Young Lions

by Irwin Shaw

  Michael and Noah were right behind Green when he went through the doorway of the first barracks. The door had been torn off and most of the windows had been broken open, but even so, the smell was beyond the tolerance of human nostrils. In the murky air, pierced ineffectually here and there by the dusty beams of spring sunshine, Michael could see the piled, bony forms. The worst thing was that from some of the piles there was movement, a languidly waving arm, the slow lift of a pair of burning eyes in the stinking gloom, the pale twisting of lips on skulls that seemed to have met death many days before. In the depths of the building, a form detached itself from a pile of rags and bones and started a slow advance on hands and knees toward the door. Nearer by, a man stood up and moved, like a mechanical figure, crudely arranged for the process of walking, toward Green. Michael could see that the man believed he was smiling, and he had his hand outstretched in an absurdly commonplace gesture of greeting. The man never reached Green. He sank to the slime-covered floor, his hand still outstretched. When Michael bent over him he saw that the man had died.

  The center of the world, something repeated insanely and insistently in Michael’s brain, as he kneeled above the man who had died with such ease and silence before their eyes. I am now at the center of the world, the center of the world.

  The dead man, lying with outstretched hand, had been six feet tall. He was naked and every bone was clearly marked under the skin. He could not have weighed more than seventy-five pounds, and, because he was so lacking in the usual, broadening cover of flesh, he seemed enormously elongated, supernaturally tall and out of perspective.

  There were some shots outside, and Michael and Noah followed Green out of the barracks. Thirty-two of the guards, who had barricaded themselves in a brick building which contained the ovens in which the Germans had burned prisoners, had given themselves up when they saw the Americans, and Crane had tried to shoot them. He had managed to wound two of the guards before Houlihan had torn his rifle away from him. One of the wounded guards was sitting on the ground, weeping, holding his stomach, and blood was coming in little spurts over his hands. He was enormously fat, with beer-rolls on the back of his neck, and he looked like a spoiled pink child sitting on the ground, complaining to his nurse.

  Crane was standing with his arms clutched by two of his friends, breathing very hard, his eyes rolling crazily. When Green ordered the guards to be taken into the Administration Building for safekeeping, Crane lashed out with his feet and kicked the fat man he had shot. The fat man wept loudly. It took four men to carry the fat man into the Administration Building.

  There was not much Green could do. But he set up his Headquarters in the Commandant’s room of the Administration Building and issued a series of clear, simple orders, as though it was an everyday affair in the American Army for an Infantry Captain to arrive at the chaos of the center of the world and set about putting it to rights. He sent his jeep back to request a medical team and a truckload of ten-in-one rations. He had all the Company’s food unloaded and stacked under guard in the Administration Building, with orders to dole it out only to the worst cases of starvation that were found and reported by the squads working through the barracks. He had the German guards segregated at the end of the hall outside his door, where they could not be harmed.

  Michael, who, with Noah, was serving as a messenger for Green, heard one of the guards complaining, in good English, to Pfeiffer, who had them under his rifle, that it was terribly unjust, that they had just been on duty in this camp for a week, that they had never done any harm to the prisoners, that the men of the SS battalion who had been there for years and who had been responsible for all the torture and privation in the camp, were going off scot-free, were probably in an American prison stockade at that moment, drinking orange juice. There was considerable justice in the poor Volkssturm guard’s complaint, but Pfeiffer merely said, “Shut your trap before I put my boot in it.”

  The liberated prisoners had a working committee, which they had secretly chosen a week before, to govern the camp. Green called in the leader of the committee, a small, dry man of fifty, with a curious accent and a quite formal way of handling the English language. The man’s name was Zoloom, and he had been in the Albanian Foreign Service before the war. He told Green he had been a prisoner for three and a half years. He was completely bald and had pebbly little dark eyes, set in a face that somehow was still rather plump. He had an air of authority and was quite helpful to Green in securing work parties among the healthier prisoners, to carry the dead from the barracks, and collect and classify the sick into dying, critical and out-of-danger categories. Only those people in the critical category, Green ordered, were to be fed out of the small stocks of food that had been collected from the trucks and the almost empty storerooms of the camp. The dying were merely laid side by side along one of the streets, to extinguish themselves in peace, consoled finally by the sight of the sun and the fresh touch of the spring air on their wasted foreheads.

