Young Lions

by Irwin Shaw

  “Oh, no.” The Lieutenant put his arm around Christian’s shoulders and for a fleeting moment Christian wondered if he’d been drinking. “Oh, no. I’ve written her a great deal about you. She would be most interested.”

  Brandt made a fuss about getting the angle just right, with as much of the Opera as possible in the background. Himmler grinned clownishly at one side of the group, but Christian and the Lieutenant peered seriously into the lens, as though this were a moment of solemn historic interest.

  After Brandt had finished they climbed back into their car and started toward the Porte Saint Denis. If was late afternoon and the streets looked warm and lonely in the level light, especially since there were long stretches in which there were no soldiers and no military traffic. For the first time since they had arrived in Paris, Christian began to feel a little uneasy.

  “A great day,” the Lieutenant said reflectively, up in the front seat, “a day of lasting importance. In years to come, we will look back on this day, and we will say to ourselves, ‘We were there at the dawn of a new era!’”

  Christian could sense Brandt, sitting beside him, making a small, ‘amused grimace, but Brandt, perhaps because of the long years he had lived in France, had a standard attitude of cynicism and mockery toward all grandiose sentiment.

  “My father,” the Lieutenant said, “got as far as the Marne in 1914. The Marne … So close. And he never saw Paris. We crossed the Marne today in five minutes … A day of history …” The Lieutenant peered sharply up a side street. Involuntarily, Christian twisted nervously in the back seat to look.

  “Himmler,” the Lieutenant said, “isn’t this the street?”

  “What street, Lieutenant?”

  “The house you talked about, the famous one?”

  What a ferocious mind, Christian thought. Everything is engraved on it irrevocably. Gun positions, regulations for courts-martial, the proper procedure for decontamination of metal exposed to gas, the address of French brothels carelessly pointed out on a strange street two hours before.…

  “It seems to me,” the Lieutenant said carefully, as Himmler slowed the car down by imperceptible degrees, “it seems to me that on a day like this, a day of battle and celebration … In short, we deserve some relaxation. The soldier who does not take women does not fight … Brandt, you lived in Paris, have you heard of this place?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Brandt. “An exquisite reputation.”

  “Turn the car around, Sergeant,” the Lieutenant said.

  “Yes, Sir.” Himmler grinned and swung the little car around in a dashing circle and made for the street he had pointed out.

  “I know,” said the Lieutenant gravely, “that I can depend upon you men to keep quiet about this.”

  “Yes, Sir,” they all said.

  “There is a time for discipline,” the Lieutenant said, “and a time for comradeship. Is this the place, Himmler?”

  “Yes, Sir,” said Himmler. “But it looks closed.”

  “Come with me.” The Lieutenant dismounted and marched across the sidewalk to the heavy oak door, his heels crashing on the pavement, making the narrow street echo and re-echo as though a whole company had marched past.

  As he tapped on the door, Brandt and Christian looked at each other, grinning. “Next,” Brandt whispered, “he’ll be selling us dirty postcards.”

  “Sssh,” said Christian.

  After awhile the door opened and the Lieutenant and Himmler half pushed, half-argued their way in. It closed behind them and Christian and Brandt were left alone in the empty, shaded street, with night just beginning to touch the sky over their heads. There was no sound, and all the windows of the buildings were closed.

  “I was of the impression,” Brandt said, “that the Lieutenant invited us on this party.”

  “Patience,” Christian said. “He is preparing the way.”

  “With women,” said Brandt, “I prefer to prepare my own way.”

  “The good officer,” Christian said gravely, “always sees that his troops are bedded down before he is himself.”

  “Go upstairs,” Brandt said, “and read the Lieutenant that lecture.”

  The door of the building opened and Himmler waved to them. They got out of the car and went in. A Moorish-looking lamp cast a heavy purple light over the staircase and hanging tapestries along the walls inside.

  “The Madam recognized me,” Himmler said, clumping up the steps ahead of them. “A big kiss, and ‘mon cher gar. .con’ and all that. How do you like that?”

  “Sergeant Himmler,” Brandt said. “Well known in the brothels of five countries. Germany’s gift to the cause of the Federation of Europe.”

  “Anyway,” said Himmler, grinning, “I didn’t waste my time in Paris. Here … into the bar. Girls aren’t ready yet. We have to do a little drinking first. The horrors of war.”

