Young Lions

by Irwin Shaw

  “How many times,” she asked, talking swiftly, postponing the final moment as long as possible, “how many times have you climbed in here?”

  He grinned and she could see the gleam of his teeth. For a moment his hand lay still as he answered, pleased with himself. “Often enough,” he said. “Now I am getting very particular. It is a hard climb, and it’s slippery with the snow on the shed. They have to be very pretty, like you, before I will do it.”

  The hand moved on, soft and knowing and insistent. Her own hands were pinned under her by his arm. At her core she felt flaming and weak, violated and dissolved all at once. She rolled her head and shoulders and tried to move her legs, but she couldn’t. Frederick held her tight, smiling at her, pleased at this small, titillating resistance.

  “You’re so pretty,” Frederick whispered, “you are so well joined together.”

  “I’m going to scream, I warn you.”

  “It will be terrible for you if you do,” Frederick said. “Terrible. My mother will call you all sorts of names in front of the other guests, and will demand that you go out of her house at once, for luring her little eighteen-year-old son into your room and getting him into trouble. And your gentleman friend will come here tomorrow and the whole town will be talking about if …” Frederick’s voice was amused and confidential, “I really advise you not to scream.”

  Margaret closed her eyes and lay still. For a moment she had a vision of all the faces of the people at the party that evening, grinning, leering conspirators, disguised in their mountain health and cleanliness, plotting against her among themselves in their snowy fortress.

  Suddenly Frederick rolled over and was on top of her. His clothes were open and she could feel the smooth, warm skin of his chest against her. He was huge. She felt smothered and lost beneath him. She felt the tears coming into her eyes and fought them back.

  Slowly and methodically he was pulling her legs apart. Her hands were free now and she scratched at his eyes. She could feel the skin tearing and hear the rasping ugly sound. Again and again, swiftly, before he could grasp her hands, she ripped at his face.

  “Bitch!” Frederick grabbed her hands, held them, hurting the wrists, in one great hand. He swung the other and hit her across the mouth. She felt the blood come. “Cheap little American bitch!” He was sitting astride her. She was lying rigid, staring up at him, triumphant, bloody and defiant, with the level moon lighting the scene in peaceful silver.

  He hit her again, backhanded. With the taste of his knuckles, and the feel of bone against her mouth, she got a fleeting ugly whiff of the kitchen where he worked.

  “If you don’t go,” she said clearly, although her head was dipping and whirling, “I’ll kill you tomorrow. My friend and I will kill you. I promise you.”

  He sat above her, holding her hands in one of his. He was cut and bleeding, his long blond hair down over his eyes, his breath coming hard as he loomed over her, glaring at her. There was a moment of silence while he stared at her. Then his eyes swung indecisively. “Aaah,” he said, “I am not interested in girls who don’t want me. It’s not worth the trouble.”

  He dropped her hands, pushed her face with the heel of his hand, cruelly and hard, and got off the bed, purposely hitting her with his knee as he crossed over. He stood at the window, arranging his clothing, sucking at his torn lip. In the calm light of the moon, he looked boyish and a little pathetic, disappointed and clumsy, buttoning his clothes.

  He strode across the room heavily. “I am leaving by the door,” he said. “After all, I have a right.”

  Margaret lay absolutely still, looking up at the ceiling.

  Frederick stood at the door, loath to go without some shred of victory to take with him. Margaret could feel him groping heavily in his farmboy mind for some devastating thing to say to her before leaving. “Aaah,” he said, “go back to the Jews in Vienna.”

  He threw the door open and left without closing it. Margaret got up and quietly shut the door. She heard the heavy footsteps going down the stairs toward the kitchen, echoing and re-echoing through the old wooden walls of the sleeping, winter-claimed house.

  The wind had died and the room was still and cold. Margaret shivered suddenly in her rumpled pajamas. She went over to the window and shut it. The moon had gone down and the night was paling, the sky, and mountains dead and mysterious in the graying air.

  Margaret looked at the bed. One of the sheets was torn, and there were blood spots on the pillow, dark and enigmatic, and the bedclothes were rumpled and crushed. She dressed, shivering, her body feeling fragile and damaged, her wrist-bones aching in the cold. She got into her warmest ski-clothes, with two pairs of wool socks, and put her coat on over them. Still shivering and unwarmed, she sat in the small rocker at the window, staring out at the hills as they swam up out of the night, touched now on their pale summits by the first green light of dawn.

