOR SCHMIDT Jewish holiday? MAJOR HOLZ Let me tell you, from the other side, it’s not so pretty. I attached myself to a group of crafty foot soldiers. We made our escape one night, and made our way cross-continent back to Germany. By then, the dragnet was too all-encompassing to attempt another escape. So, I followed the Jewish example and stayed at my dear old Auntie and Uncle’s place until I was confident enough to make my escape. GENERAL MAJOR SCHMIDT And how did you find me? MAJOR HOLZ Compared to my previous exploits, that was a task of exceeding simplicity. Scream your name anywhere from Buenos Aires to Puerto Montt, and someone will scream back “Villa Blanco”. GENERAL MAJOR SCHMIDT And I hope they do. Rudolf, you do not know the adrenaline rush that accompanies the act of having complete power and loyalty over people. A snap of the finger and I could have, in five seconds, ten men with twenty pistols in this room. The General Major rubs his fingers together, primed to snap. After a beat, he separates his fingers and flies into another rant. GENERAL MAJOR SCHMIDT (CONT’D) I wish I saw some action in the Pacific. To see how those Chinamen ran their villages. You know what the people of Villa Blanco had before me? Shit stains on a rag. Driving petroleum for the Yankees through the mountains. General Major Schmidt grabs both empty glasses and goes over to the mini-bar for a refill.
GENERAL MAJOR SCHMIDT Standard Oil pays them to stay out of their supplies and shipments, thanks to a generous endowment of gold, from yours truly. My gold.
The General Major chuckles. GENERAL MAJOR SCHMIDT My money, technically, and the money of an dead man, allegedly. MAJOR HOLZ Well, enough about who’s allegedly dead. Who’s allegedly alive? General Major Schmidt brings Major Holz his drink, then goes and sits on his desk. GENERAL MAJOR SCHMIDT Four. Five plus me. Six plus you. MAJOR HOLZ Less than a quarter? GENERAL MAJOR SCHMIDT What can I say? Nazi lives were cheap in the spring of 1945. You didn’t do any independent research into the matter? MAJOR HOLZ I did, but you know how trigger-happy these records clerks get with a flamethrower when an administration is shutting shop. Who’s left? GENERAL MAJOR SCHMIDT Marcus Shroder, Stan Weissmuller, Hans Studebaker, and Gustav von Hoffmeyer. On Major Holz as he processes the names, nodding.
GENERAL MAJOR SCHMIDT (CONT’D) Six remain of the legendary command of the 1st Einsatzgruppe. Although... that number could just as easily become five again. General Major Schmidt opens the desk drawer and produces a Walther P38 handgun, holding it idly by his side as he takes an extra long sip of his icy drink. Major Holz turns and eyeballs his former superior, not knowing whether it’s a serious threat or a serious bluff. He stands up and faces him, drink in hand, cool as a cucumber, not giving much away. General Major Schmidt observes him for a moment, licking the cranberry juice off his semi-smirking lips, taking a few ice cubes out of his glass and playing around with them in his palm. GENERAL MAJOR SCHMIDT (CONT’D) But I won’t. He chuckles, laying the handgun flat on the table. Major Holz snickers a few times, then breaks out into a hearty belly laugh as he slowly approaches General Major Schmidt. MAJOR HOLZ You know it’s mean to be playing jokes like that, General Major. You’ll give me a heart attack. The ticker isn’t as robust as it used to be. GENERAL MAJOR SCHMIDT It wasn’t as much of a joke as you think. If it were anybody else, sure. But I like you, Rudolf, even if you did leave us to suck Rommel’s cock. On “cock”, Major Holz is sufficiently close enough to punch the General Major in the chin, slamming his bottom row of teeth into his top row, turning the cubed ice in his mouth into crushed ice. The General Major makes a muffled scream as ice chips and loose teeth fall out of his limp mouth. In all the commotion, the buttons on his floral shirt have ripped off. Major Holz takes this opportunity to grab the Walther P38 off the desk and stick it into Schmidt’s exposed belly. The Major’s tone is deadly serious.
MAJOR HOLZ Move or scream and I will blow a series of holes through that bloated bag of meat you call a stomach. GENERAL MAJOR SCHMIDT What the fuck, Rudolf? I was just kidding. Honest! MAJOR HOLZ I know you were, General Major, but you shouldn’t have been. GENERAL MAJOR SCHMIDT I didn’t lie about having twenty guns and ten men here in five seconds. MAJOR HOLZ It would take a lot shorter than five seconds to fill that belly with lead. But General Major, I hope you don’t think this is personal. The fact of the matter is, this was going to happen anyway. Men with your reputation, and your bounty, don’t stay hidden for long from men like me. GENERAL MAJOR SCHMIDT So that’s it? Money? I have the paintings. I can take you to them! MAJOR HOLZ I know you can, and you will. In a second, I’m going to take the point of this pistol out of your gut, and we’re going to go out into my jeep and for a little drive, without drawing any undue attention to ourselves. But right now, you need to fetch me the location of the other four commanders of the 1st Einsatzgruppe. On “gruppe”, Schmidt’s Lover walks back into the room with an empty hamper. She takes one look at the pistol Major Holz is toting, and breaks out in hysterics. Major Holz throws his hands up, pleading with a flurry of “no’s” to get her to stay, but she’s already left, telling everybody on ground level the trouble brewing in the office.
We hear a ruckus downstairs, yelling, and a cascade of boots pounding on floorboards as the men mobilize. The General Major smirks at the Major. INT. FRANCO’S CANTINA. We’re looking at the door to the office, on the bar’s second story mezzanine. The door creaks open, and out steps General Major Schmidt, carrying the bottle of peach schnapps, with Major Holz close behind, jamming a gun into the General Major’s back. The General Major takes a sip from his bottle, as Major Holz looks over his captive’s shoulder at the first floor below. HIS POV about TWO DOZEN MEN, with rifles/pistols/shotguns, barrels pointed right at him. They all cock their guns in a cascade of clicks. We switch back to Major Holz, keeping his cool, says in Spanish: MAJOR HOLZ Any man in Villa Blanco who wants to continue having nice things, needs to point his gun away from me and the General Major, lest your finger slip, and you find your little town’s money well drying up faster than an Egyptian whore’s cunt. GENERAL MAJOR SCHMIDT Listen to the man! They all begrudgingly pull their guns away. Major Holz leads the General Major down the steps. MAJOR HOLZ If anybody raises their gun above their waist, I shoot him. If anybody comes within three steps of me, I shoot him. Major Holz leads his hostage across the bar, through a gauntlet of snarling, pissed off gauchos and roughnecks, all taking a step back so as to not break the Major’s three step rule. Mid-journey, Major Holz jerks General Major Schmidt to a stop. MAJOR HOLZ (CONT’D) Señor Franco?
SENOR FRANCO (O.S.)
The crowd parts to reveal Franco behind the counter. MAJOR HOLZ Fetch me my gunbelt, if you please. Franco goes underneath the counter, coming back out with the Major’s fancy leather gunbelt. MAJOR HOLZ (CONT’D) Bring it over. Franco goes over to the edge of the swarm, and holds the gunbelt out for Major Holz. The Major reaches out with his free hand and takes his Luger P08 from the holster. MAJOR HOLZ (CONT’D) Fasten it to me. Don’t be scared, now. Franco tentatively approaches and straps the gunbelt around the Major’s waist. EXT. FRANCO’S CANTINA. General Major Schmidt sits in the driver’s seat of the Major’s running jeep. Major Holz has one gun pointed at the General Major, and the other pointed at the impotent posse gathered on the porch of the cantina. Keener viewers might notice the canvas roof in the back seat looking a little more bulged-up than earlier. As the jeep pulls out, Major Holz turns his body to keep facing the cantina thugs, until they’re about forty or fifty yards away. EXT. ARGENTINIAN COUNTRYSIDE. LATE AFTERNOON. The jeep is parked at the center of a wooden strut frame bridge that passes over a ravine. There’s a fifty meter drop from the bridge to the knee-deep stream at the base of the V-shaped ravine. General Major Schmidt looks over a foldout map (folded back to only show Argentina) laid on the jeep’s hood, next to his bottle of peach schnapps. Major Holz, now wearing his field cap and gabardine overcoat, leans back in the front seat, feet on the dash, smoking a cigarette (he doesn’t so much smoke it, as he lets it hang idly from his mouth.)
MAJOR HOLZ You know, the way that played out, I figure it won’t be long before word spreads. Which would make every minute a precious commodity that I can’t spend looking at you looking at a map. GENERAL MAJOR SCHMIDT Tough titties then, Major, because I can’t remember. MAJOR HOLZ Think harder, General Major. Maybe take longer pauses between shots. GENERAL MAJOR SCHMIDT I told you that whore of a woman handles the money. Do you think I would burden myself with busy work? How do you know I haven’t sold them all already? Major Holz gets up and circles around the jeep. MAJOR HOLZ Don’t insult me. You play it safe, but stupid safe. Zydowka z Jablka shows up in Buenos Aires in September of last year. Since then, one painting a month has been appearing at the same three dealers, right there in the city. Major Holz trails off as we track into the jeep’s covered back seat, in the gap between the canvas and the back of the chair. We see two eyes pop up and peer out. INSIDE THE BACK SEAT We see the pretty young brown haired girl from the cantina, peering out at the conversing Germans. Their voices are just barely audible, and she’s trying her best to absorb it all. BACK AT THE BRIDGE Major Holz leans on the jeep, facing General Major Schmidt. MAJOR HOLZ (CONT’D) Now, I know that answer is buried somewhere inside that brain. We’ve got Villa Gevuina... Vincente Lopez... and Jose C. Paz... but where in Argentina is the last man?
At the mention of “Argentina”, a light goes off in the General Major’s head. He grabs the map, and folds out the top section of the map showing Argentina’s neighbor, Paraguay. He grabs the pen and draws a big fat circle around a city near the border. Major Holz grabs hold of the map and inspects. Asuncion?
MAJOR HOLZ (CONT’D)
General Major Schmidt nods. MAJOR HOLZ (CONT’D) Nice work, General Major. Help yourself to half of that bottle. You’ve earned it. Now, there’s only the matter of the paintings, you can consume the remaining half, and we can be on our merry way. GENERAL MAJOR SCHMIDT Merry way where? MAJOR HOLZ Bahía Blanca. Where did you think? GENERAL MAJOR SCHMIDT You told me, you treacherous pile of collaborating shit, that you would let me go once I gave you the paintings. MAJOR HOLZ The war’s over, General Major. There’s no such thing as a collaborator. Only those wise enough to give up on the lost National Socialist cause. And I never said I would let you go. No. I said I would do everything in my power to help you. And I’ll be sure to tell the Allied Control Council, once this list has been verified, and I have the paintings in my possession, your hand in this investigation. Maybe they’ll give you life instead of the rope. Major Holz turns his back to General Major Schmidt, folding up the map and filing it into the glove box, then checking his watch and looking up at the sun floating just over the horizon.
