The Young Lions

Two girls came into the room. One was a large, heavy blonde girl with an easy, full-mouthed smile. The other was small and slender and dark, with a brooding, almost Arab face, set off by the heavy make-up and bright red lipstick.

"Here they are," the Madam said caressingly. "Here are the little cabbages." She patted the blonde approvingly, like a horsedealer. "This is Jeanette. Just the type, eh? I predict she will have a great vogue while the Germans are in Paris."

"I'll take that one." The Lieutenant stood up, very straight, and pointed to the girl who looked like an Arab. She gave him a dark, professional smile and came over and took his arm.

Himmler had been looking at her with interest, too, but he resigned immediately to the privilege of rank, put his arm around the big blonde, and went off with her saying, in his ferocious French, "Cherie, I love your gown…"

The Madam made her excuses and left, after putting out another bottle of champagne. Christian and Brandt sat alone in the orange-lit Moorish bar, staring silently at the frosted bottle in the ice bucket.

"I feel sad," said Brandt. "Very sad. What was it the Lieutenant said?"

"Today is the dawn of a new era."

"I feel sad at the dawn of the new era." Brandt poured himself some wine. "Did you know that ten months ago I nearly became a French citizen?"

"No," said Christian.

"I lived in France for ten years, off and on. Some other time I'll take you to the place on the Normandy coast I went to in the summers. I painted all day long, thirty, sometimes forty, canvases a summer. I was developing a little reputation in France, too. We must go to the gallery that showed my stuff. Maybe they still have some of the paintings, and you can take a look at them."

"I'll be very happy to," Christian said formally.

"I couldn't show my paintings in Germany. They were abstract. Non-objective art, they call it. Decadent, the Nazis call it." Brandt shrugged. "I suppose I am a little decadent. Not as decadent as the Lieutenant, but sufficient. How about you?"

"I am a decadent skier," Christian said.

"Every field," said Brandt, "to its own decadence."

The door opened and the small dark girl came in. She had on a pink wrap, fringed with feathers. She was gri

"Back there somewhere." Brandt waved vaguely. "Can I help?"

"It is your Lieutenant," the girl said. "I need some translation. He wants something, and I am not quite sure what it is. I think he wants to be whipped, but I am afraid to start unless I know for certain."

"Begin," said Brandt. "That is exactly what he wants. He is an old friend of mine."

"Are you sure?" The girl looked at both of them doubtfully.

"Absolutely," said Brandt.

"Good." The girl shrugged. "I will essay it." She turned at the door. "It is a little strange," she said, a hint of mockery in her voice, "the victorious soldier… The day of victory… A curious taste, wouldn't you say?"

"We are a curious people," Brandt said.

He stood up and Christian stood with him. They walked out.

It was dark outside. The blackout was thorough and no lights were showing. The moon hung over the rooftops, though, dividing each street into geometrical blocks of light and shadow. The atmosphere was mild and still and there was a hushed, empty air hanging over the city, broken occasionally by the sound of steel-treaded vehicles shifting in the distance, the noise sudden and harsh, then dying down to nothingness among the dark buildings.

Brandt led the way. He was wobbling slightly, but he knew where he was and he walked with reassuring certainty in the direction of the Porte Saint Denis.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE radio dominated everything. Even though it was su

"We promised Tony," Laura was standing at the door, speaking in a patient voice, "that we'd have some badminton this afternoon."

Michael continued to sit silently hunched up, close to the radio.

"Michael!" Laura said loudly.

"Yes?" He didn't look round.

"Badminton," Laura said. "Tony."

"What about it?" Michael asked, his forehead wrinkled with the effort of trying to listen to her and the radio a

"The net isn't up."

"I'll put it up later."

"How much later?"

"For God's sake, Laura!" Michael shouted. "I said I'd do it later."

"I'm getting tired," Laura said coldly, tears coming to her eyes, "of your doing everything later."

"Will you stop that?"

"Stop shouting at me." The tears started to roll down her cheeks and Michael felt sorry for her. They had pla

"Forgive me, darling," he said, and took her in his arms and kissed her. She smiled, although she was still crying.

"I hate to be a pest," Laura said, "but some things have to be done, you know."

"Of course," Michael said.

Laura laughed. "Now you're being noble. I love it when you're noble."

Michael laughed too, but he couldn't help feeling a little a

"Now you've got to pay up," Laura said, under his chin, "for being nice to me."

"What now?" Michael asked.

"Don't sound resigned," Laura said. "I hate it when you sound resigned."

Michael controlled himself purposefully and listened to his own voice being polite and pleasant as he spoke. "What do you want me to do?"

"First," Laura said, "turn off that damned radio." Michael started to protest, but thought better of it. The a

"Michael, darling," Laura said warningly.

Michael turned the radio off.

"There," he said, "anything for you."

"Thanks," said Laura. Her eyes were dry and bright and smiling now. "Now, one more thing."