  He pushed open a door and there was the Lieutenant, his gloves and helmet off sitting on a stool with his legs crossed, delicately picking at the goldfoil on a bottle of champagne. The bar was a very small room, done in a kind of lavender stucco, with crescent-shaped windows and tasseled hangings. There was a large woman who seemed to go with the room, all frizzed hair, fringed shawls and heavy painted eyelids. She was behind the bar, chattering away in French to the Lieutenant, who was nodding gravely, not understanding a word of what she was saying.

  “Amis,” Himmler said, putting his arms around Brandt and Christian. “Brave Soldaten.”

  The woman came out from behind the bar and shook hands and said they were very welcome and they must forgive her for the delay, but it had been an upsetting day, as they could understand, and the girls would make their appearance quite soon, quite, quite soon, and would they be so kind as to seat themselves and have a glass of wine, and wasn’t it democratic, the men drinking and taking their pleasure with the officers, you would never find that in the French Army, and perhaps that was why they had won the war.

  The girls hadn’t arrived by the time the third bottle had disappeared, but by then it didn’t make much difference.

  “The French,” the Lieutenant was saying, sitting stiff and correct, his eyes now dark-green and opaque, like sea-worn bottle glass, “I disdain the French. They are not willing to die. That is why we are here drinking their wine and taking their women, because they prefer not to die. Comic …” He waved his glass in the air, in a gesture that was drunken but bitter. “This campaign. A comic, ridiculous campaign. Since I have been eighteen years old, I have been studying war. The art of war. At my fingertips. Supply: Liaison. Morale. Selection of disguised points for command posts. Theory of attack against automatic weapons. The value of shock. I could lead an army. Five years of my life. Then the moment comes.” He laughed bitterly. “The great moment. The Army surges to the battle-line. What happens to me?” He stared at the Madam, who did not understand a word of German and was nodding happily, agreeing. “I do not hear a shot fired. I sit in an automobile and I ride four hundred miles and I go to a whorehouse. The miserable French Army has made a tourist out of me! A tourist! No more war. Five years wasted. No career. I’ll be a Lieutenant till the age of fifty. I don’t know anyone in Berlin. No influence, no friends, no promotion. Wasted. My father was better off. He only got to the Marne, but he had four years to fight in, and he was a Major when he was twenty-six, and he had his own battalion at the Somme, when every other officer was killed in the first two days. Himmler!”

  “Yes, Sir,” Himmler said. He was not drunk and he had a sly, amused look on his face as he listened to the Lieutenant.

  “Himmler! Sergeant Himmler! Where is my girl! I want a French girl.”

  “Madam says you will have a girl in ten minutes.”

  “I disdain them,” the Lieutenant said, sipping at his champagne uncertainly, spilling a little on his chin, “I completely disdain the French.”

  Two girls came into the room. One was a large, heavy blonde girl with an easy, full-mouthed smile. The other was small and slender
and dark, with a brooding, almost Arab face, set off by the heavy makeup and bright red lipstick.

  “Here they are,” the Madame said caressingly. “Here are the little cabbages.” She patted the blonde approvingly, like a horse dealer. “This is Jeanette. Just the type, eh? I predict she will have a great vogue while the Germans are in Paris.”

  “I’ll take that one.” The Lieutenant stood up, very straight, and pointed to the girl who looked like an Arab. She gave him a dark, professional smile and came over and took his arm.

  Himmler had been looking at her with interest, too, but he resigned immediately to the privilege of rank, and put his arm around the big blonde. “Chérie,” he said, “how would you like a nice, healthy German soldier?”

  “Where is there a convenient room?” the Lieutenant said in German. “Brandt, translate.”

  Brandt translated and the dark girl smiled at the others and led the Lieutenant, very formal and polite, through the door.

  “Now,” said Himmler, holding tightly onto the blonde, “now it’s my turn. If you boys don’t mind …”

  “Not at all,” said Christian. “No hurry at all.”

  Himmler grinned and went off with the blonde, saying, in his ferocious French, “Chérie, I love your gown …”

  The Madam made her excuses and left, after putting out another bottle of champagne. Christian and Brandt sat alone in the orange-lit Moorish bar, staring silently at the frosted bottle in the ice bucket.

  They drank without speaking. Christian opened the new bottle, wrestling with the cork, jumping a little, involuntarily, when it exploded out of the bottle with a loud noise. The champagne ran over on his hand, iced and foamy.