As Major Holz speaks his upcoming bit of dialogue, the General Major takes the opportunity to seize the bottle of schnapps, move over to the bridge’s railing and climb up it, take one more drink, and hop off the bridge and to his death, all unbeknownst to Major Holz. MAJOR HOLZ (CONT’D) Now, it appears as though we only have a few hours of sunlight at our disposal, and it’s not my idea of a good time to be stuck in the Patagonian countryside in the dark. So, if you wouldn’t mind tell me where you’ve stowed the paintings-On “painting”, we hear a dirty splash from the bottom of the ravine. Major Holz turns around. His prisoner is gone. He moves over to the railing and looks down the ravine. MAJOR HOLZ POV General Major Schmidt’s mangled body is semi-visible in the kneedeep stream, collar bone jutting out of his neck. Major Holz shouts a few expletives in German, pacing left and right along the railing, looking down at the ravine on either side. He gets into his jeep, fires it up, takes it over to one end of the bridge, pulls into a clearing on the side of the road, where a thicket of shrubs conceals the jeep from passing cars. Major Holz gets out, and inspects the decline leading to the stream, thick with wild overgrowth. It’s steep, but climbable. He goes back to the jeep, approaching the back seat, getting a good hold of the canvas and flinging it off. Wherever the pretty young brown haired girl is, she’s not in the back seat anymore. The Major, now with a length of rope looped around his arm, kicks the roll of canvas down the ravine, bouncing down the decline and stopping short of the stream. Then he begins his descent. Major Holz is now in the stream, pants rolled up to his knees. He secures the rope around the floating General Major’s torso. Major Holz drags the General Major out of the water. His corpse gets snagged on the rocky river bank. The Major drops the rope and goes to collect the roll of canvas, when he sees something in the alcove underneath the bridge.
He moves closer to inspect it--a discolored and distextured patch of rock soil. He gets on his knees and turns up the plot, revealing a sliver of plastic something. He loosens the soil around the curiosity, until he can dislodge the large rectangular-shaped, plastic-wrapped bundle from the soil. He lays the package flat and breaks open the seal, to reveal a stack of about a dozen Nazi-plundered French artworks. Then, he hears something at the top of the ravine. Car engines. More than one. The ravine acts like a funnel, focusing the roar of the cars on the Major’s location. A tense moment as the Major stares up at the bottom of the bridge, not seeing much, but hearing a whole lot, and speculating they should be just passing overhead now, hoping they don’t spot his parked jeep. The cars slow... boarding the bridge... idling and rolling... then speeding up again. As the engines fade, Major Holz turns his attention back to the painting, sealing up the package again. It’s now dusk. Major Holz comes into view scaling the final few steps of the incline, carrying the paintings in his hands, and dragging the canvas-covered body of General Major Schmidt behind him (with rope looped around his arms and chest). We see the paintings in the back seat, then track to the Major fastening the General Major’s corpse in the front seat. Major Holz goes over to the road, pulling a metal cigarette case from his pocket and lighting up a cigarette. As he takes in a long, satisfying job-well-done drag, with his back to the jeep, we hear it start up and the engine rev. Major Holz turns to face it and sees... ...the pretty young brown haired girl behind the wheel. She opens the passenger’s side door, and shoves the General Major’s corpse out, which rolls down the gentle portion of the decline, before it reaches the steep decline and plummets all the way back down to the river. The pretty young girl gives the Major a little wave. PRETTY YOUNG GIRL Auf wiedersehen, Mr. Nazi. She kicks the jeep into gear and speeds towards him. The Major dives out of the way of the jeep, missing him by a whisker hair.
The Major digs his head out of the dirt and rushes over to the road with his new Walther and his old Luger drawn, but sheâ€™s long gone. Major Holz holsters the weapons and looks on, dumbfounded.
BLACK TITLE CARD: “CHAPTER II: EASTERN” EXT. ARGENTINIAN COUNTRYSIDE. FULL MOON NIGHT. A lonely windswept country road. As hot as the springs day in Patagonia are apt to get, is how biting cold the nights are. We see Major Holz at distance, gabardine coat wrapped tight around his torso. Behind him, he drags the rolled up corpse of the General Major, just like Django drags his coffin in the opening credits of Django. The Major suddenly stops. We track to his feet, where he bends down to pick up one of the plundered French artworks he recovered from the river. A taunt from the pretty young girl? Certainly. It’s a little later in the night, and the Major has gathered some dry twig and branches as kindling and made himself a campfire. He lies down, using the General Major’s corpse as a pillow. With the painting in his lap, he tears off a section of canvas and flips it over. He takes a mechanical pencil from his pocket and sketches something on the blank side of canvas. It’s now morning, and the Major has resumed his trek. A hooptie approaches from the rear. Major Holz tries to wave it down, but the notion of picking up a man dragging a body behind him is wholly unappealing to the driver, and they keep a wide berth as the speed passed the Major, much to his dismay. The canvas-wrapped corpse moves along the dirt like sandpaper rubbing on sandpaper. Major Holz stops, exhausted and breathing heavy. He takes his field knife from his holster, peels the canvas back to reveal the General Major’s filthy pale head, then runs the field knife against the General Major’s neck. EXT. VILLA RUBIO. DAY. Major Holz enters the one-horse town of Villa Rubio on the Rio Negro, some 20 kilometers west of Choele Choel. He holds the General Major’s canvas-wrapped head in his hand. Villa Rubio is offensively small. We see a filling station (with a sign that reads “Sinbad’s Garaje”), a cantina up the way with three cars parked out front, a municipal building, and a half dozen homes on the river bank. No children play in the street. Major Holz is outside the filling station house. Thinking it unwise to bring the head inside, he straps it to a tie post. We hear some raised voices inside.
As the Major approaches the door, a short fat child runs out, paying no mind to the Major as he runs up the street. INT. FILLING STATION HOUSE. The short fat father of the short fat child is high up on a ladder behind the counter, reaching up and trying to pull down an immaculate canvas portrait painting. MAJOR HOLZ (O.S.) Senor Sinbad? The clerk turns to face Major Holz, who’s materialized down by the counter. He disembarks the ladder as he greets the Major. SENOR SINBAD Si, senor. Espanol? MAJOR HOLZ Si. My name is Major Holz. SENOR SINBAD Welcome to Villa Rubio, Herr Major. Is there something I can help you with? Major Holz reaches into his jacket pocket. MAJOR HOLZ I’m in need of transportation from your village to Bahia Blanca. SENOR SINBAD Would you like a coach itinerary, Herr Major? MAJOR HOLZ I was more in the market for a vehicle from your fine fleet. But we’ll get to that in a moment. First and foremost, you can assist me by telling me if you recognise this girl. The Major takes out the sketch of the pretty young girl, looking exactly like she did when she said “Auf wiedersehen, Mr. Nazi”. SENOR SINBAD That’s a pretty young girl. Who is she, if you don’t mind my asking?
MAJOR HOLZ I don’t know anything about her, other than that she’s pretty, young, and in possession of my jeep. SENOR SINBAD Our tiny village doesn’t see many visitors. MAJOR HOLZ But you do see them? SENOR SINBAD We do. You should be evidence enough of that. MAJOR HOLZ But your tiny village didn’t see any visitors in the late hours of the night, of the pretty young girl driving a stolen American jeep variety? The clerk stares at the sketch, feigning like he’s thinking hard. SENOR SINBAD I’m terribly sorry, Herr Major. It’s a nice face to look at, no question, but an altogether unrecognizable one. MAJOR HOLZ What’s done is done. I can’t will you to have had guests last night. If you had no visitors, there is little that can change that. Major Holz accepts the sketch back and puts it away. MAJOR HOLZ (CONT’D) That’s an exquisite painting you have there, Senor Sinbad. SENOR SINBAD Gracias. Are you an art lover? MAJOR HOLZ I dabble. The composition is striking. It would make a perfect addition to my antechamber in my home in Cologne. Would you be willing to part with it? I’ll offer you a fair price.
SENOR SINBAD I’m afraid not. It’s an old family heirloom. MAJOR HOLZ Is that right? Yes.
MAJOR HOLZ So that means your father is famed Austrian Symbolist painter Gustav Klimt? Because that’s who painted this. Excuse me?
MAJOR HOLZ I wasn’t aware the owner of a backwater garage on the Rio Negro in Patagonia is Herr Klimt’s own flesh and blood. Tell me, Senor Sinbad Klimt, did you accompany your father when he was commissioned by Ferdinand Bloch-Bauer to paint this immaculate piece? SENOR SINBAD Major Holz... MAJOR HOLZ Let’s stop with the games, Senor Sinbad. That pretty young girl gave you that nifty piece in exchange for a full tank of gasoline, which by my estimations she so sorely needed. I’m guessing she continued east, along 22 towards Bahia Blanca? Can you confirm that? SENOR SINBAD On point, Herr Major. THROUGH A WINDOW We see a truck pull up to the station, the cab door swing open, the driver get out, the driver stick his head into the shop, and then bang on the wall. He wears white trousers, a white jacket over a white wifebeater, a white cravat, and smokes a cigarette.
TRUCK DRIVER Fill her up. SENOR SINBAD Un moment, s'il vous plaît. The truck driver leaves. MAJOR HOLZ The painting is of no consequence to me, but I will be requiring one of the cars parked outside the cantina. SENOR SINBAD I would love to, Herr Major. But unfortunately, those cars do not belong to me. MAJOR HOLZ Who do they belong to? EXT. VILLA RUBIO. We see a dozen men comprising the Villa Blanco Posse over by their cars outside the cantina, opening trunks and doors and arming themselves with pistols and shotguns. As they do, the truck from the filling station pulls up alongside the bar’s porch. There’s about fifty jerry cans on its trailer, and the words ‘Eastern Oil’ are written on the side. The head of the posse loads a shotgun and yells out to the truck driver, who sticks his head out of the window. TRUCK DRIVER He’s standing by the counter. HEAD OF THE POSSE Gracias, vaquero Frances. De nada.
The truck driver leaves his truck and goes into the bar. We track with the posse as they head over to the station house and surround the place, putting a man with a gun on every wall, window and door.
We whip to the back of the truck, where the trailer gate is unlatched and Major Holz (holding head) steps down from the tray. Major Holz goes over to the fleet of cars, pops the hood of one and yanks out its fuse box. He does this with one more car, then goes over to the side of the bar and flings the boxes into some shrubs. Major Holz gets behind the wheel of the third and final car. The ignition sparks, but it doesn’t start. Yep, he chose the jalopy, and with terrible timing to boot, as the posse discover his ruse and double back towards him. His head whips from the approaching posse to... ...the truck driver exiting the bar with a pint of beer, striding across the porch and getting back into his truck. INT. TRUCK’S CAB. We’re with the truck driver as he climbs in and takes his seat behind the wheel. Major Holz climbs into the cab after him on the passenger’s side. They speak in Spanish. TRUCK DRIVER What do you think you’re doing, friend? Major Holz unravels General Major Schmidt’s filthy head with one hand, and with the other, sticks his Luger into the driver’s ribs. MAJOR HOLZ I’m commandeering your vehicle, Monsieur. TRUCK DRIVER (forty degree day) Is that a human head? MAJOR HOLZ You have a keen eye. Now, hold perfectly still. Major Holz ruffles the hair on the General Major’s head to make it seem like not a rotting head, then brings it upto the driver’s shoulder.
