Collected Fiction

by Irwin Shaw

  “What are you telling me all this for?” Christian asked, keeping his eyes on the pale road ahead of him, thinking, warily: He has a plan, but I will not commit myself to him yet.

  “Because when I get to Paris,” Brandt said slowly, “I am going to desert.”

  They drove in silence for a full minute.

  “It is not the correct way to put it,” said Brandt. “It is not I who am deserting. It is the Army which has deserted me. I intend to make it official.”

  Desert. The word trembled in Christian’s ear. The Americans had dropped leaflets and safe-conducts on him, urging him to desert, telling him, long before this, that the war was lost, that he would be treated well … There were stories of men who had been caught by the Army in the attempt, hung to trees in batches of six, whose families back in Germany had been shot … Brandt had no family, and was a freer agent than most. Of course, in confusion like this, who would know who had deserted, who had died, who had been captured while fighting heroically? A long time later, perhaps in 1960, perhaps never, some rumor might come out, but it was impossible to worry about that now.

  “Why do you have to go to Paris to desert?” Christian asked, remembering the leaflets. “Why don’t you go to the other way and find the first American unit and give yourself up?”

  “I thought of that,” Brandt said. “Don’t think I didn’t. But it’s too dangerous. Troops in the field aren’t dependable. They may be hot-headed, maybe one of their comrades was killed twenty minutes before by a sniper, maybe they’re in a hurry, maybe they are Jews with relatives in Büchenwald, how can you tell? And then, in the country like this, there’d be a good chance you’d never reach the Americans. Every damned Frenchman between here and Cherbourg has a gun by now, and is dying to kill one German for the record before it’s too late. Oh, no. I want to desert, not die, my friend.”

  A thoughtful man, Christian thought admiringly, a man who figured things out reasonably in advance. It was no wonder Brandt had done so well in the Army, had taken just the kind of pictures he knew would be liked by the Propaganda Ministry, had got the fat job in Paris on the magazine, had been billeted for so long in the fancy apartment in Paris, had eaten well, dressed well, whored well.

  “Listen,” Brandt said, “You know my friend, Simone …”

  “Are you still connected with her?” Christian asked, surprised. Brandt had been living with Simone as far back as 1940. Christian had met her with Brandt on his first leave in Paris. They had gone out together and Simone had even brought along a friend—what was her name?—Françhise, but Françoise had been as cold as ice, and had made no bones about the fact that she was not fond of Germans. Brandt had been lucky in this war. Dressed in the uniform of the conquering army, but almost a citizen of France, speaking French so well, he had made the best of the two possible worlds.

  “Of course, I’m still connected with Simone,” Brandt said. “Why not?”

  “I don’t know.” Christian smiled. “Don’t get angry. It’s just that it’s been so long … four years … in a war …” Somehow, although Simone had been very pretty, Christian had always imagined Brandt, with all his opportunities, as soaring beautifully from one dazzling woman to another through the years.

  “We intend to marry,” Brandt said firmly, “as soon as this damned thing is over.”

  “Of course,” said Christian, slowing down as they passed a column of men, in single file, trudging silently along the road’s edge, the moonlight glinting on the metal of their weapons. “Of course. Why not?” Brandt, he thought enviously, lucky, sensible Brandt, unwounded, with a nice war behind him, and a cozy, warm future ahead of him, all planned out.

  “I’m going to go straight to her house,” Brandt said, “and take off this uniform and put on civilian clothes. And I’m going to stay right there until the Americans arrive. Then, after the first excitement, Simone will go to the American Military Police and tell them about me, that I am a German officer who is anxious to give himself up. The Americans are most correct. They treat prisoners like gentlemen, and the war will be over soon, and they will free me, and I will marry Simone and go back to my painting …”

  Lucky Brandt, Christian thought, everything ingeniously arranged, wife, career, everything …

  “Listen, Christian,” Brandt said earnestly, “this will work for you, too.”

  “What?” Christian asked, grinning. “Does Simone want to marry me, too?”

