by Irwin Shaw
He stopped. “Old man!” he said.
The Frenchman stopped. Even in the dark, the hunch of his shoulders and the hasty movements of his hands showed how frightened he was.
“Yes,” the Frenchman said, his voice trembling a little, “yes, my colonel.”
“I am not a Colonel,” Christian said. What a childlike, infuriating form of flattery.
“Forgive me, Monsieur,” the Frenchman said. “In the dark …”
“You don’t have to step down in the street for me,” Christian said.
“Yes, Sir,” said the Frenchman. But he didn’t move.
“Get up here,” said Christian harshly. “Get up on the sidewalk.”
“Yes, Sir,” said the Frenchman. He stepped up tentatively. “I will show you my pass. My papers are in perfect order.”
“I don’t want to see your damned papers,” Christian said.
“Whatever you say, Sir.” The Frenchman spoke humbly.
“Ah,” said Christian. “Go home.”
“Yes, Sir.” The Frenchman scurried off and Christian continued on his way. A new Europe, he thought ironically, a powerful federation of dynamic states. Not with material like this. God, if only the war would end. Or if he were sent some place where the guns could be heard. It was this garrison life. Half civilian, half military, with all the drawbacks of both. It rotted the soul, robbed a man of ambition, faith. Maybe his application for officers’ school would come through and after he became a Lieutenant he would be sent to Russia or to Africa, and this period would fall into its proper perspective. He had put in his application three months ago and had heard nothing yet. Probably it was lying under a pile of papers on some fat corporal’s desk on the Wilhelmstrasse.
God, it was so different from what he had expected the day he had left home, the day he had come into Paris … He remembered the stories from the last war. The iron-bound, tender friendships formed under fire, the grim sense of duty performed and the sporadic flares of exaltation. He remembered the end of The Magic Mountain. Hans Castorp, in 1914, running into the French fire across the flower-spotted field, singing Beethoven. The book had ended too soon. There should have been a chapter showing Castorp three months later, checking off size 12 boots in a supply depot in Liége. Not singing anything.
The whole myth of comradeship in a war. He had had it for a moment with Brandt, on the road to Paris, and even, for a flicker in time, with Hardenburg going down the Boulevard des Italiens toward the Place de l’Opera. But now Brandt had been commissioned and was an important young officer with a flat in Paris, working on an Army magazine. And Hardenburg had lived up to all the worst expectations Christian had had of him in training. And the other men around him were swine. There was no getting away from it. They thanked God morning, noon and night they were in Rennes instead of outside Tripoli, or Kiev, and every one of them was busy making all sorts of black-market deals with the French and putting away piles of money for the depression after the war. How be comrades with men like that? Money-lenders. War-dodgers in uniform. Whenever any one of them was in danger of being sent to one of the fronts he pulled every wire imaginable, bribed regimental clerks, anything, to remain where he was. Christian was in an army of ten million men and he had never been so lonely in all his life. In Berlin on his leave he would go to the War Office. He knew a Colonel there, a man who had worked with him in Austria in the days before Anschluss, and he would ask him about a transfer to another and more active unit. Even if it meant giving up his rank …
He looked at his watch. He still had twenty minutes before having to report to the orderly room. There was a café open across the street and he suddenly needed a drink.
He opened the door. There were four soldiers drinking champagne at a table. They were red-faced and they had obviously been drinking a long time. They had their tunics unbuttoned and two of them needed shaves. Champagne, too. Certainly not on a private’s pay. Probably were selling stolen German Army weapons to the French. The French weren’t using them, of course, but there was no telling what might happen finally. Even the French might regain their courage. An army of black-market merchants, Christian thought bitterly, dealers in leather and ammunition and Normandy cheese and wine and veal. Leave them in France another two years and you wouldn’t be able to distinguish them from the French except by their uniforms. The subtle, shabby victory of the Gallic spirit.
“A vermouth,” Christian said to the proprietor, who was standing nervously behind the bar. “No, a brandy.”