EXT. OUTSIDE THE TRUCK. Schmidt’s posse converges on the passenger’s side of the cab, guns aimed through the open door. POSSE’S POV We see Major Holz, one hand around his Luger, one hand holding the General Major’s decrepid head on the driver’s shoulder. He’s trying to use the art of perspective to make it look like the driver is the General Major. MAJOR HOLZ One move, and I fill him up with lead. The posse suddenly steps off. A few men look to the truck’s cargo. Their mouths go agape, and their faces flush with fear. We hear cries of “nitroglycerina!” After a moment, the posse in its entirety takes off down the road, as fast as their collective legs will take them. INT. TRUCK’S CAB. Major Holz removes the head from the truck driver’s shoulder, who looks unfazed by everything that’s just happened. Before Holz can even say the word, the driver’s cranking the truck into gear and pulling out, taking a sip from his beer. INT. TRUCK’S CAB. MIDDAY. The driver hoons the truck across the bridge over the Rio Negro and out of the village, one hand on his beer, the other on the wheel. Villa Rubio recedes into the background. We see a little metal Cross hanging from the rearview mirror, which bounces from side to side. Major Holz stuffs the General Major’s head back into its sack. He can hardly believe the ploy worked. He speaks French to the truck driver with great difficulty. MAJOR HOLZ Bahia Blanca, Monsieur? Oui.
MAJOR HOLZ May I come along?
MAJOR HOLZ Parlez-vois Allemand, Monsieur? TRUCK DRIVER Nein. Englisch, Herr? MAJOR HOLZ (switching to English) Yes. That will be a nice change of pace. Watch your rear. They may return. TRUCK DRIVER I beg to differ. MAJOR HOLZ A Frenchman who knows English. Let me guess... Free French based out of Britain? TRUCK DRIVER No. 5 Squadron until ‘41. Senegal Group thereafter. Yes, Britain is where I developed my mastery of English. MAJOR HOLZ Bomber Command and De Gaulle’s Free French? You must’ve seen more than your share of action. TRUCK DRIVER Atlantic... Mediterrean... North Africa... Continental Europe. You name it. 236 completed missions. MAJOR HOLZ I’m sorry? Can you repeat that? It sounded like you said 236. TRUCK DRIVER 236 or 263. It’s bad luck to carve notches after your 200th. Well, not bad luck, but it’s certainly not good luck.
MAJOR HOLZ That’s simply amazing. You must have nerves of steel-plated lead. I hope you harbor no ill feelings towards me for supporting the abomination that was Nazi Germany. TRUCK DRIVER Have we met before? MAJOR HOLZ No. Not to my knowledge. TRUCK DRIVER There’s your answer. I only hate those I haven’t met as much as is permitted in the eyes of God. Which is to say, I don’t hate you at all. MAJOR HOLZ That’s very magnanimous of you. My name is Major Rudolf Holz. BEAUMARCHAIS I am Beaumarchais. MAJOR HOLZ Namesake of Pierre-Augustin Caron de Beaumarchais? BEAUMARCHAIS If you’d like. MAJOR HOLZ Do you have a first name to go with that, Monsieur Beaumarchais? BEAUMARCHAIS Same as the playwright, I have three. But I have no need for any of them, until you can find another man in Argentina who shares with me my last name. MAJOR HOLZ It’s tough to argue with that. The Frenchman finishes his beer and chucks the glass out the window. Then, taking his hands off the steering wheel, he lights a cigarette.
The Major sticks his head out of the window and has a quick look back. MAJOR HOLZ (CONT’D) You’re right, Monsieur Beaumarchais. No sign of pursuers. Full speed ahead to Bahia Blanca. The Frenchman motions to the head in the Major’s lap. BEAUMARCHAIS It’s bad luck to be carrying around the heads of your enemies, Major, especially if those enemies are influential tyrant warlords. MAJOR HOLZ According to whom? BEAUMARCHAIS The Japanese. Burying a man without his head was the greatest disrespect that could befall him. MAJOR HOLZ Ah, so it’s not so much unlucky for me, as it is extraplanarly unfortunate for him. Although, to even entertain the notion is to give the Godless and superstituous Japs credit they don’t deserve. Surely the separating of this man’s head from his body can only mean good fortune for you. It means his men will leave yours and your bosses’ convoys be. BEAUMARCHAIS His renegades wouldn’t think twice about touching what I drive. MAJOR HOLZ And why would that be? Here’s why.
The Frenchman ashes his cigarette and nods to the road ahead. MAJOR HOLZ POV a few hundred meters ahead, we see the country road suddenly go from flat to bumpy. A sign reading “0 KM” marks the spot.
Back in the cab, Beaumarchais plants his foot on the gas, hastily accelerating the vehicle. MAJOR HOLZ That’s the spirit, Monsieur Beaumarchais. The faster we get there, the better. BEAUMARCHAIS I don’t do this for your benefit. Speed facilitates the negotiation of the upcoming strip of road. Washboard. I’m sure you’ve seen it before. MAJOR HOLZ I certainly have. It’s a speed regulator. Regular grooves dug into the surface of the dirt. If you go above or below a certain speed, your vehicle will strike the bumps, instead of gliding seamlessly between them. BEAUMARCHAIS Precisely. And it is of grave importance we don’t hit any of those bumps. This comment strikes the Major as discomforting. MAJOR HOLZ Monsieur Beaumarchais? Yes?
MAJOR HOLZ Why is it of grave importance we don’t hit any of those bumps? BEAUMARCHAIS The jerry cans on the bed are filled to the brim with nitroglycerin, and those cans are uninsulated, I might add, due to a materials shortage. MAJOR HOLZ Nitroglycerin? As in nitro - highly volatile, no force necessary to ignite and rocket us into the stratosphere glycerin?
BEAUMARCHAIS That’s the one, Major. MAJOR HOLZ You didn’t think that was something I would’ve like to have known? BEAUMARCHAIS I didn’t think you would care. What’s the problem, Major? MAJOR HOLZ The problem, Monsieur Beaumarchais, is that there’s enough nitroglycerin in this truck to level a Japanese city, with the added disadvantage that the fuse is a random number generator! BEAUMARCHAIS The dangers are thoroughly exaggerated, Major. They told me bomber pilots don’t last more than 40 missions. Most of them get shot down. The ones that don’t, go crazy. But look at me. 326 missions and healthy as a horse. MAJOR HOLZ Clearly your faculties are in perfect working order. Nonetheless, if you wouldn’t mind pulling the truck over, Monsieur, I’d like to get out. BEAUMARCHAIS That’s impossible. We’re on the washboard. Stopping means slowing, and slowing means hitting bumps, and hitting bumps means certain death... if not worse. MAJOR HOLZ Dare I ask how far it’ll be until we’re back to flat? BEAUMARCHAIS Very, very soon. Only another 140 kilometers. A fraction of our trip. MAJOR HOLZ Of course it is.
The Major’s buttcheeks clench up tight at the thought of 140 kilometers of this psychological torture. He looks over at the madman in the driver’s seat, then grabs a fistful of seat cushion in each hand. We see the cross icon hanging on string, violently flinging from side to side. SMASH CUT: EXT. SMALL VILLAGE AT THE END OF THE WASHBOARD. Now coasting along on flat road, the Eastern Oil truck rolls to a gentle stop outside a general store. We see some of the town the general store belongs to in the B.G. Major Holz leaves the cab. BEAUMARCHAIS I can take you the rest of the way, if you please, Herr Major. MAJOR HOLZ Thank you, Monsieur Beaumarchais, but I will pass. Safe passage on your journey to hell. Thank you.
The Major slams the door shut, and Beaumarchais cranks the atomic bomb on wheels into gear and pulls out. Major Holz gives the General Major’s bagged head a sniff, then enters the general store. We hear the audio inside. MAJOR HOLZ (O.S.) Ola, senor. One bag of ice. And one coach itinerary. EXT. BAHIA BLANCA. LATE AFTERNOON. The Major’s coach pulls into the coastal city of Bahia Blanca. INT. POST OFFICE. We’re with a cigarette smoking clerk behind the counter of quiet little post office further into the city. Major Holz drops the bag of ice containing the General Major’s bagged head on the counter, thus concluding their time together.
Major Holz fishes a piece of paper from his coat and hands it over to the clerk. MAJOR HOLZ Express post to this address. The clerk nods, grabs the head and goes into the back room. INT. CLUB LUNA LAGO. NIGHT. A hip nightclub scene. We see tables and chairs surrounding a stage. People drink and smoke in groups of two, three, four and five. A guitarist takes the stage, an Omar Khorshid-type figure. He plays a flamenco-inspired taqsim. His exquisite mastery of the instrument hypnotises the crowd into solemn church-like silence. Amongst the obedient crowd, we see the pretty young girl at a table, by herself, wearing a different outfit than earlier, legs crossed and enjoying a cigarette. We see the bottom half of Major Holz approach, holding two drinks, and fill the chair across from the pretty young girl. He slides a drink over to her. She doesn’t take her eyes off the guitarist. He addresses her in English, as earlier. MAJOR HOLZ One day, you’re going to have to buy me a drink. She shooshes him into silence. Neither of them open their mouth for the duration of the song. The guitarist ends the song a few moments later, which is met by rapturous applause. Only then does the pretty young girl turn to face the Major. She drops all pretense, and speaks with her natural Polish accent. PRETTY YOUNG GIRL How’d you find me? MAJOR HOLZ Oh, it wasn’t of great difficulty finding a Jewish Pole who doesn’t speak a word of Spanish in Argentina. It doesn’t help that you leave a trail like a stuck pig. Is English fine for you, Ms. Koman? Or is it Sandra?
SANDRA KOMAN English and Ms. Koman are just fine. You’re quite the detective, Mr... MAJOR HOLZ Is Mr. Nazi suddenly unacceptable? Because it’s actually what a lot of people used to call me. SANDRA KOMAN I don’t disagree that that’s what a lot of your enemies call you. MAJOR HOLZ Is that not what we are? SANDRA KOMAN I stole your jeep, yes. But we’ve drank together, more than once. And where I’m from, that’s a friendly gesture. So I think that puts us somewhere between friend and enemy. What did your subordinates call you in the war? MAJOR HOLZ My subordinates called me Herr Holz, with Holz optional. But I think I’m right in assuming no unironic word of German will ever leave your mouth, so Major will do. SANDRA KOMAN So, then congratulations, Major Holz. You’ve caught me. What do you want? MAJOR HOLZ Oh, not a great deal. Apart from the jeep you’ve stolen from me, and everything inside of it, including over a few hundred thousand dollars worth of French art, half of which you saw fit to give to every two-bit clerk from the mountains to the sea in exchange for a replenished tank and a loaf of bread. Other than that small detail, there’s nothing of note I require from you.
