"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?-Franhise, but Franoise 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 d.a.m.ned thing is over."

"Of course," said Christian, slowing down as they pa.s.sed 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 cafe 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, pa.s.sing 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 Alenon ...

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, pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sageway 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 a.s.sistance 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 pa.s.sed 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 ident.i.ty. There was the small rattling of a chain and the door swung wide. Christian followed Brandt up the steps, past the m.u.f.fled 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 b.u.t.ton 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 b.u.t.ton 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 cheri, you're here ... you're here."

Christian stood awkwardly against the wall, holding onto the b.u.t.t of his gun so it wouldn't rattle, watching the two people embrace. It was a domestic, husband-and-wife embrace, more relief than pa.s.sion, 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 rea.s.sure 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, Franoise, see who's here, isn't it wonderful?"

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

"I am so glad to see you," Franoise 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," Franoise said. She pressed his hand warmly.

"Oh," said Christian carefully, "you remember me."

"Of course," said Franoise, 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?

"Franoise moved in with me last month, cheri," 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?" Franoise 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 amus.e.m.e.nt. "Christian," Brandt said, "stop being so d.a.m.ned 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 Franoise's eye for a flicker and observed what he thought was cool amus.e.m.e.nt there, before Franoise 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 sensible 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. Franoise, 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?

Brandt stood up and toweled his face. "Christian," he said seriously, through the m.u.f.fling cloth, "you're going to stay with me, aren't you?"

"First," Christian began, keeping his voice low, so that the rushing water from the tap obscured it, "what about that other one?"

"Franoise?" Brandt waved his hand. "Don't worry about her. There's plenty of room. You can sleep on the couch. Or ..." He grinned. "Come to an understanding with her. Then you wouldn't have to sleep on the couch."

"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. I guarantee that lady. She'll grow very fond of you. Now, listen to me, 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. "Finally, we're safe ..."

He turned and awkwardly put on his shirt and went out into the other room. Christian put his shirt on slowly, b.u.t.toning 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 gray, heavy at the temples, glistening in little pale tips on top. G.o.d, he thought, I never saw that before. I'm getting old, old ... He braced himself fiercely, 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 cozy, with the one shaded lamp disseminating a dull rosy glow over the modern blond wood, over the pale red rug and the flowered drapes and the empty gla.s.ses and over the long, reclining figure of Franoise 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 nearly 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 Franoise 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 Franoise. "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 toward the bedroom.

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

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

Christian looked over at Franoise. She was staring up at the ceiling, her hands behind her head, sunk in the cushions, half her face in shadow. Her body, under the quilted blue robe, was absolutely still. Occasionally, in a lazy, small movement, she pointed the toes of one foot, encased in a satin, fiat-heeled slipper, toward the end of the couch, then flipped the foot back into its original position. Vaguely, Christian remembered another quilted robe. Red, deep red, on Gretchen Hardenburg, the first time he had seen her at the door of the ma.s.sive apartment in Berlin. He wondered what Mrs. Hardenburg was doing now, whether the building was still standing, whether she was alive, whether she still went around with the gray-haired Frenchwoman ...

"A tired soldier," Franoise 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?" Franoise moved her toes. "It hasn't been pleasant, the last few weeks, has it?"

"No, not very."

"The Americans," said Franoise, in a flat, innocent voice, "they're very strong, very fresh, aren't they?"

"You might say that."

"The papers here," Franoise 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 Americans are being cleverly contained, there will be a surprising counterattack." The tone of lazy amus.e.m.e.nt in Franoise's voice was very clear. "The papers are very rea.s.suring. Mr. Brandt ought to read them more often." She chuckled softly. The chuckle would have seemed sensual and inviting, Christian realized, if they had been talking on a different subject. "Mr. Brandt," Franoise, said gently, "is not of the opinion that the Americans 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?" Franoise 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 right 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 Franoise 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 on 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," Franoise 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." Franoise's full lips murmured into a small 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?"

"Brandt was drunk."

"Was he? Possibly. Are you sure you don't want to go to sleep?"

"I'm sure."

"You do look very tired, you know."

"I do not wish to go to sleep."

Franoise nodded gently. "The ever-waking Sergeant. Does not wish to go to sleep. Prefers to remain awake, at great personal sacrifice, and entertain a lonely French lady who is at a loose end until the Americans enter Paris ..." She put her hand, palm upward, over her eyes, the loose sleeve falling back from the slender wrist and the long, sharp-nailed fingers. "Tomorrow," she said, "we will enter your name for the Legion of Honor, second cla.s.s, service to the French nation."

"Enough," Christian said, without moving from his chair. "Stop making fun of me."

"Nothing," said Franoise flatly, "could be further from my mind. Tell me, Sergeant, as a military man, how long do you think it will be before the Americans get here?"

"Two weeks," said Christian. "A month."

"Oh," Franoise said, "we are in for an interesting time, aren't we?"

"Yes."

"Shall I tell you something, Sergeant?"