by Irwin Shaw
The wind was dying down. An evening hush was settling over land and ocean. Gulls rose before him and sailed briefly out toward Hispaniola as he approached them. He walked with his head down, accompanied by the dead. It is only with the greatest care that memory can be kept from becoming a prison or a gallows.
Voices speak, faces appear, moments and images come and go—a promise broken, a false smile, a grave, a wedding night, a helmet in the rain, a father dancing, a son using the word “conspicuous,” a vermouth stain on a pink dress, a lipstick stain on a sheet, the mouths of malice, the whispers of betrayal; all movements dangerous, equivocal; weapons everywhere, but targets concealed, the terms of victory or surrender never quite stated.
It sometimes takes more honor to walk the last hundred yards to your front door than to advance against the walls of a fortress.
How gratifying, how simple it is to go to the water’s edge, continue…accomplish that one certain act to write finish to so many uncertain accomplishments.
He shivered. The Atlantic touched him with the first chill of evening, reminding him that glaciers fed these waters. He raised his head. Walking toward him was the blond girl with the two cats. The girl had wound her hair around her head in a crown. Was that all she had done that afternoon? While the guns had sounded, during the hot hours when the sirens had wailed, the murders had been committed, the famous men had broadcast their lies; while the crowds had formed and fled, leaving their wounded on the cobblestones, had she just braided her hair under a dune, sheltered from the wind, with the two cats at her ankles?
She was close enough now for him to see her face. She was young and lovely, a Northern gift to the new continent, a wide clear brow under the weight of pale hair, wide clear eyes, summer-colored skin, the perfect, full, long body sculptured into a hieroglyph by the severe black suit, Miss America, Miss Universe, Miss Rose Bowl, Miss Aphrodite, Miss Pithecanthropus Erectus, with her golden crown.
Their eyes met for a moment. The girl did not smile, nor did he. It was not necessary. All that was necessary was that she was alive, that she was there, glittering and tall, a young animal of his own species, moving in grace, at home between sea and land, with her attendant beasts, sanctifying with their linked flesh the end of a summer’s day.
He did not look behind him as she passed him, the cats now leading her along the small hiss of the ebbing tide.
The sun was nearly down. He approached his house. There were lights on in the kitchen, that pure small flame in the last of the daylight, more like a jewel than a source of illumination against the bright early-evening sky.
His wife and daughter were working in the kitchen. They didn’t see him as he looked in through the window. Their heads were bent as they went about their tasks, the lovely grave face of his wife, the brown dear promise of the face of his daughter. Their hair shone in the kitchen light. They had gone through the ceremony of beauty, the two women of the family, for the homecoming of the husband and father.
He looked through the window. His wife saw him. She smiled.
There are harbors left.
He went in through the kitchen door. He kissed his wife, smelled the clean hair, kissed his daughter, smelled the clean hair.
“What did you do all afternoon?” his wife asked.
“I watched a ball game,” he said.
A Biography of Irwin Shaw
Irwin Shaw (1913–1984) was an award-winning American novelist, playwright, screenwriter, and short story writer. His novel The Young Lions (1948) is considered a classic of World War II fiction. From the early pages of the New Yorker to the bestseller lists, Shaw earned a reputation as a leading literary voice of his generation.
Shaw was born Irwin Shamforoff in the Bronx, New York, on February 27, 1913. His parents, Will and Rose, were Russian Jewish immigrants and his father struggled as a haberdasher. The family moved to Brooklyn and barely survived the Depression. After graduating from high school at the age of sixteen, Shaw worked his way through Brooklyn College, where he started as quarterback on the school’s scrappy football team.
“Discovered” by a college teacher (who later got him his first assignment, writing for the Dick Tracy radio serials), Shaw became a household name at the age of twenty-two thanks to his first produced play, Bury the Dead. This 1935 Broadway hit—still regularly produced around the world—is a bugle call against profit-driven barbarity. Offered a job as a Hollywood staff scriptwriter, Shaw then contributed to numerous Golden Era films such as The Big Game (1936) and The Talk of the Town (1942). While continuing to write memorable stories for the New Yorker, he also penned The Gentle People (1939), a play that was adapted for film four different times.
World War II altered the course of Shaw’s career. Refusing a commission, he enlisted in the army, and was shipped off to North Africa as a private in a photography unit in 1943. After the North African campaign, he served in London during the preparations for the invasion of Normandy. After D-Day, Shaw and his unit followed the front lines and documented many of the most important moments of the war, including the liberations of Paris and the Dachau concentration camp.
The Young Lions (1948), his epic novel, follows three soldiers—two Americans and one German—across North Africa, Europe, and into Germany. Along with James Jones’s From Here to Eternity, Joseph Heller’s Catch-22, Norman Mailer’s The Naked and the Dead, and The Caine Mutiny by Herman Wouk, The Young Lions stands as one of the great American novels of World War II. In 1958, it was made into a film starring Marlon Brando and Montgomery Clift.
In 1951, wrongly suspected of Communist sympathies, Shaw moved to Europe with his wife and six-month-old son. In Paris, he was neighbors with journalist Art Buchwald and friends with the great French writers, photographers, actors, and moviemakers of his generation, including Joseph Kessel, Robert Capa, Simone Signoret, and Louis Malle. In Rome, Shaw gave author William Styron his wedding lunch, doctored screenplays, walked with director Federico Fellini on the Via Veneto, and got the idea for his novel Two Weeks in Another Town (1960).
Finally, he settled in the small Swiss village of Klosters and continued writing screenplays, stage plays, and novels. Rich Man, Poor Man (1970) and Beggerman, Thief (1977) were made into the first famous television miniseries. Nightwork (1975) will soon be a major motion picture. Shaw died in the shadow of the Swiss peaks that had inspired Thomas Mann’s great novel The Magic Mountain.
Shaw as a young soldier crossing North Africa from Algiers to Cairo in 1943.
Shaw’s US Army record.
Shaw just after D-Day in Normandy, France, in 1944.
A few weeks after D-Day, Shaw and his Signal Corps film crew liberate Mont Saint-Michel.
A 1944 letter from Shaw to his wife, Marian, describing the “taking” of Mont Saint Michel, as well as a nerve-wracking night under a cathedral when he almost shot a group of monks, believing them to be Germans.
Shaw as a warrant-officer in Austria in 1945, with Signal Corps Captain Josh Logan (left) and Colonel Anatole Litvak (center), who became his lifelong friends.
Shaw, Marian, and their son, Adam, on the terrace of the newly built Chalet Mia in Klosters, Switzerland, in 1957.
Shaw at home with Marian at Chalet Mia, Klosters, in 1958.
Shaw (center) skiing in Klosters in 1960 with (left to right) Noel Howard (an actor), an unidentified Hollywood producer, Marian Shaw, Jacques Charmoz (a French World War II pilot, cartoonist, and painter), and Jacqueline Tesseron.
Shaw in Klosters in 1960 with (from left to right) Kathy Parrish, her husband Robert Parrish (an Academy Award–winning film editor and director), and Peter Viertel (a screenwriter, novelist, and Shaw’s coauthor for the play The Survivors). Shaw’s friendship with Viertel started before the war, when they both lived in Malibu.
Shaw with Irving P. “Swifty” Lazar, the legendary talent agent who represented him, in Evian, France, in 1963.
Shaw playing tennis in Klosters in 1964.
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national and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1965 by Irwin Shaw
Cover design by Andrea Uva
978-1-4804-1244-6
This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media
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