  The green turned to rose. The light marched down until all the snow on the slopes glistened, bright with the arrival of morning. Margaret stood up and left the room, not looking at the bed. Softly she went down through the quiet house, with the last shades of night still lying in the corners and a weary smell of old celebration hanging over the lobby downstairs. She opened the heavy door and stepped out into the sleeping, white and indigo New Year.

  The streets were empty. She walked aimlessly between the piled drifts on the side of the walks, feeling her lungs tender and sensitive under the impact of the thin dawn air. A door opened and a round little woman with a dustcap and apron stood there, red-cheeked and cheery. “Good morning, Fräulein,” she said. “Isn’t it a beautiful morning?”

  Margaret glanced at her, then hurried on. The woman looked after her, her face first puzzled, then snubbed and angry, and she slammed the door loudly.

  Margaret turned off the street and onto the road leading toward the hills. She walked methodically, looking at her feet, climbing slowly toward the ski-slopes, wide and empty now and glistening in the first light. She left the road and went across the packed surface toward the ski-hut, pretty, like a child’s dream of Europe, with its heavy beams and low, peaked roof, crusted heavily with snow.

  There was a bench in front of the hut and Margaret sank onto it suddenly feeling drained and incapable of further effort. She stared up at the swelling, gentle slopes, curving creamily up to the high, forbidding rocks of the summit, now sharp and purple against the blue sky.

  I will not think about it, she told herself. I will not. She stared stonily at the soaring mountain, consciously trying to make herself map out Christies and stem turns for an imaginary perfect descent. I will not think about it. Her tongue licked at the dried blood over her cut lip. Later on, perhaps, I will think about it, when I am calmer, not so shaken … The dangerous part was the deep snow along the edge of the ravine over to the right, because you’d be coming blind over that knoll and swinging wide to avoid that outcropping of rock and you might panic …

  “Good morning, Miss Freemantle,” a voice said beside her.

  She jerked her head around. It was the ski-instructor, the slender, burned-dark young man whom she had smiled at and asked to sing when the accordionist played. Without thinking, she stood up and started away.

  Diestl took a step after her. “Is anything wrong?” he asked. The voice, following her, was deep, polite and gentle. She stopped, remembering that of all the loud, shouting people the evening before, when Frederick had stood with his arm around her, braying at the top of his. voice, only the ski-instructor had remained silent. She remembered the way he had looked at her when she wept, the sympathetic, shy, baffled attempt to show that she was not alone at that moment.

  She turned back to him. “I’m sorry.” She even essayed a smile. “I was thinking and I suppose you frightened me.”

  “Are you sure nothing’s the matter?” he asked. He was standing there, bareheaded, looking more boyish and more shy than he had at the party.

  “Nothing.” Margaret sat down. “I w
as just sitting here admiring the mountains.”

  “Perhaps you would prefer being left alone?” He even took a tentative step back.

  “No,” Margaret said. “Really not.” She had suddenly realized that she had to talk about what had happened to someone, make some decision in her own mind about what it meant. It would be impossible to tell Joseph, and the ski-instructor invited confidence. He even looked a little like Joseph, dark and intellectual and grave. “Please stay,” she said.

  He stood before her, his legs slightly apart, his collar open and his hands bare, as though there were no wind and no cold. He was graceful and compact in his beautifully cut ski clothes. His skin seemed to be naturally olive-colored under the tan, and his blood pulsed a kind of coral-red under the clear tone of his cheeks.

  The ski-instructor took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to her. She took it and he lit it for her, deftly cupping the match against the wind, his hands firm and certain, masculine and olive-colored close to her face as he leaned over her.

  “Thank you,” she said. He nodded and lighted his own cigarette and sat down next to her. They sat there, leaning against the back of the bench, their heads tilted easily back, staring through half-closed eyes at the glory of the mountain before them. The smoke curled slantwise over them and the cigarette tasted rich and heavy against Margaret’s morning palate.

  “How wonderful!” she said.

  “What?”

  “The hills.”

  He shrugged. “The enemy,” he said.

  “What?” she asked.

  “The enemy.”