  As the first afternoon wore on, and Michael saw the beginning of order that Green, in his ordinary, quiet, almost embarrassed way, had brought about, he felt an enormous respect for the dusty little Captain with the high, girlish voice. Everything in Green’s world, Michael suddenly realized, was fixable. There was nothing, not even the endless depravity and bottomless despair which the Germans had left at the swamp-heart of their dying millennium, which could not be remedied by the honest, mechanic’s common sense and energy of a decent workman. Looking at Green giving brisk, sensible orders to the Albanian, to Sergeant Houlihan, to Poles and Russians and Jews and German Communists, Michael knew that Green didn’t believe he was doing anything extraordinary, anything that any graduate of the Fort Benning Infantry Officers’ Candidate School wouldn’t do in his place.

  Watching Green at work, as calm and efficient as he would have been sitting in an orderly room in Georgia making out duty rosters, Michael was glad that he had never gone to Officers’ School. I could never have done it, Michael thought, I would have put my head in my hands and wept until they took me away. Green did not weep. In fact, as the afternoon wore on, his voice, in which no sympathy had been expressed for anyone all day, became harder and harder, more and more crisp and military and impersonal.

  Michael watched Noah carefully, too. But Noah did not change the expression on his face. The expression was one of thoughtful, cool reserve, and Noah clung to it as a man clings to a very expensive piece of clothing which he has bought with his last savings and is too dear to discard, even in the most extreme circumstances. Only once during the afternoon, when, on an errand for the Captain, Michael and Noah had to walk along the line of men who had been declared too far gone to help, and who lay in a long line on the dusty ground, did Noah stop for a moment. Now, Michael thought, watching obliquely, it is going to happen now. Noah stared at the emaciated, bony, ulcerous men, half-naked and dying, beyond the reach of any victory or liberation, and his face trembled, the expensive expression nearly was lost … But he gained control of himself. He closed his eyes for a moment, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and said, starting again, “Come on. What are we stopping for?”

  When they got back to the Commandant’s office, an old man was being led in before the Captain. At least he looked old. He was bent over, and his long yellow hands were translucently thin. You couldn’t really tell, of course, because almost everyone in the camp looked old, or ageless.

  “My name,” the old man was saying in slow English, “is Joseph Silverson. I am a Rabbi. I am the only Rabbi in the camp …”

  “Yes,” Captain Green said briskly. He did not look up from a paper on which he was writing a request for medical materials.

  “I do not wish to annoy the officer,” the Rabbi said. “But I would like to make a request.”

  “Yes?” Still, Captain Green did not look up. He had taken off his helmet and his field jacket. His gunbelt was hanging over the back of his chair. He looked like a busy clerk in a warehouse, checking invo
ices.

  “Many thousand Jews,” the Rabbi said slowly and carefully, “have died in this camp, and several hundred more out there …” the Rabbi waved his translucent hand gently toward the window, “will die today, tonight, tomorrow …”

  “I’m sorry, Rabbi,” Captain Green said. “I am doing all I can.”

  “Of course.” The Rabbi nodded hastily. “I know that. There is nothing to be done for them. Nothing for their bodies. I understand. We all understand. Nothing material. Even they understand. They are in the shadow and all efforts must be concentrated on the living. They are not even unhappy. They are dying free and, there is a great pleasure in that. I am asking for a luxury.” Michael understood that the Rabbi was attempting to smile. He had enormous, sunken, green eyes that flamed steadily in his narrow face, under his high, ridged forehead. “I am asking to be permitted to collect all of us, the living, the ones without hope, out there, in the square there …” again the translucent wave of the hand, “and conduct a religious service. A service for the dead who have come to their end in this place.”

  Michael stared at Noah. Noah was looking coolly and soberly at Captain Green, his face calm, remote.

  Captain Green had not looked up. He had stopped writing, but he was sitting with his head bent over wearily, as though he had fallen asleep.

