The Young Lions

"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 enemy 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 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 rumour 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 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, perhaps one of their comrades was killed twenty minutes before by a sniper, perhaps they're in a hurry, perhaps they are Jews with relatives in Buchenwald, how can you tell? And then, in the country like this, there'd be a good chance you'd never reach the Americans or the English. Every damned Frenchman between here and Cherbourg has a gun by now, and is out to kill a German before it's too late. Oh, no. I want to desert, not die, my friend."

A thoughtful man, Christian thought admiringly, a man who has thought things out reasonably in advance. It was no wonder Brandt had done 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 an apartment in Paris and had done himself well.

"You remember my friend, Simone?" Brandt said.

"Are you still co

"Of course I'm still co

"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 moving on 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 comfortable future ahead of him, all pla

"I'm going straight to her house," Brandt said, "and take off this uniform and put on civilian clothes. And I'm going to stay 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 cleverly arranged, wife, career, everything…

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

"What?" Christian asked, gri

"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?"

"Perhaps," said Christian slowly. "Perhaps I will." He shook his head to throw off the weariness and sleep from his eyes and manoeuvred around a stalled armoured car that lay across the road, with three men working feverishly at it in the frail light of shaded flashlights. "Perhaps I will. But we have first to try to get through to Paris. Then we can begin thinking 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 in the streets. It was as dark as ever, but it didn't look any different from 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 cafe doors swung open, and bursts 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 kilometres away or just outside town, whether the enemy were in Algiers or Alencon…

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 collection of bones on the sandy hill in the desert; Hardenburg, a suicide in Italy… But Brandt and he still alive, driving over the same streets, smelling the same 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.

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."