He leaned against the bar and stared at the four soldiers. The champagne was probably awful. Brandt had told him the French put any kind of label on any kind of miserable wine. The Germans didn’t know better, and it was the French way of fighting back, patriotism mixed, of course, with profit.
The four soldiers noticed Christian watching them. They became a little self-conscious and lowered their voices as they drank. Christian saw one of the men rub his hand guiltily across his unshaven cheek. The proprietor put the brandy down in front of Christian and he sipped at it, staring stonily at the four soldiers. One of the men took out his wallet to pay for a new bottle of champagne and Christian saw that it was bulging carelessly with francs. God, was it for these soft, conniving gangsters that Germans were hurling themselves against the Russian lines? Was it for these flabby shopkeepers that the Luftwaffe was burning over London?
“You!” Christian said, to the man with the wallet. “Come over here!”
The man with the wallet looked at his comrades thoughtfully. They were very quiet and they stared down into their glasses. The man with the wallet stood up slowly and stuffed his money away in a pocket.
“Move!” Christian said fiercely. “Get over here.”
The soldier shuffled over to Christian, his face growing pale under his stubble.
“Stand up!” Christian said. “Stand at attention!”
The man stiffened, looking more frightened than ever.
“What’s your name?” Christian snapped.
“Private Hans Reuter, Sergeant,” the man said, in a low, nervous voice.
Christian took out a pencil and a slip of paper and wrote the name down. “Organization?” he asked.
The soldier swallowed unhappily. “147th Battalion of Pioneers,” he said.
Christian wrote that down. “The next time you go out to drink, Private Reuter,” he said, “you will shave and keep your tunic buttoned. You will also stand at attention when addressing your superiors. I’m submitting your name for disciplinary action.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Dismissed.”
Reuter sighed and turned back to his table.
“All of you,” Christian called bitingly, “dress like soldiers!”
The men buttoned their tunics. They sat in silence.
Christian turned his back on them and stared at the proprietor.
“Another brandy, Sergeant?”
“No.”
Christian put some money on the bar for the drink, finished the brandy. He stalked out without looking at the four soldiers sitting in the corner.
Lieutenant Hardenburg was sitting in the orderly room with his cap and gloves on. He sat erectly, as though he was on a horse, staring across the room at the Propaganda Ministry’s map of Russia, with the battle lines, as of last Tuesday, drawn on it in victorious black and red strokes. The orderly room was in an old French police building, and there was a smell of ancient small crimes and unwashed French policemen that all the brisk cleanliness of the German Army had failed to eradicate. A single small bulb burned overhead and it was hot because the windows and blinds were closed for the blackout and the ghosts of all the petty criminals who had been beaten in the room seemed to be hovering in the stale air.
When Christian came into the room, a little, greasy man in the uniform of the French Milice was standing uneasily near the window, occasionally glancing at Hardenburg. Christian stood at attention and saluted, thinking: This cannot go on forever, this will
end some day.
Hardenburg paid no attention to him and it was only because Christian knew him so well that he was sure Hardenburg was aware he was in the room, and waiting. Christian stood rigidly at the doorway, examining the Lieutenant’s face.
As Christian watched Hardenburg, he knew that he hated that face worse than the faces of any of his enemies. Worse than Churchill, worse than Stalin, worse than any tank captain or mortar gunner in the British or Russian armies.
Hardenburg looked at his watch. “Ah,” he said, without looking around, “the Sergeant’s on time.”
“Yes, Sir,” said Christian.
Hardenburg strode over to the paper-littered desk and sat down behind it. He picked up one of the papers and said, “Here are the names and photographs of three men we have been looking for. They were called for Labor Service last month and have evaded us so far. This gentleman …” with a slight, cold gesture toward the Frenchman in the Milice uniform …“this gentleman pretends to know where all three can be found.”
“Yes, Lieutenant,” the Frenchman said eagerly. “Absolutely, Lieutenant.”