SANDRA KOMAN I’m going to guess that map in particular was something you hoped to recover? You should know I set it alight after memorizing the locations ... along with whichever paintings I hadn’t handed out to garage owners. MAJOR HOLZ Don’t be naive, Ms. Koman. I had those locations committed to memory not a second after they left the General Major’s mouth. As for the paintings... well, money’s never been an enticing motivator for me, same as you I gather. But just to back track a touch, it’s interesting to hear you bring up the map. That map is the least of my concerns, but that it’s the most of yours is quite telling. SANDRA KOMAN What does it tell you? MAJOR HOLZ The narrative behind your little crossAtlantic journey. Something to the tune of... vindictive Jew comes to Latin America - the last remaining place on Earth where killing Germans is met with endorsement at best, apathy at worst - to kill Germans. SANDRA KOMAN Ha ha ha. That’s a nice story. But why am I hearing it? You caught me. You could’ve taken the key and left, and saved me your tiresome speculating. MAJOR HOLZ My visit has a definite point, and it would behoove you to be a little less impetuous if you’d like to know what it is. Such as it was, your little cross-country excursion put me in a difficult spot. A day behind schedule. And in matters of such diligence, an hour may as well be a week, and a week a lifetime.
By now, every single man on that list has heard of General Major Schmidt’s fate, consequently making my real job, and your pretend job, exponentially more difficult. SANDRA KOMAN So what? Letting them have that knowledge is a luxury none of them deserve. A few impotent old men know they’re going to get a few bullets in a few days. MAJOR HOLZ Impotent? Ever heard of local police? Hired Militia? Most of them are proven marksmen in their own right. And if their fight response doesn’t kick in, there’s an essentially infinite amount of time for the alternative. SANDRA KOMAN I revel in the challenge. MAJOR HOLZ Then you are stupid and suicidal. SANDRA KOMAN What do you suggest? Partnership? Major Holz lets out a chuckle. MAJOR HOLZ I never said that. I just wanted to make it clear, that you are nothing more than a liability to yourself, and to me, and you’d be cautioned to stay out of my way. SANDRA KOMAN Well, you fascist pig. What makes you think I care about any precautions you want to make clear for me? And who says I won’t find those men before you? The Major chuckles again.
MAJOR HOLZ Surely you’re not sincere. You stole my jeep, and I still managed to catch up to you between meals. Now, if you would hand me the key, I’d like to eat for the first time since last night, and be on my merry way. Sandra retrieves the key from her pocket. Holz accepts it and stands up. Before he leaves, he throws her sketch on the table. EXT. CLUB LUNA LAGO. NIGHT. Major Holz leaves the club, picking his teeth with a toothpick. He looks up at his jeep parked on the curb. MAJOR HOLZ POV Sandra sits in the passenger’s seat with her feet up. Major Holz enters frame and gets behind the wheel. He looks at the back seat. The paintings have returned, in two shallow stacks. SANDRA KOMAN Lieutenant Studebaker is in Rio Cuarto. We should take the 35 northeast and north. We’ll be there by morning. When we have him, we can continue north to Lieutenant Colonel Weissmuller in Villa Gevuina, and when he’s apprehended, cut east to Captain Hoffmeyer in Buenos Aires. Colonel Shroder in Asuncion is best left to last. We may face some trouble with Portugese border patrol. MAJOR HOLZ Have you fired a gun before? Yes.
MAJOR HOLZ Have you ever killed a man before? Yes.
MAJOR HOLZ Both questions were irrelevant. If you want to come with me, you are to keep your Jewish genes in check. The General Major was no fair example.
There is to be no killing of unarmed German men. We take them to port, alive and breathing and trial-ready. Understand? Completely.
BLACK TITLE CARD: “CHAPTER III, PART I: DIPLOMACY BY GAS” EXT. ARGENTINIAN COUNTRYSIDE. NIGHT. The jeep speeds north down Highway 35 towards Rio Cuarto. There are no lights posted on the highway, so Major Holz relies on the glow of his headlights to guide them through the night. The biting cold air rushes in and out of the open cab. Major Holz flips up the collar of his coat. He says to Sandra over the wind: MAJOR HOLZ If only we still had the roof. He looks over at her, but she’s fast asleep, wrapped in a big puffy blanket. EXT. RIO CUARTO. MORNING. We’re with the jeep parked outside a police station in Rio Cuarto central. Sandra stirs awake. She rubs her eyes, looking around at the peaceful city. People walk freely by the jeep. We whip to the driver’s seat. Major Holz is missing. Sandra shrugs off the blanket. She’s sweating beads, from cooking in that blanket all morning. We stay on her as she exits the jeep and finds shade underneath a tree. She strikes a match and lights a cigarette. She peers through a window into the station and sees Major Holz at a desk with two sergeants. The Major promptly stands, and shakes hands with the uniformed men. We lose sight of him as he exits the office. We stay on Sandra, enjoying her cigarette, as the Major navigates through the building (in real time). Sandra’s eyes move to the door. The camera whips around to see Major Holz exit and approach her. MAJOR HOLZ You’re awake. SANDRA KOMAN It’s comforting to wake up, and see your so-called partner in a police station, talking to police. Are you turning me in, Major?
MAJOR HOLZ That wouldn’t be the worst idea. But no. I went into the police station for the other reason people go into police stations. Because we’ve got a problem, that they can help us in solving. SANDRA KOMAN What problem? MAJOR HOLZ The same problem that puts us in Latin America as opposed to Continental Europe. SANDRA KOMAN What makes you think these Peronist cunts will help us? Wait, don’t answer that before answering this. What makes you think I would accept their help? MAJOR HOLZ Because you are not so foolish that you would turn away a helping hand, especially if that hand is two hands, and those two hands are holding guns. As for your first question, I don’t think these Peronist cunts will help us... I know they will. SANDRA KOMAN And pretell, what kind of offer did yourself and the chief manage to wrangle up for yourselves? MAJOR HOLZ I didn’t have the pleasure of speaking to the chief. I spoke to Sergeants Emilio Juarez and Lionel Costa. You weren’t far off the mark, I admit. Most of the crooked Nationalist pigs in the stationhouse have no horse in our race. But Juarez and Costa do. They happen to frequent the same social club as the Lieutenant. And every night this week, the Lieutenant has handed the sargeants their own asses on a silver platter on the Truco table. All of this you would know, if you got up when you were supposed to get up.
SANDRA KOMAN Is that what they teach you in the fascist armed forces? MAJOR HOLZ That’s what they teach you in all armed forces, I suspect. SANDRA KOMAN What now? Sergeants Rodriguez and Fernandez are going to hop in the jeep with us? MAJOR HOLZ Don’t be ridiculous. A daytime raid is too risky. We’re to meet up with them at dusk, at a little filling station in the village of Sheja, 20 miles from Studebaker’s farmhouse. I was told the farm is nestled in a valley, so the rest of our day will consist of getting cosy on a hillside, and staking out that farm. SANDRA KOMAN Sounds like the perfect afternoon. Sitting on a hill, with a Nazi, watching another Nazi. MAJOR HOLZ I brought lunch and cigarettes, so it won’t be all bad. Before we leave, there’s something we need to discuss. Major Holz leads Sandra to the trunk of the jeep. We’re looking at the pair from the front seat. He pulls off the canvas sheet to reveal something. The Major looks at her, expecting an answer. What?
MAJOR HOLZ How do you explain this? Supplies.
MAJOR HOLZ This is novelty garbage.
The Major reaches into the back seat and pulls out a long doubleedged blade (called a facon) and unsheaths it. MAJOR HOLZ (CONT’D) A facon? Really? A butter knife to anybody who knows anything about knives. The Major puts its back and pulls out a deadly looking machete. MAJOR HOLZ (CONT’D) Do you know what percentage of skirmishes are decided with a pistol? I’m not too sure myself, but I can tell you none have ever been decided with a machete. The Major goes over the rest of the items in quick succession... holding a set of bolas (hard metal billiard-sized balls connected by rope, meant to be swung around and thrown at the legs of fleeing animals)... then a robenque (leather bullwhip)... then a poncho... then a pair of bomchachas (flared working pants). MAJOR HOLZ (CONT’D) Bolas. Robenque. Poncho. Bomchachas. It seems less like you’re hunting Nazi war criminal bounties and more like you’re driving cattle across Patagonia with the gauchos. SANDRA KOMAN Trust it to a German to have never heard of unconventional warfare. The benefit of the facon is that men like you underestimate its worth. Sandra picks up the blade, sticks the point into her finger and draws blood. She puts it back and takes the bolas. MAJOR HOLZ You said so yourself, they might run. And what better way to down a running foe with non-lethal force than... She spins the balls around by the rope. Real fast. She puts them back and holds up the bomchachas. SANDRA KOMAN You’re going to criticise me for trying to blend in?
Wasn’t it last night you were telling me I left a trail like a... MAJOR HOLZ Stuck pig. Okay. You’ve made your point... for four of the six items. How do you explain the bullwhip and the butcher’s knife? Sandra puts out her cigarette. SANDRA KOMAN I got a good price. Major Holz accepts the answer, then throws the canvas back over the arsenal. EXT. ARGENTINIAN COUNTRYSIDE. DAY. The jeep travels down a paved road which dips and rises smoothly with the rolling curvature of the landscape. It looks like a cart on the warm-up section of a roller coaster. EXT. ARGENTINIAN COUNTRYSIDE. The jeep turns off a flat dirt road, onto a more rugged dirt road that goes part of the way up a hill before disappearing behind some trees. EXT. STUDEBAKER FARMHOUSE. We see a well maintained two-story farmhouse, a large plot covered in ankle-high corn crops, a small barn and a pasture. The door to the house opens, and out steps a man in his forties, wearing farmer’s get-up, with three day beard stubble, and carrying three metal cups by their handles. He walks his way over to the water pump. Every movement and action tells us he’s less than 100% calm. EXT. HILLSIDE CAMP. We’re looking at the farmer through binoculars, high up on the hillside. We see the farmhouse nestled in the valley, just like the Major described it. A single road leaves the valley (and which goes all the way back to Sheja.)
We see Major Holz and Sandra at their camp, a raised clearing in the forest that makes for a nice vantage point. They sit on a downed log and observe the farmer. Only Sandra has binoculars. MAJOR HOLZ What’s he look like? SANDRA KOMAN Blonde hair. Skinny. Looks forty. Maybe older. MAJOR HOLZ Anything else? SANDRA KOMAN He’s got a red sash tied around his arm, with a black swastika emblazoned on it. Really?
SANDRA KOMAN No. Not really. MAJOR HOLZ What’s he doing? SANDRA KOMAN He’s goose stepping his way over to the pump. Why?
SANDRA KOMAN Why do you think? What else?
SANDRA KOMAN No fucking “what else”. He’s just filling three fucking cups with fucking well water. MAJOR HOLZ Did you say three cups?
Yes. Three? Yes.
SANDRA KOMAN MAJOR HOLZ SANDRA KOMAN
MAJOR HOLZ He must be pretty thirsty. SANDRA KOMAN Do you think there’s someone with him? MAJOR HOLZ I think there’s sometwo with him. Through the binoculars, we see Lieutenant Studebaker finish filling the cups and head back inside. His family?
Major Holz takes out a pouch of tobacco and rolling paper and rolls two cigarettes. MAJOR HOLZ No wife. No children. Pedzio?
MAJOR HOLZ I don’t know for certain. But if he wasn’t the son of a party founder, he would’ve been sporting a pink triangle during the war, rather than a black swastika. I’m surprised he made it through the ratlines without event. SANDRA KOMAN It could be a lover... or two. MAJOR HOLZ It could be. But let’s look at the facts. We’ve been here for three hours, and this is the first time he’s left his home.