  She looked at him. His eyes were slitted and his mouth was set in a harsh line. She looked back at the mountains.

  “What’s the matter with them?” she asked.

  “Prison,” he said. He moved his feet, in their handsome, strapped and buckled boots. “My prison.”

  “Why do you say that?” Margaret asked, surprised.

  “Don’t you think it’s an idiotic way for a man to spend his life?” He smiled sourly. “The world is collapsing, the human race is struggling to remain alive, and I devote myself to teaching fat little girls how to slide down a hill without falling on their faces.” What a country, Margaret couldn’t help thinking, amused despite herself, even the athletes have Weltschmerz.

  “If you feel so strongly,” she said, “why don’t you do something about it?”

  He laughed, soundlessly, without pleasure.

  “I tried,” he said. “I tried in Vienna seven months. I couldn’t bear it here any longer and I went to Vienna. I was going to get a sensible, useful job, if it killed me. Advice: don’t try to get a useful job in Vienna these days. I finally got a job. Bus-boy in a restaurant. Carrying dishes for tourists. I came home. At least you can earn a respectable living here. That’s Austria for you. For nonsense you can get paid well.” He shook his head. “Forgive me,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “For talking like this. Complaining to you. I’m ashamed of myself.” He flipped his cigarette away and put his hands in his pockets, hunching his shoulders a little embarrassedly. “I don’t know why I did. So early in the morning, perhaps, and we’re the only ones awake on the mountain here. I don’t know. Somehow … you seemed so sympathetic. The people up here …” He shrugged. “Oxen. Eat, drink, make money. I wanted to talk to you last night …”

  “I’m sorry you didn’t,” said Margaret. Somehow, sitting there next to him, with his soft, deep voice rolling over his precise German, considerately slow and clear for her uncertain ear, she felt less bruised now, restored and calm again.

  “You left so suddenly,” he said. “You were crying.”

  “That was silly,” she said flatly. “It’s merely a sign I’m not grown up yet.”

  “You can be very grown up and still cry. Cry hard and often.” Margaret felt that he somehow wanted her to know that he, too, wept from time to time. “How old are you?” he asked, abruptly.

  “Twenty-one,” Margaret said.

  He nodded, as though this were a significant fact and one to be reckoned with in all future dealings. “What are you doing in Austria?” he asked.

  “I don’t know …” Margaret hesitated. “My father died and left me some money. Not much, but some. I decided I wanted to see a little of the world before I settled down …”

  “Why did you pick Austria?”

  “I don’t know. I was studying scene designing in New York and someone had been in Vienna and said there was a wonderful school there, and it was as good a place as any. Anyway, it was different from America. That was the important thing.”

  “Do you go to school in Vienna?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it good?”

  “No.” She laughed. “Schools are always the same. They seem to help other people, but never yourself.”

  “Still,” he said, turning and looking gravely at her, “you like it?”

  “I love it. I love Vienna. Austria.”

  “Last night,” he said, “you were not very fond of Austria.”

  “No.” Then she added, honestly, “Not Austria. Just those people. I wasn’t very fond of them.”

  “The song,” he said. “The Horst Wessel song.”

  She hesitated. “Yes,” she said. “I wasn’t prepared for it. I didn’t think, up here, in a beautiful place like this, so far away from everything …”

  “We’re not so far away,” he said. “Not so far away at all. Are you Jewish?”

  “No.” That question, Margaret thought, the sudden dividing question of Europe.

  “Of course not,” he said. “I knew you weren’t.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully and squinted out across the slope, in what was a characteristic grimace, puzzling and searching. “It’s your friend,” he said.

  “What?”

  “The gentleman who is coming up this morning.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I asked,” he said.

  There was a little silence. What a curious mixture he is, Margaret thought, half bold, half shy, humorless and heavy, yet unexpectedly delicate and perceptive.

  “He’s Jewish, I suppose.” There was no trace of judgment or animosity in the grave, polite voice as he spoke.

  “Well …” Margaret said, trying to put it straight for him. “The way you people figure, I suppose he is. He’s a Catholic, but his mother’s Jewish, and I suppose …”

  “What’s he like?”