  “There has never been a religious service for us in this place,” the Rabbi said softly, “and so many thousands have gone …”

  “Permit me.” It was the Albanian diplomat who had been so helpful in carrying out Green’s orders. He had moved to the side of the Rabbi, and was standing before the Captain’s desk, bent over, speaking rapidly, diplomatically and clearly. “I do not like to intrude, Captain. I understand why the Rabbi has made this request. But this is not the time for it. I am a European, I have been in this place a long time, I understand things perhaps the Captain doesn’t understand. I do not like to intrude, as I said, but I think it would be inadvisable to give permission to conduct publicly a Hebrew religious service in this place.” The Albanian stopped, waiting for Green to say something. But Green didn’t say anything. He sat at the desk, nodding a little, looking as though he we’re on the verge of waking up from sleep.

  “The Captain perhaps does not understand the feeling,” the Albanian went on rapidly. “The feeling in Europe. In a camp like this. Whatever the reasons,” the Albanian said smoothly, “good or bad, the feeling exists. It is a fact. If you allow this gentleman to hold his services, I do not guarantee the consequences. I feel I must warn you. There will be riots, there will be violence, bloodshed. The other prisoners will not stand for it …”

  “The other prisoners will not stand for it,” Green repeated quietly, without any tone in his voice.

  “No, Sir,” said the Albanian briskly, “I guarantee the other prisoners will not stand for it.”

  Michael looked at Noah. The expensive expression was sliding off his face, melting, slowly and violently exposing a grimace of horror and despair.

  Green stood up. “I am going to guarantee something myself,” he said to the Rabbi. “I am going to guarantee that you will hold your services in one hour in the square down there. I am also going to guarantee that there will be machine guns set up on the roof of this building. And I will further guarantee that anybody who attempts to interfere with your services will be fired on by those machine guns.” He turned to the Albanian. “And, finally, I guarantee,” he said, “that if you ever try to come into this room again you will be locked up. That is all.”

  The Albanian backed swiftly out of the room. Michael heard his footsteps disappearing down the corridor.

  The Rabbi bowed gravely. “Thank you very much, Sir,” he said to Green.

  Green put out his hand. The Rabbi shook it and turned and followed the Albanian. Green stood staring at the window.

  Green looked at Noah. The old, controlled, rigidly calm expression was melting back into the boy’s face.

  “Ackerman,” Green said crisply. “I don’t think we’ll need you around here for a couple of hours. Why don’t you and Whitacre leave this place for awhile, go out and take a walk? Outside the camp. It’ll do you good.”

  “Thank you, Sir,” Noah said. He went out of the room.

  “Whitacre,” Green was still staring out of the window, and his voice was weary. “Whitacre, take care of him.”

  “Yes, Sir,” said Michael. He went after Noah.

  They walked in silence. The sun was low in the sky and there were long paths of purple shadow across the hills to the north. They passed a farmhouse, set back from the road, but there was no movement there. It slept, neat-white and lifeless, in the westering sun. It had been painted recently, and the stone wall in front of it had been whitewashed. The stone wall was turning pale blue in the leveling rays of the sun. Overhead a squadron of fighter planes, high in the clear sky, caught the sun on their aluminum wings as they headed back to their base.

  On one side of the road was forest, healthy-looking pine and elm, dark trunks looking almost black against the pale, milky green of the new foliage. The sun flickered in small bright stains among the leaves, falling on the sprouting flowers in the cleared spaces between the trees. The camp was behind them and the air, warmed by the full day’s sun, was piney and aromatic. The rubber composition soles of their combat boots made a hushed, unmilitary sound on the narrow asphalt road, between the rain ditches on each side. They walked silently, past another farmhouse. This place too was locked and shuttered, but Michael had the feeling eyes were peering out at him between cracks. He was not afraid. The only people left in Germany seemed to be children, by the million, and old women and maimed soldiers. It was a polite and unwarlike population, who waved impartially to the jeeps and tanks of the Americans and the truck bearing German prisoners back to prison stockades.

  Three geese waddled across the dust of the farmyard. Chrismas dinner, Michael thought idly, with loganberry jam and oyster stuffing. He remembered the oak paneling and the scenes from Wagner painted on the walls of Luchow’s restaurant, on 14th Street, in New York. They walked past the farmhouse. Now, on both sides of them stood the heavy forest, tall trees standing in the loam of old leaves, giving off a clear, thin smell of spring.

  Noah hadn’t said a word since they had left Green’s office, and Michael was surprised when he heard his friend’s voice over the shuffle of their boots on the asphalt.