He hasn’t tended to his crops, or his animals, and he leaves only to fill three cups with water. Local militia if you ask me, lying in ambush, waiting to litter us with Latin lead the moment we so much as stick our noses through that front door. SANDRA KOMAN Then, like Lieutenant Studebaker, we should take the back door, and catch them unawares. MAJOR HOLZ Too risky. We wait for our rendezvous with the sergeants. Do it the proper way. Nice and vanilla. SANDRA KOMAN Your way puts us on this hill all day. MAJOR HOLZ What did you think this was? All pistols and paintings and auto theft and men jumping from bridges? But--
MAJOR HOLZ This is not a committee, or a partnership. This is a-SANDRA KOMAN --dictatorship? That catches the Major off guard. He takes a deep breath. MAJOR HOLZ We keep our position until nightfall. End of discussion. Sandra accepts the answer... for now. Major Holz finishes rolling his second cigarette, handing it over to the girl and lighting it. Then he lights his own. MAJOR HOLZ (CONT’D) If you wish to call it a dictatorship, you may.
But remember that dictators are not evil by definition, and perhaps this particular dictator in fact wishes to keep you from harm. SANDRA KOMAN Is Mr. Honorable Nazi going to give me a lesson in ethics? MAJOR HOLZ If Ms. Impulsive Jewess will listen. SANDRA KOMAN How does a Major in Hitler’s private army of race exterminators allow himself to become high minded? No, here’s a more important question. How did a Major in Hitler’s private army of race exterminators not hang at Nuremberg? MAJOR HOLZ Because the Control Council found a Major in Hitler’s army of race exterminators innocent. SANDRA KOMAN They found you innocent, but you weren’t. MAJOR HOLZ I won’t shy away from it. I was responsible for as much evil as any man following orders during wartime. SANDRA KOMAN Except you were in the SS. An organisation formed by the National Socialist party. You must’ve had more than an idea of the kinds of naughty things your boss was doing. MAJOR HOLZ Except the SS wasn’t formed by the Nazis. SANDRA KOMAN But it did flourish under their leadership. What did you do in the war?
MAJOR HOLZ I’d prefer not to discuss that with you. SANDRA KOMAN You’d rather not discuss it? MAJOR HOLZ With you. I have nothing to hide. I told the Council everything in my deposition and subsequent testimony. But I have nothing to answer for, to you. Fine.
They both stub out their cigarettes. Sandra stands up and stretches her legs. SANDRA KOMAN (CONT’D) I’m hungry. Where’s the food? MAJOR HOLZ Let me do it. SANDRA KOMAN No. You roll the cigarettes. I make the sandwiches. Sandra goes over to the Major’s knapsack, and lays out a few paper packages filled with different deli meats, a block of cheese, and a loaf of bread, then gets to work making two sandwiches. She rolls up her sleeves in the heat, revealing a five-digit ID tattoo marked into her forearm. SANDRA KOMAN (CONT’D) I’d rather something we can cook over a fire. MAJOR HOLZ I’d rather we don’t attract sniper fire from the men stationed in the farmhouse. I’m sure you’d prefer it over the slop you ate in Birkenau. SANDRA KOMAN Slop would’ve been preferable to the shit we ate in Birkenau.
MAJOR HOLZ Don’t be too upset. Everybody eats shit during war, save invading armies. I’ll tell you, I never ate as well as I did when our platoon swept through Belgium in 1915. SANDRA KOMAN I’m sure the Belgians appreciated your occupation of their country as much as you did. MAJOR HOLZ You can certainly hope so, but I don’t think they did. Sandra finishes making the sandwiches, then hands one over to the Major. He takes a bite. Not bad. MAJOR HOLZ (CONT’D) I was meaning to ask you something. Which university did your father teach English? SANDRA KOMAN What do you think my father taught English? Come on.
SANDRA KOMAN It was my mother. At Jagiellonski. My father was an economist. They met on campus. MAJOR HOLZ That’s cute. Where did they stand in the ideological sense? Let me guess. Card carrying Socialist Party members with a Keynesian flair...? Close? Sandra makes no motion to confirm or deny the speculation. MAJOR HOLZ (CONT’D) We’d have had a lot in common. Things must’ve changed pretty drastically for your clan after 1926. But I’m sure you don’t remember anything before it.
SANDRA KOMAN I thought you didn’t want to know anything about me. MAJOR HOLZ I’m interested in where you came from. But I don’t wish to hear sad stories about liberation from death camps by the Ruskys. They upset me. SANDRA KOMAN You won’t be hearing any stories of my liberation by the Ruskys or the Yanks, because I don’t have any. Fuck them. Fuck them all. The Allies along with the Axis. And the “clean” Wehrmacht. And the SS. And the spineless Polish bureaucrats for giving up their most respected and loyal citizens because their icons have blue stars with six points. And fuck the Brits for sending in one batallion and calling it a “pact honored”, and entertaining the notion of an extended post war border. And the French for their laissez-faire bullshit. And the mockery that was the League of Nations, and the mockery the United Nations will be. May they all burn in hell for their collective crimes against humanity. You can kill just as many through inaction as with action. Major Holz stays on her for a beat, chewing his sandwich. MAJOR HOLZ Do you know what an Enigma machine is? SANDRA KOMAN I think I do. They were used by the Nazis for encrypting messages. MAJOR HOLZ That’s right. The way they work is ingenius, but quite complicated, so I won’t bore you with the technical details. But the important thing to note is that I developed the Enigma encryption technique and procedure manual for the entire Einsatzgruppen.
The allies broke Wehrmacht codes quite regularly, partly due to their own ingenuity, and partly due to Wehrmacht laziness. The Einsatzgruppen, with me at the helm, had an unbeaten zero codebreaks. Impossible to officially prove, but it stands to reason, as we were never caught squatting in a bush with our pants around our ankles. It wasn’t long before the guys upstairs noticed my penchant for pattern recognition, so they relieved me of my post, and assigned me to another task: predicting the movement of Jew diaspora along the Atlantic coast. Which I did, for a while, and I was very good at that too. And one time, I even managed to track the location of a million dollars in French art to a small village on the Belgian border. SANDRA KOMAN You killed Jews? MAJOR HOLZ I tracked the location of fleeing Jews. SANDRA KOMAN Who were killed? MAJOR HOLZ If you want to put it like that. SANDRA KOMAN Yes, I want to put it like that because that’s how it is. But I guess it didn’t feel like anything to you. You never had to look a condemned man in the eyes. All you had to do was push a few buttons, make a few phone calls, then go to lunch. MAJOR HOLZ That’s where you’re mistaken. SANDRA KOMAN Once a Jew-killing fascist. MAJOR HOLZ Hans Frank showed penitence.
SANDRA KOMAN Hans Frank died too quickly. They all did. MAJOR HOLZ What about justice? SANDRA KOMAN That a serial mass murderer of Jews such as yourself has breath in your lungs is so great a miscarriage of justice it should preclude you from ever being able to utter the word. MAJOR HOLZ You’re right. The injustices I committed during the war were too numerous to list. And I agree, it’s unfair that I should live when many others should die, many of whom were sent to the grave by my own hand. But unlike Hans Frank, who could only tell you how very sorry he was, I have the opportunity to show you. I’m of more use above the ground then below it. Everything in life has a price, so staying alive must also have a price. And that price, for you as well as me, is to be shepherds for those who paid the ultimate price. Major Holz lets her absorb that while he hangs his gunbelt on a branch, then nestles down with his back against a tree, getting comfy. MAJOR HOLZ (CONT’D) And on the topic of justice, dare I ask what happened to the widow Perez? SANDRA KOMAN The widow who? MAJOR HOLZ Your grandmother from Villa Blanco. Am I right in assuming she’s gathering flies in the attic of her house? SANDRA KOMAN Do you really want to know?
MAJOR HOLZ No, I don’t. The answer does more for you than it does for me. He lowers the bill of his cap over his eyes. MAJOR HOLZ (CONT’D) I’m going to have myself a little catnap. Would it be too much to ask you to make sure we don’t get killed? SANDRA KOMAN What’s stopping me from grabbing those pistols, and killing you myself? MAJOR HOLZ Nothing. But you won’t. You’re saving me until last. On Sandra... he’s right.
BLACK TITLE CARD: “INTERLOGUE” EXT. AUSCHWITZ II-BIRKENAU CONCENTRATION CAMP. NIGHT. We sweep through the air across the most infamous concentration camp of World War II. In contrast to its sinister reputation, the night is quiet and low key. The courtyards are empty. The buildings are dark. A few SS guards are posted at watch towers. This is our first and only foray onto Continental Europe. As such, the sequence will be shot in black and white, and we’ll go from CinemaScope to 16:9. We move along the barbed wire fence and then home in on a building on the camp’s periphery, a two-story place with a sign that reads “EXOTICA” in German, which has been graffiti’d over with the phrase “TITTY SHAKERS”. We come in on a second story window. INT. EXOTICA PLEASURE ROOM. On the bed, we see the back of a uniformed SS Officer, doggiefucking an anorexic comfort girl. There’s nothing sexy or intimate or “comforting” about what they’re doing. He turns her around and guides her head down to his O.S. cock. He shoots his load with a grunt, then collapses on the bed. The girl goes to the window, opens it, then spits the load out. The Officer grabs the SS jacket thrown over the footboard and puts it on. His badge displays a single laurel, indicating Colonel rank. He promptly leaves. The girl grabs the covers and wraps them over her frail body for warmth. We track to her face. It’s Sandra. She’s emaciated. She’s seen some shit. She’s got a nasty jagged scar across her face. The door opens and closes. Another SS officer. He doesn’t say anything, just pulls the covers off and starts fucking. Sandra goes along with it in a passive and mechanical manner that implies she’s done it plenty of times. EXT. OUTSIDE EXOTICA. End of the night. All the comfort girls (totalling sixteen) stand in a line outside the house. An SS Private calls names from a roll. SS PRIVATE Carlebach, Amelia.
A girl responds. SS PRIVATE (CONT’D) Friedman, Miriam. A girl responds. We track down the line of bruised, battered and beaten girls, stop tracking when we arrive at Sandra. SS PRIVATE (CONT’D) Gunzburg, Dalia. A girl responds. SS PRIVATE (CONT’D) Koman, Sandra. Sandra says nothing. We hear a girl respond, right next to her. The camera pulls back to reveal... ...the real Sandra. Twins. We see them both side by side, Sandra on the left and Yara on the right. Sandra’s cheeks are a little hollower. She might be a touch taller. She wears her hair in a ponytail. And she has no face scar. But apart from that, they are identical. SS PRIVATE (CONT’D) Koman, Yara. Yara responds. SS PRIVATE (CONT’D) Melchior, Irena. A girl responds. EXT. BIRKENAU CAMP GATE. The comfort girls stream through the open gate (flanked by SS guards) and towards their sleeping quarters. We see Sandra and Yara locked together, doing a walking hug (or a hugging walk) back to their sleeping quarters. INT. BUNKHOUSE. A sea of POWs lie on the ground, some with blankets, some without, packed so tightly we can’t see through to the floor.