  “Don’t joke,” Brandt said. “She’s got a big apartment, two bedrooms. You can stay there, too. You’re too good to sink in this swamp of a war …” Brandt waved his hand stiffly to take in the reeling men on the road, the death in the sky, the downfall of states. “You’ve done enough. You’ve done your share. More than your share. This is the time when every man who is not a fool must take care of himself.” Brandt put his hand on Christian’s arm softly, imploringly. “I’ll tell you something, Christian,” he said. “Ever since that first day, on the road to Paris, I’ve looked up to you, I’ve worried about you, I’ve felt that if there was one man I could pick to come out of this alive and well, you would be that man. We’re going to need men like you when this is over. You owe it to your country, even if you don’t feel you owe it to yourself. Christian … Will you stay with me?”

  “Maybe,” said Christian slowly. “Maybe I will.” He shook his head to throw off the weariness and sleep from his eyes and maneuvered around a stalled armored car that lay across the road, with three men working feverishly on it in the frail light of shaded flashlights. “Maybe I will. But first, we have to try to get through to Paris. Then we can begin worrying about what we’ll do after that …”

  “We’ll get through,” Brandt said calmly. “I am sure of it. Now I am absolutely sure of it.”

  They arrived in Paris the next night. There was very little traffic on the streets. It was as dark as ever, but it didn’t look any different than it had the other times that Christian had come back to it, in the days before the invasion. German staff cars still whipped about the streets; there were fitful gleams of light as café doors swung open, and hursts of laughter from strolling soldiers. And the girls, Christian noticed, as they swung across the Place de l’Opera, were still there, calling out to the shadowy, passing uniforms. The world of commerce, Christian thought grimly, continuing whether the enemy was a thousand kilometers away or just outside town, whether the Americans were in Algiers or Alençon …

  Brandt was very tense now. He sat on the edge of the seat, breathing sharply, directing Christian through the jumbled maze of blacked-out streets. Christian remembered the other time he and Brandt had rolled down these boulevards, with Sergeant Himmler pointing out places of interest like a professional guide, and Hardenburg in the front seat. Himmler, full of jokes, and now a curious collection of bones on the sandy hill in the desert; Hardenburg, a suicide in Italy … But Brandt and he still alive, softly driving over the same pavements, smelling the same, sour, ancient aroma of the old city, passing the same monuments along the everlasting river …

  “Here,” Brandt whispered. “Stop here.”

  Christian put on the brakes and turned off the motor. He felt very tired. They were in front of a garage, a garage with a big blank door, and a steep incline of cement. “Wait for me,” Brandt said, climbing hurriedly out of the car. Brandt knocked on a door to one side of the incline. In a moment the door opened, and Brandt disappeared inside. (Remember Himmler disappearing inside the brothel door, and the Moorish hangings and the cold bottles of champagne and the smile on the dark girl’s red mouth. “A curious taste,” the red mouth had said mockingly, “a curious taste, wouldn’t you say?” And Brandt’s curt answer …“We are a curious people. You will discover that. Attend to your business.” And the green silk dress in Himmler’s hands, and the 1918 on the scrawled wall.) The French, Christian repeated dully in some deep chamber of his mind, they will beat us all, yet.

  There was a grinding noise and the blank door of the garage swung open. A
light shone dimly at the top of the incline, a gloomy yellow dab in the depths of the building. Brandt came out hurriedly. He looked up and down the empty street.

  “Drive in,” he whispered to Christian. “Fast.”

  Christian started the motor and swung the little car up the incline toward the light. Behind him he heard the garage door closing. He drove carefully up the narrow passageway and stopped at the top. He looked around. In the dim light he saw the shapes of three or four other cars, covered with tarpaulins.

  “All right.” It was Brandt’s voice behind him. “This is where we get off.”

  Christian killed the motor and got out. Brandt and another man were coming toward him. The other man was small and fat and was wearing a homburg hat, half-comic, half-sinister at this moment in this shaded place.