  “How do you feel?” Noah asked.

  Michael thought for a moment. “Dead,” he said. “Dead, wounded and missing.”

  They walked another twenty yards. “It was pretty bad, wasn’t it?” Noah said.

  “Pretty bad.”

  “You knew it was bad,” said Noah. “But you never thought it would be like that.”

  “No,” said Michael.

  “Human beings …” They walked, listening to the sound of their composition soles on the road deep in Germany, in the afternoon in spring, between the aisles of pretty, budding trees. “My uncle,” Noah said, “my father’s brother, went into one of these places. Did you see the ovens?”

  “Yes,” said Michael.

  “I never saw him, of course. My uncle, I mean,” Noah said. His hand was hooked in his rifle strap and he looked like a little boy returning from hunting rabbits. “He had some trouble with my father. In 1905, in Odessa. My father was a fool. But he knew about things like this. He came from Europe. Did I ever tell you about my father?”

  “No,” said Michael.

  “Dead, wounded and missing,” Noah said softly. They walked steadily, but not quickly, the soldier’s pace, thirty inches, deliberate, ground-covering. “Remember,” Noah asked, “back in the replacement depot, what you said: ‘Five years after the war is over we’re all liable to look back with regret to every bullet that missed us.’”

  “Yes,” said Michael. “I remember.”

  “What do you feel now?”

  Michael hesitated. “I don’t know,” he said honestly.

  “Th
is afternoon,” Noah said, walking in his deliberate, correct pace, “I agreed with you. When that Albanian started talking I agreed with you. Not because I’m a Jew. At least, I don’t think that was the reason. As a human being … When that Albanian started talking I was ready to go out into the hall and shoot myself through the head.”

  “I know,” Michael said softly. “I felt the same way.”

  “Then Green said what he had to say.” Noah stopped and looked up to the tops of the trees, golden-green in the golden sun. “‘I guarantee … I guarantee …’” He sighed. “I don’t know what you think,” Noah said, “but I have a lot of hope for Captain Green.”

  “So do I,” said Michael.

  “When the war is over,” Noah said and his voice was growing loud, “Green is going to run the world, not that damned Albanian …”

  “Sure,” said Michael.

  “The human beings are going to be running the world!” Noah was shouting by now, standing in the middle of the shadowed road, shouting at the sun-tipped branches of the German forest. “The human beings! There’s a lot of Captain Greens! He’s not extraordinary! There’re millions of them!” Noah stood, very erect, his head back, shouting crazily, as though all the things he had coldly pushed down deep within him and fanatically repressed for so many months were now finally bursting forth. “Human beings!” he shouted thickly, as though the two words were a magic incantation against death and sorrow, a subtle and impregnable shield for his son and his wife, a rich payment for the agony of the recent years, a promise and a guarantee for the future …“The world is full of them!”

  It was then that the shots rang out.

  Christian had been awake five or six minutes before he heard the voices. He had slept heavily, and when he awoke he had known immediately from the way the shadows lay in the forest that it was late in the afternoon. But he had been too weary to move immediately. He had lain on his back, staring up at the mild green canopy over his head, listening to the forest sounds, the awakening springtime hum of insects, the calls of birds in the upper branches, the slight rustling of the leaves in the wind. A flight of planes had crossed over, and he had heard them, although he couldn’t see the planes through the trees. Once again, as it had for so long, the sound of planes made him reflect bitterly on the abundance with which the Americans had fought the war. No wonder they’d won. They didn’t amount to much as soldiers, he thought for the hundredth time, but what difference did it make? Given all those planes, all those tanks, an army of old women and veterans of the Franco-Prussian War could have won. Given just one-third of that equipment, he thought, self-pityingly, and we’d have won three years ago. That miserable Lieutenant back at the camp, complaining because we didn’t lose this war in an orderly manner, the way his class did! If he’d complained a little less and worked a little more, perhaps it might not have turned out this way. A few more hours in the factory and a few less at the mass meetings and party festivals, and maybe that sound above would be German planes, maybe the Lieutenant wouldn’t be lying dead now in front of his office, maybe he, Christian, wouldn’t be hiding out now, looking for a burrow, like a fox before the hounds.