Sandra and Yara huddle together for warmth. They converse in Polish whispers. I’m hungry. Me too.
YARA KOMAN SANDRA KOMAN
YARA KOMAN But we’re not dying. SANDRA KOMAN I don’t think so. IRENA MELCHIOR But you’re not living either. Irena lies one row down from the girls. Her head is close enough to eavesdrop (but upside down), and her body points away from the girls. IRENA MELCHIOR (CONT’D) Nobody would call this living. Having my ass pounded bloody every night is not what I would call living. We’re all just bags of flesh designed for fucking. Walking corpses. Every day my cunt doesn’t tear and my tits stay perkier than the next girl is a blessing. YARA KOMAN Liberation is near. IRENA MELCHIOR The Ruskys will fuck us worse than the Nazis. SANDRA KOMAN Then why do you bother? IRENA MELCHIOR Because I’m a slave to my biology. Suicide is not in my makeup, assisted or unassisted. So I keep fucking, and fucking, and fucking, until I fuck up, or someone with a tighter cunt comes along.
YARA KOMAN There was talk of a riot in Block 5. IRENA MELCHIOR Folly. It’s too late for us. We’re naked, physically and spiritually. In America, slave owners could command ten times as many Negros without even the need for a gun by breaking their spirit. That’s what we’ve become. Negros. Do you want to make a difference? Steal a knife from the luggage bay. Wait for an officer to come get his... something high ranking... then take the knife, and slice his nuts off. INT. BUNKHOUSE. MORNING. Crack of dawn. A horn sounds to mark the start of the day. An SS private enters the sleeping quarters. SS PRIVATE Wake up, whores. The trains are in, and it’s a big one, so half of you won’t be getting your pussies stuffed today. EXT. DEPOT. We’re in a clearing beside the tracks, where a large pile of luggage has been formed, recently separated from their owners (who will shortly be stripped naked, put on an assembly line to the gas chamber, murdered en masse, looted for gold fillings, then piled into an incinerator.) Comfort girls rummage through the bags for valuables, under the watchful eye of a handful of SS soldiers with rifles. Sandra unbuckles a bag and open it. Full of clothes. She walks it over to the side, and empties the contents onto a growing pile of clothes (to be sent back to Germany.) Yara opens a bag, full of trinkets and family mementos. She walks it over to another pile filled with random junk and chucks it on. Irena opens a bag, revealing a cache of food. Mostly canned goods, but also a few loaves of bread and some cheese. Sandra lays her bag flat, feels around the inside.
She finds it... a secret compartment, sewed into the side. She rips it open to reveal a sharpened steel knife edge. On Sandra, considering the knife. Sheâ€™s almost salivating. She looks up. HER POV ... two SS soldiers... talking to each other... pointing in her direction. On Sandra, scared shitless... they know. An SS soldier breaks off and approaches her. Sandra swallows, shuts the case, stutters as the man nears... SANDRA KOMAN It was... I was going to show... ...but the guard pushes passed her... and grabs Irena by the shoulders and turns her around. On Irena, mouth closed, wide-eyed and surprised. The SS soldier squeezes her cheeks. Irena coughs, bread crumbs jetting out of her mouth. The SS soldier slaps her to the ground. She pleads as the rest of the crumbs come falling out of her mouth, and as the SS soldier grabs her by the hair and drags her across the ground. All the other girls have stopped working, and look on as the soldier drags Irena beside the tracks and puts her on her knees. The soldier stands behind the weeping girl, pulls out his pistol. IRENA MELCHIOR Mama... Mama... Mama... The SS soldier shoots her in the back of the head. Blood sprays out her forehead. She falls limp. The comfort girls shriek in horror. Yara is mortified, starts sobbing. Sandra is in shock, breathing heavy, sweating bullets, adrenaline coarsing through her veins. An SS soldier shoots his rifle into the air to silence the girls.
SS SOLDIER Back to work, you sluts. And remember what happens, next time you think about stealing from the SS. The girls resume their tasks, many still sobbing. Sandra opens the bag again, looking down at the blade. After a beat of consideration, she shuts the bag, then throws it into a massing pile of empty bags. EXT. OUTSIDE EXOTICA. DUSK. The comfort girls are lined up in front of the brothel. Facing them, another line of freshly arrived girls, looking less ragged and beaten. We see the brothel’s manager and an SS officer walk down the line, deciding who’s involuntarily giving up their spots for the new girls. Two SS soldiers walk behind them. The manager and the officer stand in front of a girl. They look at each other. Nod. The officer motions where she needs to go with his head. She promptly goes off to the side. The pair continue along. They arrive at another girl. Same process. The girl starts crying. An SS soldier slaps her in the face and pulls her aside. The manager arrives at Sandra and Yara. The officer inspects Yara’s scarred face. SS OFFICER Not exactly a good look now, is it? BROTHEL MANAGER (motioning to Sandra) We give these two some leeway. Twins. Some men like to fuck them both at once. Why you’d want the same girl twice, I’m not sure. But they do. The officer considers his works. Before continuing down the line. We jump ahead. The last girl has been chosen. The SS office and his men lead all three off to the side of the brothel, while the surviving girls and the new girls follow the manager in. Yara is last to enter the brothel. Before she does, she looks over to where the SS men have led the girls.
The girls are placed on their knees. The SS men each get behind a girl, draw their pistols, and shoot them through the head. Yaraâ€™s face is stone. After a beat, she enters the brothel. INT. EXOTICA. Sandra stares out of the window, back to the door, wrapped in the blanket. An SS officer comes in. Sandra snaps back to face him. SANDRA KOMAN Good evening, Colonel Weber. COLONEL WEBER Good evening, sweet young thing. He throws his coat over the footboard. His badge shows two crossed laurels. Senior Colonel rank. SANDRA KOMAN Where would you like me? COLONEL WEBER Right there. Colonel Weber walks up behind her and strips off the blanket to reveal her emaciated body. He gropes her exposed breasts with one hand, and unbuckles his belt and wriggles his pants down with the other. He bends her over, and after a moment of squirming, heâ€™s in. He thrusts into her with great vigor. Sandra calmly moans. INT. BUNKHOUSE. NIGHT. Sandra and Yara hug each other tight. We hear some disembodied female cries from around the bunkhouse. YARA KOMAN She was right. Irena? Yara nods.
SANDRA KOMAN (CONT’D) She’s dead, Yara. YARA KOMAN But she was right. Our destiny is not to escape. But that doesn’t mean we can’t change things, even just a small amount. Yara shuffles around under her blanket, reaching a hand down near her feet, before coming up with a screwdriver. Sandra grabs the screwdriver and puts it under her own blanket. SANDRA KOMAN What the fuck do you think you’re doing with that? If they caught you... YARA KOMAN I’d be a corpse below the surface instead of a corpse on top of it. I have to do it, before it’s too late. Sandra tears up. She’s never heard her sister talk like this. SANDRA KOMAN What are you saying, Yara? YARA KOMAN The man with the laurel on his coat that comes in every night. He’s a Colonel. He’s careless. He trusts me. I can stick that into his neck. It isn’t a lot, but at least I can do that much. Sandra starts to cry, sniffing, tears staining her cheeks. She suppresses the tears, as an idea forms in her head. SANDRA KOMAN You’re right. It isn’t much. The man who visits me is a Senior Colonel. Twin laurels. Let me do it. What?
SANDRA KOMAN If you want to change things, killing a Senior Colonel will make more of a statement. You can’t.
SANDRA KOMAN There will always be another train, with another bag, with another screwdriver. Sandra...
Yara’s lips quivers, eyes flutter, and now she’s crying too. The sisters embrace. INT. EXOTICA. NIGHT. Sandra, Yara and the rest of the comfort girls stream up the steps of the whorehouse. Right before they split to enter their rooms, Sandra reaches out to Yara, and gives her hand a squeeze. They split off. We’re with Sandra as she enters her room, leaving the door open (as per protocol). She’s by herself. She acts quick, putting her foot on the bed and taking the screwdriver concealed in her shoe and along her leg. She looks around for a nice hiding spot, settling on underneath the pillow. Colonel Weber closes the door behind him, spooking Sandra. SANDRA KOMAN Good evening, Colonel. COLONEL WEBER Good evening, my sweet. The Colonel throws his coat over the footboard. SANDRA KOMAN Shall we...?
COLONEL WEBER I regret to inform you that I am in a hurry, and I will uncharacteristically have to forgo our ritualistic bout of foreplay tonight. SANDRA KOMAN Oh, Colonel. You know how I love your foreplay. What is it? Fifty seven nights in a row? COLONEL WEBER I know. But running this place isn’t all fun and games. Sometimes it’s just fun. Sandra gives him a nice fake laugh. COLONEL WEBER (CONT’D) Let’s get on with it. I’m still a little knocked out from dinner, so I’ll let you do all the work. Colonel Weber unbuckles his belt and sits down. Sandra kneels over him. SANDRA KOMAN But I was kind of hoping you would... COLONEL WEBER I would what? SANDRA KOMAN Fuck me from behind. Like the Jewish dog that I am. COLONEL WEBER I appreciate the offer, but I’m sure the rest of your clientele will take you up on it. SANDRA KOMAN But I want you to do it. Besides, I think you’re sexy with that bloated belly. I have many men, but I don’t have many men. Only you can fuck me as hard as I like to be fucked. The Colonel thinks about it.
COLONEL WEBER You’ve convinced me. If this is the only chance you’ll have of being satisfied tonight, it’s my obligation. SANDRA KOMAN It is, and it is. Sandra climbs onto her knees, facing towards the headboard. Colonel Weber climbs onto the bed and pulls down her pants from behind. He gets to work on his own pants. Sandra’s hand slides under the pillow. Colonel Weber wriggles his pants to his thighs. Sandra’s hand tightens around the screwdriver. She looks back at the Colonel, who’s having some trouble getting it in. Sandra slowly slides the screwdriver from underneath the pillow...... when....... A scream from somewhere in the brothel, loud and hellish. Colonel Weber’s eyes move to the door. Sandra’s eyes move to the door. Her attention moves to the pillow, where she slides the weapon back. Colonel Weber leaps off the bed, putting his pants back on. Sandra slides up her pants and slumps on the bed. The screams don’t let up. It’s a man, and he’s in terrible pain. Colonel Weber opens the door, looks around, then starts off towards the direction of the scream. Sandra sees a few more SS men rush by her door after the Colonel. Sandra goes over to the door and looks down the hallway. HER POV We see through an open door. Yara’s SS Colonel writhes in pain on the ground. His pants are down, and he’s bleeding. A lot. His crotch is messy with blood. It’s going down his legs and all over the floor. We can hardly tell, but his penis has been bitten off.
