The Young Lions

Brandt was gri

"Come on, Christian," said Brandt, "let's get the dirt off our faces."

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

In the bathroom, with the water ru

Two, three weeks, and I couldn't stand them any more. But with Simone… I know she is a little sentimental, I know she's getting older, there are wrinkles… I love it. She is not 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 got out of the war." Then, as though ashamed at having talked so frankly, he turned the water on full 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 stuck out, 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?

Brandt stood up and towelled his face. "Christian," he said seriously, through the muffling cloth, "you're going to stay with me, aren't you?"

"First," Christian began, keeping his voice low, "what about that other one?"

"Francoise?" Brandt waved his hand. "Don't worry about her. There's plenty of room. You can sleep on the couch. Or…" He gri

"I'm not worried about the overcrowding," Christian said.

Brandt reached over to turn the water off. "Leave it on," Christian said sharply, holding Brandt's hand.

"What's the matter with you?" Brandt asked, puzzled.

"She doesn't like Germans, that one," Christian said. "She can make a lot of trouble."

"Nonsense." With a quick movement, Brandt snapped the water off. "I know her. She'll grow very fond of you. Now promise you'll stay…"

"All right," Christian said slowly. "I'll stay." He could see Brandt's eyes glistening. Brandt's hand, as it patted Christian's bare shoulder, was trembling a little.

"We're safe, Christian," Brandt whispered. "At last we're safe…"

He turned awkwardly and put on his shirt and went into the other room. Christian put his shirt on slowly, buttoning it carefully, looking at himself in the mirror, studying the haggard eyes, the ridged lines on his cheeks, the topography of fear and grief and exhaustion that was obscurely and invincibly marked there. He leaned close to the mirror and stared at his hair. There was a sanding of grey, heavy at the temples, glistening in little pale tips on top. God, he thought, I never saw that before. I'm getting old, old… He braced himself, hating the wave of self-pity that for a moment he had allowed to flood through him, and walked stiffly out into the living-room.

The living-room was cosy, with the one shaded lamp diffusing a dull rosy glow over the room and over the long, reclining figure of Francoise on the soft couch.

Brandt and Simone had gone to bed, holding hands domestically as they had gone down the hallway. After eating, after telling a jumbled, inaccurate account of the last few days, Brandt had almost fallen asleep in his chair and Simone had fondly pulled him up by his hands and led him away, smiling in an almost motherly way at Christian and Francoise left together in the shadowy room.

"The war is over," Brandt had mumbled in farewell, "the war is over, boys, and now I am going to sleep. Farewell, Lieutenant Brandt, of the Army of the Third Reich," he had said with sleepy oratory, "farewell, soldier. Tomorrow once more the decadent painter of non-objective pictures awakens in his civilian bed, next to his wife." He had pointed in a limp, gentle way at Francoise. "Be good to my friend. Love him well. He is the best of the best. Strong, delicate, tested in the fire, the hope of the new Europe, if there will be a new Europe and if there is any hope for it. Love him well."

Shaking her head fondly, saying, "The drink has gone to the man's tongue," Simone had pushed him gently towards the bedroom.

"Good night," they had heard Brandt's mumbled valedictory in the hallway, "good night, my dear friends…"

Then the door had closed and there had been silence in the small, feminine room, with its pale wood and its dark, nighttime mirrors, its soft-coloured cushions, and its silver-framed photograph of Brandt taken in beret and Basque shirt before the war.

"A tired soldier," Francoise murmured from the depths of the couch, "a very tired soldier, our Lieutenant Brandt."

"Yes," said Christian, watching her carefully.

"He's had a hard time, hasn't he?" Francoise moved her toes.

"It hasn't been pleasant, the last few weeks, has it?"

"No, not very."

"The Americans," said Francoise, in a flat, i

"You might say that."

"The papers here," Francoise shifted her weight gently and the long lines rearranged themselves in silvery shadows under the robe, "keep saying it is all going according to plan. The enemy are being cleverly contained, there will be a surprising counter-attack." The tone of lazy amusement in Francoise's voice was very clear. "The papers are very reassuring. Mr Brandt ought to read them more often." She laughed softly. The quiet laugh would have seemed sensual and inviting, Christian realized, if they had been talking on a different subject. "Mr Brandt," Francoise said gently, "is not of the opinion that the enemy will be contained. And a counter-attack would be really surprising to him, wouldn't it?"

"I imagine so," Christian said, sparring, wondering: What is this woman up to?

"How about you?" She spoke abstractedly, not really to Christian, but into the warm, dusky air.

"Perhaps I share Brandt's opinion," Christian said.

"You're very tired, too, aren't you?" Francoise sat up and stared at him, her lips straight and quite sympathetic, but her heavy-lidded green eyes contracted in what seemed to Christian to be a hidden smile. "You probably want to go to sleep, too."

"Not just now," said Christian. Suddenly he couldn't bear the thought of this long-limbed, green-eyed, mocking woman leaving him. "I've been a lot more tired than this in my time."

"Oh," said Francoise, lying back again, "oh, what an excellent soldier. Stoical, inexhaustible. How can an army lose a war when it still has troops like that?"

Christian stared at her, hating her. She turned her head in a sleepy movement of the cushions, to look at him. The long muscles under the pale skin of her throat made a delicate new pattern of flesh and shadows in the lamplight. Finally, Christian knew, staring at her, he would have to kiss that place where the skin swept in an ivory, trembling, living sheet from the base of her throat to the half-exposed shoulder.

"I knew a boy like you long ago," Francoise said, not smiling now, looking directly at him. "A Frenchman. Strong. Uncomplaining. A resolute patriot. I liked him very much, I must say." The deep voice murmured in his ears. "He died in ' 40. In another retreat. Do you expect to die, Sergeant?"

"No," said Christian, slowly. "I do not expect to die."

"Good." Francoise's full lips moved into the semblance of a smile. "The best of the best, according to your friend. The hope of the new Europe. Do you consider yourself the hope of the new Europe, Sergeant?"