  The man in the homburg hat walked slowly around the car, touching it tentatively from time to time. “Good enough,” he said in French. He turned and disappeared into a small office to one side, from which came a meager glow of light from a hidden lamp.

  “Listen,” Brandt said. “I’ve sold them the car. Seventy-five thousand francs.” He waved the notes in front of Christian. Christian couldn’t see them very well, but he heard the dry rustle of the paper. “They’ll be very useful in the next few weeks. Let’s get our things out. We’ll walk from here.”

  Seventy-five thousand francs, Christian thought admiringly, as he helped Brandt unload the bread, the hams, the cheese, the Calvados. This man cannot be defeated by anything! He has friends and commercial acquaintances all over the world, ready to spring to his assistance at any moment.

  The man in the homburg hat came back with two burlap sacks. Christian, and Brandt stowed all their belongings into them. The Frenchman did not offer to help, but stood outside the shine of the one small light, obscure, watching, expressionless. When the packing was finished, the Frenchman led the way down a half-flight of steps and unlocked a door. “Au revoir, Monsieur Brandt,” he said, his voice flat. “Enjoy yourself in Paris.” There was a subtle overtone of warning and mockery in the Frenchman’s voice. Christian would have liked to seize him and drag him under a light to get a good look at him. But as he hesitated, Brandt pulled nervously at his arm. He allowed himself to be guided into the street. The door closed behind them, and he heard the quiet clicking of the lock.

  “This way,” Brandt said, and started off, the sack of loot over his shoulder. “We don’t have far to go.” Christian followed him down the dark street. Later on, he decided he would question Brandt about the Frenchman in the homburg hat and what he might be expected to do with the little car. But he was too tired now, and Brandt was hurrying ahead of him, anyway, walking swiftly and silently toward his girl’s house.

  Two minutes later Brandt stopped at the doorway of a four-story house, its shaded window blind against the street. Brandt rang the bell. They had not passed anyone.

  It was a long time before the door opened, and then only a crack. Brandt whispered into the crack and Christian heard an old woman’s voice, at first querulous, then warm and welcoming as Brandt established his identity. There was the small rattling of a chain and the door swung wide. Christian followed Brandt up the steps, past the muffled figure of the concierge. Brandt, Christian thought, the man who knows precisely on which doors to knock, and what to say to get them open. Someone pushed a button and the lights on the stairway went up. Christian saw that it was quite a respectable building, with marble steps, clean, bourgeois, a place where vice-presidents might live, and superior clerks in government offices.

  The lights went out after twenty seconds. They climbed in darkness. Christian’s Schmeisser, slung on his shoulder, banged against the wall with an iron sound. “Quiet!” Brandt whispered harshly. “Be careful.” He pushed the button on the next landing and the lights went on for another twenty seconds, in the thrifty French style.

  They climbed to the top floor and Brandt knocked on a door gently. This door opened quickly, almost as though whoever lived in the apartment had been waiting eagerly for the signal. A beam of light flooded into the hallway, and Christian saw the figure of a woman in a long robe. Then the woman threw herself into Brandt’s arms. She began to sob, brokenly, saying “You’re here, oh chéri, you’re here … you’re here.”

  Christian stood awkwardly against the wall, holding onto the butt of his gun so it wouldn’t rattle, watching the two people embrace. It was a domestic, husband-and-wife embrace, more relief than passion, plain, unbeautiful, tearful, touching, profoundly private, and Christian wished he didn’t have to be present to witness it.

  Finally, half-sobbing, half-laughing, Simone broke away, pushing back her straight long hair with one hand, and with the other still clutching Brandt’s arm, as though to reassure herself that he was real and to make certain that he would not vanish in the next minute.

  “Now,” she said, and Christian remembered her light, soft voice very well, “now, we have time to be polite.” She turned to Christian.

  “You remember Diestl, don’t you?” Brandt said.

  “Of course, of course.” She put out her hand impulsively. Christian shook it. “I am so glad to see you. We have talked about you so often … Come in, come in … You can’t stand out in the hall all night.”