  “Were you ever in a place like this before?” Brandt asked finally.

  “No.”

  “War,” said Brandt. “Makes great changes in a man’s standard of living.”

  “Yes,” said Christian.

  “You want a girl?” Brandt asked.

  “Not particularly.”

  “If you wanted a girl,” Brandt said, “and Lieutenant Hardenburg wanted the same girl, what would you do?”

  Christian gravely sipped at his drink. “I won’t answer that question,” he said.

  “Neither will I,” said Brandt. He played with the stem of his glass. “How do you feel?” he said after awhile.

  “I don’t know,” said Christian. “Strange. A little strange.”

  “I feel sad,” said Brandt. “Very sad. What was it the Lieutenant said?”

  “Today is the dawn of a new era.”

  “I feel sad at the dawn of the new era.” Brandt poured himself some wine. “Did you know that ten months ago I nearly became a French citizen?”

  “No,” said Christian.

  “I lived in France ten years, off and on. Some other time I’ll take you to the place on the Normandy coast I went in the summers. I painted all day long, thirty, sometimes forty canvases a summer. I was developing a little reputation in France, too. We must go to the gallery that showed my stuff. Maybe they still have some of the paintings, and you can take a look at them.”

  “I’ll be very happy to,” Christian said formally.

  “I couldn’t show my paintings in Germany. They were abstract. Non-objective art, they call it. Decadent, the Nazis call it.” Brandt shrugged. “I suppose I am a little decadent. Not as decadent as the Lieutenant, but sufficient. How about you?”

  “I am a decadent skier,” Christian said.

  “Every field,” said Brandt, “to its own decadence.”

  The door opened and the small dark girl came in. She had on a pink wrap, fringed with feathers. She was grinning a little to herself. “Where is the Boss?” she asked.

  “Back there some place.” Brandt waved vaguely. “Can I help?”

  “It is your Lieutenant,” the girl said. “I need some translation. He wants something, and I am not quite sure what it is. I think he wants to be whipped, but I am afraid to start in unless I know for certain.”

  “Begin,” said Brandt. “That is exactly what he wants. He is an old friend of mine.”

  “Are you sure?” The girl looked at both of them doubtfully.

  “Absolutely,” said Brandt.

  “Good.” The girl shrugged. “I will essay it.” She turned at the door. “It is a little strange,” she said, a hint of mockery in her voice, “the victorious soldier … The day of victory … A curious taste, wouldn’t you say?”

  “We are curious people,” Brandt said. “You will discover that. Attend to your business.”

  The girl looked angrily at him for a moment, then smiled and went out.

  “Did you understand?” Brandt asked Christian.

  “Enough.”

  “Let’s have a drink.” Brandt poured for them both. “I answered the call of the Fatherland,” he said.

  “What?” Christian looked at him, puzzled.

  “The war was about to begin, and there I was painting decadent, abstract landscapes on the French coast, waiting to become a French citizen.” Brandt half closed his eyes, looking over his wine at the troubled, uncertain days of August, 1939. “The French are the most admirable people in the world. They eat well; they are independent; a man can paint any kind of picture he wants and they will not do anything to him; they have a glorious military history behind them and they know they are not going to do anything like that again. They are reasonable and miserly, a good atmosphere for art. Still, at the. last minute, I became Corporal Brandt, whose pictures could not be shown in a German art gallery. Blood is thicker than … what? And here we are in Paris, welcomed by all the whores. I tell you something, Christian, finally we are going to lose. It is too immoral … the barbarians of the Elbe eating their sausage on the Champs Elysées.”

  “Brandt,” said Christian, “Brandt …”

  “The dawn of a new era,” said Brandt. “Flagellation for the Wehrmacht. Tomorrow I take a sausage to the Etoile.”

  The door opened and Himmler came in. He had his jacket off and his collar was open and he was grinning and carrying the green gown that the blonde girl had been wearing.

  “Next,” he said. “The lady is waiting.”

  “Do you wish to follow in Sergeant Himmler’s bedsteps?” Brandt asked.

  “No,” said Christian. “I do not.”

  “No offense meant, Sergeant,” said Brandt, “but we will drink this one out.”

  Himmler looked sullenly at both of the men, the usual sly pattern of good humor vanishing from his face for a moment.

