"Open your eyes," Christian said. "Here comes the Lieutenant."
They both stood at attention as the Lieutenant strode up to them.
"It is agreed," the Lieutenant said to Brandt. "You can have the car."
"Thank you, Sir," Brandt said.
"I myself will go with you," said the Lieutenant. "And I will take Himmler and Diestl. There is talk of our unit being billeted in that neighbourhood. The Captain suggested we look at the situation there." He smiled in what he obviously thought was a warm, intimate manner. "Also, we have earned a little sightseeing tour. Come."
He led the way over to one of the cars, Christian and Brandt following him. Himmler was already there, seated at the wheel, and Brandt and Christian climbed in behind. The Lieutenant sat in front, stiff, erect, a shining representative of the German Army and the German Reich on the boulevards of Paris.
Brandt made a grimace and shrugged his shoulders as they started off towards the Place de l'Opera. Himmler drove with dash and certainty. He had spent several holidays in Paris, and he spoke a kind of understandable French with a coarse, ungrammatical fluency. He pointed out places of interest, like a guide, cafes he had patronized, a vaudeville theatre in which he had seen an American negress dancing naked, a street down which, he assured them, was the most fully equipped brothel in the world. Himmler was the combination comedian and politician of the company, a common type in all armies, and a favourite with all the officers, who permitted him liberties for which other men would be mercilessly punished. The Lieutenant sat stiffly beside Himmler, his eyes roaming hungrily up and down the deserted streets. He even laughed twice at Himmler's jokes.
The Place de l'Opera was full of troops. There were so many soldiers, filling the impressive square before the soaring pillars and broad steps, that for a long time the absence of women or civilians in the heart of the city was hardly noticeable. Brandt went into a building, very important and businesslike, with his camera and his film, and Christian and the Lieutenant got out of the car and stared up at the domed mass of the opera house.
"I should have come here before," the Lieutenant said softly.
"It must have been wonderful in peace time."
Christian laughed. "Lieutenant," he said, "that's exactly what I was thinking."
The Lieutenant's chuckle was warm and friendly. Christian wondered how it was that he had always been so intimidated by this rather simple boy.
Brandt bustled out. "The business is finished," he said. "I don't have to report back till tomorrow afternoon. They're delighted in there. I told them what sort of stuff I took and they nearly made me a Colonel on the spot."
"I wonder," the Lieutenant said, his voice hesitant for the first time since 1935, "I wonder if it would be possible for you to take my picture standing in front of the Opera? To send home to my wife."
"It will be a pleasure," Brandt said gravely.
"Himmler," the Lieutenant said. "Diestl. All of us together."
"Lieutenant," Christian said, "why don't you do it alone? Your wife isn't interested in seeing us." It was the first time since they had met a year ago that he had dared contradict the Lieutenant in anything.
"Oh, no." The Lieutenant put his arm around Christian's shoulders and for a fleeting moment Christian wondered if he'd been drinking. "Oh, no. I've written to her a great deal about you. She would be most interested."
Brandt made a fuss about getting the angle just right, with as much of the Opera as possible in the background. Himmler grinned clownishly at one side of the group, but Christian and the Lieutenant peered seriously into the lens, as though this were a moment of solemn historic interest.
After Brandt had finished they climbed back into their car and started towards the Porte Saint Denis. It was late afternoon and the streets looked warm and lonely in the level light, especially since there were long stretches in which there were no soldiers and no military traffic. For the first time since they had arrived in Paris, Christian began to feel a little uneasy.
"A great day," the Lieutenant said reflectively, up in the front seat. "A day of lasting importance. In years to come, we will look back on this day, and we will say to ourselves. 'We were there at the dawn of a new era!'"
Christian could sense Brandt, sitting beside him, making a small, amused grimace, but Brandt, perhaps because of the long years he had lived in France, had an attitude of cynicism and mockery towards all grandiose sentiment.
"My father," the Lieutenant said, "got as far as the Marne in 1914. The Marne… So close. And he never saw Paris. We crossed the Marne today in five minutes… A day of history…" The Lieutenant peered sharply up a side street. Involuntarily, Christian twisted nervously in the back seat to look.
"Himmler," the Lieutenant said, "isn't this the street?"
"What street, Lieutenant?"
"The house you talked about, the famous one?"
What a ferocious mind, Christian thought. Everything is engraved on it irrevocably. Gun positions, regulations for courts-martial, the proper procedure for decontamination of metal exposed to gas, the address of French brothels carelessly pointed out in a strange street two hours before…
"It seems to me," the Lieutenant said carefully, as Himmler slowed the car down, "it seems to me that on a day like this, a day of battle and celebration… In short, we deserve some relaxation. The soldier who does not take women does not fight… Brandt, you lived in Paris, have you heard of this place?"
"Yes, Sir," said Brandt. "An exquisite reputation."
"Turn the car round, Sergeant," the Lieutenant said.
"Yes, Sir." Himmler grinned and swung the little car in a dashing circle and made for the street he had pointed out.
"I know," said the Lieutenant gravely, "that I can depend upon you men to keep quiet about this."
"Yes, Sir," they all said.
"There is a time for discipline," the Lieutenant said, "and a time for comradeship. Is this the place, Himmler?"
"Yes, Sir," said Himmler. "But it looks closed."
"Come with me." The Lieutenant dismounted and marched across the sidewalk to the heavy oak door, his heels crashing on the pavement, making the narrow street echo and re-echo as though a whole company had marched past.
As he tapped on the door, Brandt and Christian looked at each other, grinning. "Next," Brandt whispered, "he'll be selling us dirty postcards."
"Ssh," said Christian.
After a while the door opened and the Lieutenant and Himmler half-pushed, half-argued their way in. It closed behind them and Christian and Brandt were left alone in the empty, shaded street, with night just beginning to touch the sky over their heads. There was no sound, and all the windows of the building were closed.
"I was of the impression," Brandt said, "that the Lieutenant invited us to this party."
"Patience," Christian said. "He is preparing the way."
"With women," said Brandt, "I prefer to prepare my own way."
"The good officer," Christian said gravely, "always sees that his troops are bedded down before he is himself."