The Young Lions

"My," the dark girl said, smiling at him, "is that what they teach you in army school in your country?"

"The war is over," Christian said solemnly, "and you will find that we are truly friends of France."

"Oh," said the dark girl, "what a marvellous propagandist." She looked at him invitingly, and for a moment Christian had a wild thought of perhaps staying in this town for an hour.

"Will there be many like you following?"

"Ten million," said Christian.

The girl threw up her hands in mock despair. "Oh, my God," she said, "what will we do with them all? Here," she offered him the flowers, "because you are the first."

He looked at the flowers with surprise, then took them gently from her hand. What a young, human thing it was to do. How hopeful it was…

"Mademoiselle…" His French became halting. "I don't know how to say it… but… Brandt!"

"The Sergeant wishes to say," Brandt said smoothly and swiftly in his proper French, "that he is most grateful and takes this as a token of the great bond between our two great peoples."

"Yes," said Christian, jealous of Brandt's fluency. "Exactly."

"Ah," said the girl, "he is a Sergeant. The officer." She smiled even more widely at him, and Christian thought, amused, they are not so different from the ones at home.

There were steps behind him, clear and ringing on the cobblestones. Christian turned with the bouquet in his hand. He felt a glancing blow, light but sharp, on his fingers, and the flowers went spi

An old Frenchman in a black suit and a greenish felt hat was standing there, a cane in his hand. The old man had a sharp, fierce face and a military ribbon in his lapel. He was glaring furiously at Christian.

"Did you do that?" Christian asked the old man.

"I do not talk to Germans," the old man said. The way he stood made Christian feel that he was an old, retired regular soldier, used to authority. His leathery face, wrinkled and weathered, added to the impression. The old man turned on the girls.

"Sluts!" he said. "Why don't you just lie down? Lift your skirts and be done with it!"

"Ah," the dark girl said sullenly, "be quiet, Captain; this is not your war."

Christian felt foolish standing there, but he didn't know what to do or say. This was not exactly a military situation, and he certainly couldn't use force on a seventy-year-old man.

"Frenchwomen!" The old man spat. "Flowers for Germans! They've been out killing your brothers and you present them with bouquets!"

"They're just soldiers," the girl said. "They're far away from home and they're so young and handsome in their uniforms." She was smiling impudently at Brandt and Christian by now, and Christian couldn't help laughing at her direct womanly reasoning.

"All right," he said, "old man. We no longer have the flowers. Go back to your drink." He put his arm in a friendly ma

"Keep your hands off me!" he shouted. "Boche!"

He strode across the square, his heels clicking fiercely on the cobbles. "Ooo, la, la," Christian's driver said, shaking his head reprovingly as the old man passed the car.

The old man paid no attention to him. "Frenchmen! Frenchwomen!" he shouted to the town at large as he stalked towards the cafe. "It's no wonder the Boche are here this time! No heart, no courage. One shot and they are ru

"Ooo, la, la," said Christian's driver, who understood French. He bent over and picked up a stone and casually threw it across the square at the Frenchman. It missed him, but it went through the window of the cafe behind him. There was the sharp crash of the plate-glass and then silence in the square. The old Frenchman didn't even look round at the damage. He sat down silently, leaning on the head of his cane. Ferociously and heartbrokenly he glared across at the Germans.

Christian walked over to the driver. "What did you do that for?" he asked quietly.

"He was making too much noise," the driver said. He was a big, ugly, insolent man, like a Berlin taxi-driver, and Christian disliked him intensely. "Teach them some respect for the German Army."

"Don't ever do anything like that again," Christian said harshly. "Understand?"

The driver stood a little straighter, but he didn't answer. He merely stared dully and ambiguously, with a lurking hint of insolence, into Christian's eyes.

Christian turned from him. "All right," he called. "On the road."

The girls were subdued now, and didn't wave as the cars lurched across the square and on to the road towards Paris.

Christian was disappointed when he drove up to the brown sculptured bulk of the Porte Saint Denis and saw the open square around it thronged with armoured vehicles and grey uniforms, the men lounging on the concrete and eating from a field kitchen, for all the world like a Bavarian garrison town on a national holiday, preparing for a parade. Christian had never been in Paris, and he felt it would have been a marvellous climax to the war to be the first to drive through the historic streets, leading the Army into the ancient capital of the enemy.

He drove slowly through the lounging troops and the stacked rifles to the base of the monument. He signalled to Himmler in the car behind him to stop. This was the rendezvous point at which he had been ordered to wait for the rest of the company. Christian took his helmet off and stretched in his seat, taking a deep breath. The mission was finished.

Brandt leaped out of the car and busied himself taking pictures of troops eating, leaning against the base of the monument. Even with his uniform and the black leather holster strapped around his waist, Brandt still looked like a bank-clerk on vacation, taking snapshots for the family album. Brandt had his own theories about pictures. He picked out the handsomest and youngest soldiers. He made a point of picking very blond boys most of the time, privates and lower-grade non-commissioned officers. "My function," he had once told Christian, "is to make the war attractive to the people at home." He seemed to be having success with his theories, because he was up for a commission, and he was constantly receiving commendations from propaganda headquarters in Berlin for his work.

There were two small children wandering shyly among the soldiers, the sole representatives of the French civilian population of Paris in the streets that afternoon. Brandt led them over to where Christian was cleaning his gun on the hood of the little scout car.

"Here," Brandt said, "do me a favour. Pose with these two."

"Get someone else," Christian protested. "I'm no actor."

"I want to make you famous," Brandt said. "Lean over and offer them some sweets."

"I haven't any sweets," Christian said. The two children, a boy and a girl who could not have been over five years old, stood at the wheel of the car, looking gravely up at Christian, with sad, deep, black eyes.

"Here." Brandt took some chocolate out of his pocket and gave it to Christian. "The good soldier is prepared for everything."

Christian sighed and put down the dismantled barrel of the machine-pistol. He leaned over the two shabby, pretty children.

"Excellent types," Brandt said, squatting, with the camera up to his eyes. "The youth of France, pretty, undernourished, sad, trusting. The good-natured, hearty, generous German sergeant, athletic, friendly, handsome, photogenic…"