And there kneels the biter... Yara, mouth covered in blood, dripping down her chin. She’s catatonic. The couple are surrounded by four SS men, including Colonel Weber. They don’t believe what they’re seeing. One of them has the good sense to close the door. On Sandra... shocked... horrified... and FADE TO BLACK. INT. EXOTICA. LATER. An SS man climbs the staircase. He looks like Josef Mengele -thick eyebrows, neatly combed hair, gap between his front teeth. On his ring finger, he wears a solid gold skull and crossbones ring. He carries with him a leather tool satchel. One might place him as a surgeon. Sandra watches on as an SS soldier opens Yara’s door for the surgeon and he enters. The surgeon unbuckle his implements case and produce a pair of bolt cutters. As he snaps them together, the door slams shut. We’re with Sandra, sitting on the bed. We hear Yara howling through the walls, as the surgeon does God-knows-what to her. Sandra’s face is frozen with fear. After a beat, she reaches under the pillow, her shaking hands taking the screwdriver from underneath. She goes over to the window, opens it, and flings the weapon into the dark of the night. INT. BUNKHOUSE. NIGHT. Sandra remains. Half of a whole. She shivers, looking up at the camera with puffy eyes. She’d cry, but she’s all cried out. INT. EXOTICA. NIGHT. Post-coital. Colonel Webber lights a cigarette. Sandra is wrapped in her dirty blanket. He hands the cigarette to her, she takes a loving drag, then hands it back. SANDRA KOMAN Do you think we die alone, Colonel? COLONEL WEBER That’s a complicated question for a whore.
SANDRA KOMAN My apologies. I’ve just seen many come and go that I can’t help but think. Succumbing to the eternal abyss. When my time comes... I’d like to feel the warmth of another against me. Colonel Weber takes in the thought. COLONEL WEBER Wouldn’t we all? EXT. OUTSIDE EXOTICA. DUSK. Same routine as before. Four fresh girls replacing four old ones. The manager and the SS officer make their way down the line... selecting one... two... three... and Sandra for four. We jump forward. Out the back of the brothel, the girls are on their knees, awaiting their fate. The SS officer pulls Sandra upto her feet. SS OFFICER Colonel Weber tells me you’d rather meet your end in the chamber. I’d ask why you would subject yourself to the torture of having your lungs fill with toxic gas, surrounded by hundreds of your disgusting sub-human countrymen, but it’s not my place to question an order. And none of it matters anyway. Go. He pushes her along. Sandra doesn’t need to be told twice. We stay on her face as she walks. Over her shoulder, we see an SS soldier draw his pistol, and put down each girl in succession. Sandra doesn’t look back. INT. UNDRESSING ROOM. A sea of emaciated Jewish women are hustled through an antechamber by armed SS. Shy of the entrance, they’re stripped naked, handing their clothes over to some Jewish workers who pile them into bags. They carry only a towel and a bar of soap as SS soldiers lead them through to the shower room.
Sandra is among them. She removes her clothes and hands them over. We see her frail beaten body, concave stomach, rib cage visible through skin, boney knees and elbows jutting out. She’s ready to die. She looks around at the scared and the frightened, clutching their soaps and their towels. She pities them. INT. GAS CHAMBER. The room is this sea of A few fight so squeezed
filled to its absolute capacity. No room for elbows in panicked, naked Jewish women. But more keep coming in. fruitlessly for a couple inches more. A lot more are they struggle for breath.
Sandra is being squeezed from all sides, but she’s staying pretty well calm under the circumstances. The final few enter, and the door is forced shut. A bell chimes, and the mass reacts with shrieks of panic and confusion. The noise level goes down a touch... before... ...from the hole in the ceiling... blue gas starts filling the room. The condemned women go ape-shit. We hear a flurry of ear-busting screams. We see them push, claw, fight, bang on the walls, some climb up on each other’s shoulders, others crouch low to the ground. All of them will soon be dead. Save one. Sandra is calm. Accepting her fate. She breathes deeply... and we FADE TO BLACK. Sandra’s eyes blink open. HER POV Jewish camp workers in gas masks haul dead Jewish bodies out of the chamber. One grabs Sandra by her ankles, her eyes blink shut, and she’s out again. EXT. CORPSE PIT. We’re in a clearing designated for corpse inspection. The bodies of the deceased are lined up, being examined by SS men and Jewish camp workers. We might recognise one of the SS men as the surgeon from the brothel. He does more than just check for fillings.
He takes his trusty set of bolt cutters, puts the claws into a corpse’s mouth, and in one motion, pulls four or five teeth from it. If he derives any pleasure out of the act, we don’t see it on his face. He moves on, positioning his bolt cutters around the O.S. penis of a young man, snapping it off. The man lets out a gargled, pained scream. Not dead. The surgeon is quick to change that. He puts the claws of the bolt cutters around the moaning man’s neck and squeezes. We hear the crunching of flesh and bone, see a bit of blood spray out of the man’s neck, before he goes quiet. Sandra’s eyes open again, just a little bit. Her eyes and cheeks are puffy and swollen. She takes in a breath, wheezing. She doesn’t know what’s coming... but we do. The surgeon tears a path down the live of corpses, pulling teeth, toes, nipples, balls, etc. Sandra shuts her eyes and slows her breathing in time for the butcher to arrive to her. He likes what he sees. He puts a couple fingers in her limp mouth and feels around, then takes them out and sucks on them. He clamps the bolt cutters across her nose, then holds them high up on the steel handles for maximum leverage. He flexes his arms... before... Brandt!
SS PRIVATE (O.S.)
Brandt the Surgeon looks over at the SS private, who holds a phone pack. What is it?
SS PRIVATE Quit fucking around. Incinerator’s broken. This lot is going in a fresh ditch. Brandt the Surgeon takes hold of the pliers... ...and pulls them out. Sandra’s head is kicked around by the action, and she settles on her side. Her eyes are closed, but we’re not sure whether she’s fallen unconscious again.
EXT. DITCH OUTSIDE CAMP. AFTERNOON. SS men supervise a half dozen Jewish camp workers, in the process of transporting corpses from the temporary ditch to their final resting place. We see two men haul Sandra’s body over to the ditch. She goes in and out of consciousness. They rock her forward, backward, then throw her in the ditch. She smacks into a pile of corpses, landing on and breaking her wrist. She groans, but there’s no one living to notice it. The Jewish men throw in the last body. We see there’s about forty in total. Each holding a bag of lime, they empty the contents over the bodies. Lime explodes over Sandra’s face. It’s now dusk. The Jewish camp workers and their Nazi handlers are long gone. Sandra comes to. She coughs blood and lime and blue. Every part of her is sore and swollen. She wheezes with every breath. Her eyes are black. Her cheeks are bruised. Her wrist is broken. But she’s alive. She sits up, quickly piecing together where she is. She looks over at the lip of the ditch. It’s not that high. She stands on shaky feet, and stumbles from corpse to corpse to the ditch’s edge. She tries to claw her way up with her one good hand. She can reach nearly the whole way up, but there’s nothing to anchor herself on, so she catches a handful of dirt every time. She gives up. After a beat, she has a look around, thinking of something. She looks down at the dead, grabbing a corpse by the wrist. We skip forward, seeing what she’s doing. With her one good hand, she’s moving corposes toward the wall and piling them into a human staircase. We see her work through the night, moving many, many bodies to construct the implement of her escape. We see the first crack of the sun peek out from behind the trees. At the ditch, Sandra finishes placing the final body to complete her human staircase.
She stops for a moment to marvel in her handiwork. In a morbid kind of way, she’s proud. And with that, she ascends the staircase. We’re at the top of the ditch. We see the camp wall in the B.G. Sandra’s hand enters frame from inside the ditch, grasping, trying to get hold of something. She finds it... a bushel of roots. She grabs tight and pulls. She squirms like a snake against the dirt to help her along. She inches up the ditch, giving it everything she’s got. She passes the roots... squirming on firmer ground... reaching for the peak... ...and she makes it. She lies belly up on the flat ground. With no time to rest, she stands, hands and knees shaking, and makes for the trees, leaving Birkenau in her dust.
BLACK TITLE CARD: “CHAPTER III, PART II: DIPLOMACY BY BULLETS” EXT. ARGENTINIAN COUNTRYSIDE. NIGHT. The jeep travels back down the roller coaster road from earlier. The jeep disappears into a trough, then reappears on a crest. This happens twice more as it nears. INT. JEEP’S CAB. Sandra is behind the driver’s wheel. Major Holz sleeps in the back, feet sticking out. We come in on Sandra’s fists closed around the steering wheel. She wears Brandt the Surgeon’s golden Nazi ring on her ring finger. EXT. PEPE’S PIT STOP. The jeep is parked at a filling station. We come in on, Sandra leaned against the jeep. She lights a cigarette. We stay on her face. We see glimpses of the girl from Birkenau. She licks her teeth. INT. STATION HOUSE. Major Holz and Senor Pepe settle the bill at the counter. Pepe runs his hand down a sheet of paper, calculating. They talk in Spanish. SENOR PEPE Fifty pesos for the fuel. Major Holz opens his billfold, takes out three notes, and hands them over. SENOR PEPE (CONT’D) Gracias. How was the game? MAJOR HOLZ Not the best I’ve seen. SENOR PEPE Did you follow my directions? MAJOR HOLZ As best we could. We happened on a nice spot up on the mountain. Thick with quebrachos.
SENOR PEPE That could be anywhere within 100 miles. MAJOR HOLZ It was nice, though. We made camp by a trickle stream. Took down a Mountain Caracara, two Californian Quail, and a Chilean Pigeon. And a whisker hair away from downing a snipe. My daughter has lead in her shoes and exploding bamboo on the bottom of them. Pepe laughs. MAJOR HOLZ (CONT’D) Any visitors tonight, Senor Pepe? Apart from myself and my daughter? SENOR PEPE No, Senor. Apart from yourself and your daughter. MAJOR HOLZ Do many city folk use your pit stop? SENOR PEPE Uncommonly. Why do you ask, Senor? MAJOR HOLZ Just curious, is all. Senor Pepe’s attention is drawn to something outside. Senor...
MAJOR HOLZ Curiosity is all. I’d have guessed this would be a popular stop over for those travelling to Chile. Senor...
MAJOR HOLZ Although, I do not know this countryside as well as you. Oh, did I give you the correct amount earlier?
I’m holding on to more currency than I ought to be holding on to. SENOR PEPE (with urgency) Senor! What?
SENOR PEPE Your daughter. She’s stealing your jeep. Major Holz turns around. Sure enough, through the open door, we see Sandra behind the wheel, kicking the jeep into gear and tearing out of the filling station. Major Holz runs outside, just in time to see Sandra perform a big clunky turn and go back towards the farmhouse. The Major’s eyes dart to Pepe’s scooter, leaned against the shop wall. He kicks up the stand, sits down, and starts her up as Senor Pepe joins him from inside. SENOR PEPE (CONT’D) Senor! My bike! MAJOR HOLZ I’m temporarily commandeering your scooter. You’ll have it back by the morning. SENOR PEPE No, Senor... Senor... Senor!!! Pepe yells after the Major, as he tears ass after the jeep. EXT. WINDING COUNTRY ROAD. We see Major Holz tear down the road at a powerful 40MPH... the bike’s limit. HIS POV The rear lights of the jeep, far down the road, getting further with every moment. She’ll arrive at the farmhouse first, and by a large margin. Major Holz revs the scooter and pushes on.