  “I did it fast,” he complained. “I didn’t want to keep my pals waiting.”

  “Thoughtful,” said Brandt. “Very thoughtful of you. At a time like that.”

  “She’s pretty good,” said Himmler. “A big soft one. Are you sure you don’t want it?”

  “Sure,” said Christian.

  “All right,” said Himmler, “I’ll go back for the second act.”

  “What did you do?” Brandt asked. “Tear the dress off her back?”

  Himmler grinned. “I bought it from her,” he said. “Nine hundred francs. She wanted fifteen hundred. I’m going to send it to my wife. She’s just about the same size. Feel it …” He pushed it in front of Christian. “Real silk.”

  Christian fingered the material gravely. “Real silk,” he said.

  “Last chance.” Himmler was at the door now, looking back.

  “Thank you just the same,” said Brandt.

  “All right,” said Himmler. “It’s up to you.”

  “Himmler,” said Christian, “we’re leaving. You wait for the Lieutenant and drive him back. We’ll walk.”

  “Don’t you think you ought to wait for orders?” Himmler asked.

  “I don’t think this could be called a tactical situation,” Christian said. “We’ll walk back.”

  Himmler shrugged. “You’re liable to get shot in the back, walking alone through the streets.”

  “Not tonight,” said Brandt. “Later on, but not
tonight.” He stood up and Christian stood with him. They walked out.

  It was dark outside. The blackout was thorough and no lights were showing. The moon hung over the rooftops, though, dividing each street into geometrical blocks of light and shadow. The atmosphere was mild and still and there was a hushed, empty air hanging over the city, broken occasionally by the sound of steel-treaded vehicles shifting in the distance, the noise sudden and harsh, then dying down to nothingness among the dark buildings.

  Brandt led the way. He was wobbling slightly, but he knew where he was and he walked with reassuring certainty in the direction of the Porte Saint Denis.

  They did not speak. They walked side by side, their shoulders touching occasionally, their hobnailed shoes clattering on the pavements. Somewhere in the dark a window was slammed shut and Christian thought he heard a child crying, faintly and far away. They turned onto the wide, empty boulevard, walking close to the shuttered windows and the stacked tables and chairs of the closed sidewalk cafés. Far off down the boulevard they could see some lights, signs that the Army felt secure from all attack this evening in the heart of France.’ Through the sweet haze of the champagne the lights looked cozy and warm with comradeship to Christian, and he smiled dreamily to himself as he walked toward them at an even, regular pace, with Brandt beside him.

  Paris, shining under the early moon, was frail and graceful through the mist of alcohol. He loved it. He loved the worn pavements. He loved the narrow streets winding off the boulevard like entrances into another century. He loved the churches crowded among the bars and brothels and grocery shops. He loved the spindly chairs thriftily upended on the tables in the shadows under the café awnings. He loved the people hiding now behind their drawn blinds. He loved the river he had not yet seen that poured through and dominated the city and he loved the restaurants he had not yet eaten in and the girls whom he had not yet met, but who would come out tomorrow, in the sunny morning, when the fear of the night had vanished, and would walk down these streets with their high heels and their impudent, clever clothes. He loved the legend of the city and the fact that it was one place on the face of the earth that lived up to the legend it had established in the hearts of men. He loved the fact that he had fought on the road to the city and had killed to get there and he loved the little shabby Frenchman he had killed and he loved Corporal Kraus, lying dead beside him, far from the farm in Silesia, with cherry stains on his lips. He loved the fact that he had been tested on the road and in the forest, that death had whistled past him, and he loved the war because in no other way could a man be truly tested, and he loved it that the war was going to end soon, because he did not want to die. He loved the days to come, because they were going to be peaceful and rich, and all the ideas for which he had been willing to risk his life would be put into law and made permanent and a new time of prosperity and order was beginning. He loved Brandt, walking almost correctly, next to his shoulder, because Brandt had whimpered with fear on the road and had conquered it and fought at his side, holding his shaking elbow with his hand, to steady it as he fired through the spring foliage at the man who would have killed Christian if he could. And he loved the hour, the calm, dark moonlit hour, when they walked side by side down the empty, pleasant street, the possessors of the town, and he knew finally that his life had not been wasted, that he had not been born merely to fritter away his days teaching a game to children and vacationists. He was of use and he had been used, and a man could ask no more of life.