  Margaret spoke slowly. “He’s a doctor. Older than I, of course. He’s very handsome. He looks like you. He’s very funny, and he always keeps people laughing when they’re with him. But he’s serious, too, and he fought in the Karl Marx Apartments battle against the soldiers. He was one of the last to escape …” Suddenly she stopped herself. “I take it all back. It’s ridiculous to go around telling stories like that. It can start a lot of trouble.”

  “Yes,” the ski-instructor said. “Don’t tell me any more. Still, he sounds very nice. Are you going to marry him?”

  Margaret shrugged. “We’ve talked about it. But … No decision yet. We’ll see.”

  “Are you going to tell him about last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “And about how you got the cut lip?”

  Margaret’s hand went involuntarily to the bruise. She looked sidelong at the ski-instructor. He was squinting solemnly out at the hills. “Frederick paid you a visit last night, didn’t he?” he said.

  “Yes,” Margaret said softly. “You know about Frederick?”

  “Everyone knows about Frederick,” the ski-instructor said harshly. “You’re not the first girl to come down from that room with marks on her.”

  “Hasn’t anything ever been done about it?”

  The ski-instructor laughed harshly. “Charming, high-spirited youth. Most of the girls really love it, the story goes, even the ones who take some argument. A little, quaint individual touch to Mrs. Langerman’s hotel. A village character. Everything for the skier. A funicul
ar, five hand tows, eighteen feet of snow, and some mild local rape. I suppose he never goes too far. If, finally, the lady is really firmly opposed, he quits. He quit with you, didn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Margaret said.

  “You had a bad night altogether, didn’t you? Bring the New Year in with joy and song in happy old Austria.”

  “I’m afraid,” Margaret said, “it’s all of a piece.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Horst Wessel song, Nazis, forcing yourself into women’s rooms, hitting them …”

  “Nonsense!” Diestl’s voice was loud and angry. “Don’t talk like that.”

  “What did I say?” Margaret felt a little returning unreasonable twinge of uneasiness and fear.

  “Frederick did not climb into your room because he was a Nazi.” The ski-instructor was talking now in his usual, calm manner, patient and teacher-like, as he talked to children in his beginners’ classes. “Frederick did that because he is a pig. He’s a bad human being. For him it is only an accident that he is a Nazi. Finally, if it comes to it, he will be a bad Nazi, too.”

  “How about you?” Margaret sat absolutely still, looking down at her feet.

  “Of course,” the ski-instructor said. “Of course, I’m a Nazi. Don’t look so shocked. You’ve been reading those idiotic American newspapers. We eat children, we burn down churches, we march nuns through the street naked and paint dirty pictures on their backs in lipstick and human blood, we have breeding farms for human beings, etcetera, etcetera … It would make you laugh, if it weren’t so serious.”

  He was silent. Margaret wanted to leave, but she felt weak, and she was afraid she would stumble and fall if she got up now. Her eyes were hot and sandy and there was a tingling, uncertain feeling in her knees as though she hadn’t slept in days. She blinked and looked out at the quiet white hills, receding and less dramatic now as the light grew stronger.

  What a lie, she thought, the magnificent, peaceful hills in the climbing sun.

  “I would like you to understand …” The man’s voice was gentle, sorrowful and pleading. “It’s too easy for you in America to condemn everything. You’re so rich and you can afford so many luxuries. Tolerance, what you call democracy, moral positions. Here in Austria we cannot afford a moral position.” He waited, as though for her to attack, but she remained silent, and he went on, his voice low and toneless and hard to understand, losing itself quickly in the immense shining emptiness. “Of course,” he said, “you have a special conception. I don’t blame you. Your young man is a Jew and you are afraid for him. So you lose sight of the larger issues. The larger issues …” he repeated, as though the sound of the words had a reassuring and pleasant effect on his inner ear. “The larger issue is Austria. The German people. It is ridiculous to pretend we are not Germans. It is easy for an American five thousand miles away to pretend we are not Germans. But not for us. This way we are a nation of beggars. Seven million people with no place to go, no future, at anyone’s mercy, living like hotel-keepers off tourists and foreigners’ tips. Americans just can’t understand. People cannot live forever in humiliation. They will do whatever they have to do to regain their self-respect. Austria will only do that by going Nazi, by becoming a part of the Greater Germany.” His voice had become more lively now, and the tone had come back into it.