  They stepped into the apartment and Simone locked the door behind them, the sound homelike and secure. Brandt and Christian followed her into the living room. Standing before the drawn curtains in front of a window was a woman in a quilted robe, her face in shadow, outside the light of the single lamp on the table near the couch.

  “Put your things down, oh, you’ll want to wash, oh, you must be starving,” Simone was saying in a babble of wifely consideration, “we have some wine, we must open a bottle of wine to celebrate … Oh, Françoise, see who’s here, isn’t it wonderful?”

  Françoise, Christian remembered, the German-hater, that’s who it is. He watched Françoise warily as she came out from her place near the window and shook hands with Brandt.

  “I am so glad to see you,” Françoise said.

  She was even prettier than Christian remembered, a tall woman, with piled chestnut hair and a long, fine nose over a controlled mouth. She turned to Christian, smiling and extending her hand. “Welcome, Sergeant Diestl,” Françoise said. She pressed his hand warmly.

  “Oh,” said Christian carefully, “you remember me.”

  “Of course,” said Françoise, staring directly at him. “I have thought of you again and again.”

  Greenish, hidden eyes, Christian thought troubledly, what is she smiling at, what does she mean by saying she thought of me again and again?

  “Françoise moved in with me last month, chéri,” Simone said to Brandt. “Her apartment was requisitioned. Your Army.” She made a charming little face at Brandt and Brandt chuckled and kissed her. Her hands lingered for a moment on his shoulders before she pulled away. Christian noticed that she looked much older. She was still small and trim, but there were fine, anxious wrinkles around her eyes, and her skin looked dry and lifeless.

  “Do you plan to stay long?” Françoise asked.

  There was a moment of hesitation. Then Christian said, stolidly, “Our plans are not definite at the moment, we …”

  He heard Brandt laughing and stopped. The laughter was high, near hysteria, a combination of relief and amusement. “Christian,” Brandt said, “stop being so damned correct. We plan to stay to the end of the war.”

  Then Simone broke down. She sat on the edge of the couch and Brandt had to comfort her. Christian caught Françoise’s eye for a flicker and observed what he thought was cool amusement there, before Françoise politely turned away and strolled back to her window.

  “Go,” Simone was saying. “This is ridiculous. I don’t know why I’m crying. Ridiculous. I am getting like my mother, cry because she’s happy, cry because she’s sad, cry because it’s sunny, cry because it’s beginning to rain. Go. Go in and wash up, and when you come back, I shall be as sensib
le as you can imagine, and I’ll have a beautiful supper all fixed for you. Go. Don’t look at me with my eyes like this. Go ahead.”

  Brandt was grinning, a foolish, homecoming, childish grin, incongruous on his thin, lined, intelligent face, now grimed with the dust of the long march from Normandy.

  “Come on, Christian,” said Brandt, “let’s get the dirt off our faces.”

  Together they went into the bathroom. Françoise, Christian noticed, did not look at them as they left the room.

  In the bathroom, with the water running (all cold because of the fuel situation), Brandt spoke through the soapsuds, while Christian arranged his dark hair, wet with water, with someone’s comb. “There is something about that woman,” Brandt was saying, “something I have never found in anyone else. I … I accept everything about her. It’s funny, with other women, I was too critical. They were too thin, they were too vain, they were a little silly … Two, three weeks, and I couldn’t stand them any more. But with Simone … I know she is a little sentimental, I know she is getting older, there are wrinkles … And …” He grinned soapily, “I love it. She is not so smart. I love it. She has a tendency to weep. I love it.” Then he spoke very seriously. “It is the one good thing I have gotten from the war.” Then, as though ashamed at having talked so frankly, he turned the water on full blast and vigorously rinsed the soap off his face and neck. He was stripped to the waist, and Christian noticed with amused pity how his friend’s bones jutted out of his skin, like a small boy’s, how frail his arms were. What a lover, Christian thought, what a soldier, how had he ever managed to survive four years of war?