EXT. STUDEBAKER PROPERTY. NIGHT. Sandra pulls the jeep over and gets out. She goes into the back seat and straps on the Major’s gunbelt, and tucks a flare into it for good measure. She opens the property gate and proceeds in on foot. EXT. STUDEBAKER FARMHOUSE. NIGHT. We’re looking at the front of the house. The porch is roofed, with an upper-story window right over it. All the lights are off. We hear a symphony of chirping crickets. We see Sandra enter frame and approach the side of the house. She grabs a couple pebbles from a flower bed and chucks them into an upper-story side window. Then, she rounds the house and hugs the outer wall. The house is quiet for a long beat. Then, the front door opens, and a man with a gun exits. His eyes dart around the front courtyard. He doesn’t seem too worried. Sandra wastes no time in capitalizing on his complacency, leaping out front her cover with the Major’s Luger drawn. The man turns, just in time to receive three bullets. His chest explodes with each one, then he doubles over and dies. Sandra ignites the flare, shoots out the upper-story window, and throws it in. We hear some raised voices from upstairs. Sandra stands on the porch, gun trained at a spiral staircase on the inside. We see another man frantically descend the staircase. Sandra puts him down with a shot through the neck, and he tumbles down the rest of the steps. Sandra enters, cautiously moves up the stairs, disappearing. After a beat, we see the upper-story window open. Lieutenant Studebaker crawls out, landing on the porch roof. He hastily jumps down to ground level, then runs over to a 1941 Dodge, starts it up, and tears out. EXT. ROLLER COASTER ROAD. We’re back on the roller coaster road. Major Holz powers along, going smoothly up and down with the curvature of the road.
He sees something up ahead... headlights coming towards him... appearing and disappearing with each peak and trough. He shuts off his headlights and stops the scooter on a peak. He dismounts, looks at the approaching set of lights. Not the jeep’s. He knows that for sure. Which just leaves one other option. He rolls his bike down to a trough, out of sight. INT. STUDEBAKER’S CAR. We see an adrenaline-filled, tightly-strung Lieutenant Studebaker behind the wheel. His eyes are wired to the road... the bumps and the ditches... going up... down... up... down... puts him into a hypnotic trance. He doesn’t see Senor Pepe’s scooter parked across the road until the last second. His eyes open wide. He jerks the wheel. EXT. ROLLER COASTER ROAD. We see the car swerve, miss the scooter by a whisker hair, careen on its side, then flip about three times before landing on its wheels in the dirt. A cloud of dust is kicked up. Major Holz emerges from brush. He waits a beat for the dust to settle, then approaches the wreck and opens the door. Lieutenant Studebaker is still in his seat, banged-up, bloody, but alive. They speak in German. MAJOR HOLZ Hello, Hans. LIEUTENANT STUDEBAKER (surprised) Rudolf...... How? MAJOR HOLZ Just a little intelligence and creative thinking. LIEUTENANT STUDEBAKER How did you get infront of me? We the hear of an engine approach. The jeep.
MAJOR HOLZ Don’t go anywhere. Major Holz pushes the scooter up to a peak. The jeep approaches. The Major flashes the headlight over and over. The jeep slows and stops a short ways away. Sandra gets out. Major Holz goes back to the Lieutenant. LIEUTENANT STUDEBAKER A partner? Who? Hoffmeyer? The Major scoffs. Shroder?
LIEUTENANT STUDEBAKER (CONT’D)
MAJOR HOLZ Don’t be ridiculous. Schmidt?
Sandra approaches and sidles up beside Major Holz. Lieutenant Studebaker looks at her, then back to the Major, not believing. The pair pull the Lieutenant out of the car. We skip forward. Lieutenant Studebaker is on his knees, facing away from Major Holz and Sandra. The Major takes off his cap and strokes his sweaty hair. The pair converse in whispers. MAJOR HOLZ My gunbelt, if you please. Sandra unbuckles the belt and hands it over. Holz straps it on. SANDRA KOMAN I’m sorry I didn’t-MAJOR HOLZ --Okay. Enough. What’s done is done. We have to look forward. We have the Lieutenant alive and ready for transport. What about his men? Sandra shakes her head.
SANDRA KOMAN It couldn’t be helped. Just be thankful they were too lousy to hit me. We hear another engine roaring closer. MAJOR HOLZ Hear that? That’s the police I called. They’re going to want an explanation for everything... missing the meet, stealing the garage owner’s bike, the two bodies in Studebaker’s home. If you don’t want to spend the rest of your twenties in Argentinian prison, you’ll keep your mouth closed. Understand? She nods. MAJOR HOLZ (CONT’D) Tell me you understand. SANDRA KOMAN I understand. MAJOR HOLZ (motioning to Studebaker) Don’t take your eyes off him. SANDRA KOMAN Can I have your Luger? MAJOR HOLZ Why would you need my Luger? SANDRA KOMAN Because he might try something, and my eyes don’t shoot bullets. Major Holz looks over at Lieutenant Studebaker, then reluctantly hands his Luger over to Sandra. The Major retrieves his scooter and moves it to the other side of the wreck, flashing his headlights like he did for Sandra. He’s about 60 ft from Sandra and the Lieutenant. Sandra flings open the cylinder of the pistol, checks it for bullets, then snaps it shut again. She approaches the kneeling Lieutenant. She whispers to him in English.
SANDRA KOMAN (CONT’D) Hey.... Hey... Nazi Boy. Major Holz keeps flashing his lights. The police car dips and rises with the road, nearing. We see Lieutenant Studebaker, and Sandra over his shoulder. He tries to tune out her jeers. SANDRA KOMAN (CONT’D) Baby killer. I know you can hear me. LIEUTENANT STUDEBAKER (in German) Shut up, Jewish slut. He spits blood on the ground. SANDRA KOMAN Maybe you can’t speak English, but I would bet the farm you can understand it. Right? Hello. Sandra waves her arms in his peripheral vision. Major Holz waves one arm as he keeps flashing his lights. The police car slows. Sandra is up close to Lieutenant Studebaker, more or less whispering into his ear. SANDRA KOMAN (CONT’D) I just wanted to let you know, you’re not going back to Europe on a ship. Do you hear me? You’re not going back at all. You’re dog meat, Lieutenant. Lieutenant Studebaker is a little shaken. He understands alright. The police car stops, about 80ft away from Major Holz. The Major keeps his headlight on. We’re back with Sandra and the Lieutenant. SANDRA KOMAN (CONT’D) Do you know what I’m going to do? I’ll tell you. I’m going to take this gun, and I’m going to blow a hole through your skull.
SANDRA KOMAN --might mind. He won’t when I tell him you were reaching into your jacket. Sandra levels the Luger at the Lieutenant’s head. Goodbye.
SANDRA KOMAN (CONT’D)
LIEUTENANT STUDEBAKER (piercing) RUDOLF!!! Sandra silences the scream with a bullet. Major Holz looks back, as the shot reverberates through the air. HIS POV He sees the Lieutenant, on his knees, eyes closed, with a fresh hole in his head. After a beat, he loses balance and keels over. Major Holz runs over to Sandra and the Lieutenant’s twitching corpse. He bends down to inspect him, seeing the bullet hole. He stays there for a moment, dumbstruck. Sandra looks distraught. Major Holz goes over to her and snatches the gun from her grip. MAJOR HOLZ What happened? SANDRA KOMAN (quivering) I had to... He was reaching into his jacket. MAJOR HOLZ He was clean. I made sure of it. SANDRA KOMAN I don’t know. All I know is he reached in to grab something. I don’t know, and I didn’t want to wait to find out what it was. With one motion, the Major grabs her around the throat, pulls his knife and sticks it into her marshmallow cheek.
MAJOR HOLZ Are you lying to me, Sandra? SANDRA KOMAN No, Major Holz. Why would I? MAJOR HOLZ I just have a hard time putting my trust in anyone who’s twice stolen my jeep and threatened to kill me. SANDRA KOMAN I’m impulsive, but I’m not suicidal. MAJOR HOLZ You know how easy it would be to hand you over to the police? Her large saucer eyes start to tear up. Major Holz’s demeanor doesn’t crack one bit. MAJOR HOLZ (CONT’D) If I find out you’re lying to me, Sandra, you will be victim number six. SANDRA KOMAN I would love to convince you of my honesty right this second, but I think we have a more immediate matter. Sandra nods over to the two cops, standing on a peak, lit up by headlights. Major Holz loosens his hold on the girl in time for the police to shine their heavy flashlight down to them. Guns drawn. They converse in Spanish. Major Holz?
Major Holz’s face is lit with harsh light. He squints. MAJOR HOLZ Officer Juarez. Office Costa. OFFICER COSTA What happened to the meet? MAJOR HOLZ Extenuating circumstances.
OFFICER JUAREZ (pointing to corpse) Who’s that? MAJOR HOLZ The Lieutenant. OFFICER COSTA Shit, Holz. You said you’d take him alive. MAJOR HOLZ And I intended to. But like I said, extenuating circumstances. OFFICER JUAREZ And the two at the house? The Major shrugs. The officers whisper to each other, real fast, in a regional dialect of Spanish that Holz has trouble keeping up with. This part is unsubtitled. The officers’ exchange is heated, culminating in both drawing their guns at Major Holz. Major Holz raises his arms. MAJOR HOLZ Let’s not do anything rash, gentleman. OFFICER COSTA We’re taking you in, Major. The girl too. OFFICER JUAREZ Jesus, Major. You said there wouldn’t be a single drop of blood spilled. MAJOR HOLZ And I am sorry about that. I didn’t lie when I said that to you. But as with any activity involving guns, there’s the explosive potential for things to go South. OFFICER COSTA Go South? This is the fucking Antarctic, Major! Major Holz approaches the men.
MAJOR HOLZ I have a reasonable explanation. If you would let me just speak it. OFFICER JUAREZ Stop moving towards us, Major. MAJOR HOLZ (not listening) Just don’t be so quick to decide our guilt, is all I ask. On Sandra, looking and feeling genuinely scared. OFFICER COSTA Major, don’t get any closer. MAJOR HOLZ (still not listening) Please, just hear me out. OFFICER JUAREZ Don’t take another step. MAJOR HOLZ (STILL not listening) It’s all I ask. OFFICER COSTA Shoot him, Emilio! Shoot! OFFICER JUAREZ I’m going to do it! MAJOR HOLZ Gentleman... OFFICER COSTA Do it! Put him down! At about 30ft, Major Holz, quick as lightning, draws his pistols, and puts down the officers with two bullets each. The bullets explode in their chests. They fire off a few wild west rounds as they hit the ground. Major Holz takes a deep breath, then closes the distance between them, and silences them both with a shot to the head. On Sandra... still scared. It all seems familiar to her.
The Major holsters his pistols. And collapses of the pavement for a moment. Itâ€™s been a long night. Sandra makes her way over to him... still shaken up. MAJOR HOLZ Thank me, Sandra. I just prevented you from spending your twenties, thirties, forties, fifties and sixties in Argentinian prison. I think the least I deserve, is a thank you. Thank you.
MAJOR HOLZ Good. Now load Studebakerâ€™s corpse onto the jeep. SANDRA KOMAN What about the police? MAJOR HOLZ Leave them. This place will be swarming with militia in an hour. The more apt question is, how can we get out of this valley, without them spotting us?