“You will take a detail of five,” Hardenburg said, going on as though the Frenchman were not in the room, “and pick up these three men. There is a truck and a driver in the courtyard and the detail is already in it.”
“Yes, Sir,” said Christian.
“You,” said Hardenburg to the Frenchman. “Get out of here.”
“Yes, Sir.” The Frenchman gasped a little as he spoke, and went quickly out the door.
Hardenburg stared at the map on the wall. Christian felt himself begin to sweat in the warm room. All the lieutenants in the German Army, he thought, and I had to get Hardenburg.
“At ease, Diestl.” Hardenburg did not stop looking at the map.
Christian moved his feet slightly.
“Everything in order?” Hardenburg asked in a conversational tone. “You have all the proper papers for your leave?”
“Yes, Sir,” said Christian. Now, he thought, this is going to happen. It’s going to be canceled. Unbearable.
“You’re going to Berlin first, before going home?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Hardenburg nodded, without taking his eyes from the map. “Lucky man,” he said. “Two weeks among Germans, instead of these swine.” He made an abrupt gesture of his head, indicating the spot where the Frenchman had been standing. “I’ve been trying to get leave for four months. Can’t be spared,” he said bitterly. “Too important here.” He almost laughed. “I wonder if you could do me a favor.”
“Of course, Sir,” said Christian, and then was angry with himself for the alacrity with which he spoke.
Hardenburg took out a set of keys from his pocket and unlocked one of the desk drawers. He lifted a small, carefully wrapped package out of the drawer and locked it methodically again. “My wife,” he said, “lives in Berlin. I’ve written the address down here.” He gave Christian a slip of paper. “I’ve uh … secured … a beautiful piece of lace here.” He tapped the package gravely. “Very beautiful. Black. From Brussels. My wife is very fond of lace. I had hoped to be able to give it to her in person, but the prospect of leave …” He-shrugged. “And the mail system.” He shook his head. “They must have every thief in Germany in the post offices. After the war,” he said angrily, “there should be a thorough investigation. However … I was thinking, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, my wife lives quite near the station …”
“I’d be delighted,” Christian said stiffly.
“Thank you.” Hardenburg handed Christian the package. “Give her my most tender regards,” Hardenburg said. He smiled frostily. “You might even say I think of her constantly.”
“Yes, Sir,” said Christian.
“Very good. Now, about these three men.” He tapped the sheet in front of him. “I know I can depend upon you.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I have been instructed that it might be advisable to be a little rough in these matters from now on,” Hardenburg said. “As an example to the others. Nothing serious, you understand, but a little shouting, a blow with the back of the hand, a show of guns …”
“Yes, Sir,” said Christian, holding gently onto the package of lace, feeling it soft under the paper.
“That will be all, Sergeant.” Hardenburg turned back to the map. “Enjoy yourself in Berlin.”
“Thank you, Sir.” Christian saluted. “Heil Hitler.”
But Hardenburg was already lost among the armor on the rolling plains on the road to Smolensk, and he barely lifted his hand as Christian went out the door, stuffing the lace into his tunic and buttoning it to make sure the package would not fall out.
The first two men on the list were hiding out together in an unused garage. They grinned a little worriedly at the sight of the guns and soldiers, but they made no trouble.
The next address the Milice Frenchman directed them to was in a slum neighborhood. The house itself smelled of bad plumbing and garlic. The boy they dragged out of bed clung to his mother and they both screamed hysterically. The mother bit one of the soldiers and he hit her in the belly and knocked her down. There was an old man who sat at a table weeping, with his head in his hands. All in all, it was as unpleasant as could be. There was another man in the apartment, too, hiding in one of the closets. Christian suspected from the look of him that he was a Jew. His papers were out-of-date and he was so frightened he couldn’t answer any questions at all. For a moment Christian was tempted to leave him alone. After all; he had only been sent out for the three boys, not to pick up random suspects, and if it turned out the man was a Jew it would mean concentration camp and eventual death. But the man from the Milice kept watching him and whispering, “Juif, juif.” He’d be sure to tell Hardenburg and it would be just like Hardenburg to have Christian recalled from his leave to face charges of neglect of duty.
“You’d better come along,” he said, as kindly as possible to the Jew. The man was fully dressed. He had been sleeping with all his clothes on, even his shoes, as though he had been ready to flee at a second’s notice. He looked blankly around the room, at the middle-aged woman lying on the floor moaning and holding her belly, at the old man bowed over and weeping at the table, at the crucifix over the bureau, as though it was his last home and death was waiting for him the moment he stepped outside the door. He tried to say something, but his mouth merely hung open and went through the motions of speech without any sound coming from the pale lips.
Christian was glad to get back to the police barracks and deliver his prisoners over to the Duty Officer. He made out his report, sitting at Hardenburg’s desk. It hadn’t been so bad. Altogether, the whole business had only taken a little over three hours. He heard a scream from the back of the building as he was writing, and he frowned a little. Barbarians, he thought As soon as you make a man a policeman you make him a sadist. He thought of going back there and stopping them, and even got up from the desk to do it, then thought better of it. There might be an officer back there and he’d get in trouble interfering.
He left a copy of the report on Hardenburg’s desk, where he could see it in the morning, and left the building. It was a fine autumn night, and the stars were sharp in the sky above the buildings. The city looked better in the dark, too, and the square in front of the city hall was quite beautiful, spacious, well-proportioned, and empty under the moon. Things could be worse, Christian thought as he walked slowly across the pavement, I could be in worse places.
He turned off near the river and rang the bell of Corinne’s house. The concierge came out grumbling, but kept respectfully silent, sleepy and bedraggled, when she saw who it was.
Christian went up the creaking old steps and knocked on Corinne’s door. The door opened quickly, as though Corinne had been awake, waiting for him. She kissed him warmly. She was in a nightgown, almost transparent, and her heavy, firm breasts were warm from bed as Christian held her to him.
Corinne was the wife of a Fren
ch Corporal who had been taken prisoner outside Metz in 1940 and was in a labor camp now near Königsberg. She was a large woman with thick ropes of dyed hair. When Christian had first met her in a café seven months ago he had thought she was striking and voluptuous-looking. But she was an affectionate, easygoing woman with a mild, placid style of making love, and from time to time as he lay beside her in the big double bed of the absent Corporal, Christian had the feeling that he had no need of traveling for wares like this. There must be five million peasant girls in Bavaria and the Tyrol, he felt, exactly as fat, exactly as firm, exactly as bovine. The fabled women of France, the quickwitted, mercurial, exciting girls who made a man’s heart quicken when he thought of the flashing streets of Paris and the South, all seemed to have escaped Christian. Ah, he thought, as he sat on the heavy carved walnut chair in Corinne’s bedroom, taking off his shoes, ah, I suppose you have to be an officer for that kind. He thought heavily of his application for officers’ school, lost in the traps of Army communications, and he had to hide the expression of distaste on his face as he watched Corinne climb domestically into bed, her large buttocks shining in the lamplight. He put out the light and it was better. He opened the window, although Corinne had the usual French horror of the night air. As he got into bed next to her and she threw a large meaty leg across his, with a comfortable, heavy sigh, like a fat woman taking off her corset, he heard, far off in the night sky, the distant throbbing of engines.
“Chéri …” Corinne began.
“Sssh,” Christian said harshly. “Listen.”
They listened to the sound of the men returning from the searchlight-crossed skies over London, returning from the frozen dark upper reaches of the British sky, returning from the balloons and night-fighters and the exploding shells. As Corinne put her hand with a milkmaid’s heavy expertness on him, Christian felt once more near tears, as he had in the movie theatre when he watched the soldier drop on the Russian earth. He pulled Corinne on top of him, smothering the cold, bloody sound of the motors in the heavy, plain flesh.