Irwin Shaw - Short Stories - Five Decades

T he column of trucks wound into the little square beside the Madeleine and stopped there, under the trees. They were furry with dust, the black cross almost indistinguishable even in the bright Paris sunlight under the harsh dry coat they had accumulated in the retreat from Normandy.

The engines stopped and suddenly the square was very quiet, the drivers and the soldiers relaxing on the trucks, the people at the little tables in the cafés staring without expression at the line of vehicles, bullet-scarred and fresh from war against the trees and Greek columns of the Madeleine.

A major at the head of the column slowly raised himself and got out of his car. He stood looking up at the Madeleine, a dusty, middle-aged figure, the uniform no longer smart, the lines of the body sagging and unmilitary. The major turned around and walked slowly toward the Café Bernard across the square, his face grimy and worn and expressionless, with the dust in heavy, theatrical lines in the creases of his face and where his goggles had been. He walked heavily, thoughtfully, past his trucks and his men, who watched him dispassionately and incuriously, as though they had known him for many years and there was nothing more to be learned from him. Some of the men got out of their trucks and lay down in the sunshine on the pavement and went to sleep, like corpses in a town where there has been a little fighting, just enough to produce several dead without doing much damage to the buildings.

The major walked over to the little sidewalk tables of the Café Bernard, looking at the drinkers there with the same long, cold, thoughtful stare with which he had surveyed the Madeleine. The drinkers stared back with the guarded, un-dramatic faces with which they had looked at the Germans for four years.

The major stopped in front of the table where Segal sat alone, the half-finished glass of beer in his hand. A little twist of a smile pulled momentarily at the German’s mouth as he stood there, looking at Segal, small and pinned together with desperate neatness in his five-year-old suit, his shirt stitched and cross-stitched to hold it together, his bald head shining old and clean in the bright sun.

“Do you mind …?” The major indicated the empty chair beside Segal with a slow, heavy movement of his hand.

Segal shrugged. “I don’t mind,” he said.

The major sat down, spread his legs out deliberately in front of him. “ Garçon ,” he said, “two beers.”

They sat in silence and the major watched his men sleeping like corpses on the Paris pavement.

“For this drink,” the major said, in French, “I wanted to sit with a civilian.”

The waiter brought the beers and set them down on the table and put the saucers in the middle, between them. The major absently pulled the saucers in front of him.

“To your health,” he said. He raised his glass. Segal lifted his and they drank.

The major drank thirstily, closing his eyes, almost finishing his glass before he put it down. He opened his eyes and licked the tiny scallop of froth from the beer off his upper lip, as he slowly turned his head, regarding the buildings around him. “A pretty city,” he said. “A very pretty city. I had to have one last drink.”

“You’ve been at the front?” Segal asked.

“Yes,” said the major. “I have been at the front.”

“And you are going back?”

“I am going back,” the Major said, “and the front is going back.” He grinned a little, sourly. “It is hard to say which precedes which.…” He finished his beer, then turned and stared at Segal. “Soon,” he said, “the Americans will be here. How do you feel about that?”

Segal touched his face uncomfortably. “You don’t really want a Parisian to answer a question like that,” he said, “do you?”

“No.” The major smiled. “I suppose not. Though, it’s too bad the Americans had to meddle. However, it’s too late to worry about that now.” Under the warlike dust his face now was tired and quiet and intellectual, not good-looking, but studious and reasonable, the face of a man who read after business hours and occasionally went to concerts without being pushed into it by his wife. He waved to the waiter. “ Garçon , two more beers.” He turned to Segal. “You have no objections to drinking another beer with me?”

Segal looked across at the armored vehicles, the two hundred sprawling men, the heavy machine guns mounted and pointing toward the sky. He shrugged, his meaning cynical and clear.

“No,” said the major. “I would not dream of using the German army to force Frenchmen to drink beer with me.”

“Since the Germans occupied Paris,” Segal said, “I haven’t drunk with one or conducted a conversation with one. Four years. As an experience, perhaps, I should not miss it. And now is the time to try it. In a little while it will no longer be possible, will it?”

The major disregarded the jibe. He stared across at his command stretched wearily and incongruously in front of the Greek temple Paris had faithfully erected in her midst. He never seemed to be able to take his eyes off the armor and the men, as though there was a connection there, bitter and unsatisfactory and inescapable, that could never really be broken, even for a moment, in a café, over a glass of beer. “You’re a Jew,” he said quietly to Segal, “aren’t you?”

The waiter came and put the two beers and the saucers on the table.

Segal put his hands into his lap, to hide the trembling and the terror in the joints of the elbows and knees and the despair in all the veins of the body that the word had given rise to in him, each time, every day, since the bright summer days of 1940. He sat in silence, licking his lips, automatically and hopelessly looking for exits and doorways, alleys and subway entrances.

The major lifted his glass. “To your health,” he said. “Come on. Drink.”

Segal wet his lips with the beer.

“Come on,” the major said. “You can tell me the truth. If you don’t talk, you know, it would be the easiest thing in the world to call over a sergeant and have him look at your papers.…”

“Yes,” said Segal. “I’m a Jew.”

“I knew it,” said the major. “That’s why I sat down.” He stared at his men with the same look of bondage, devoid of affection, devoid of warmth or loyalty or hope. “There are several questions in my mind you can answer better than anyone.”

“What are they?” Segal asked uneasily.

“No rush,” said the major. “They’ll wait for a minute.” He peered curiously at Segal. “You know, it’s forbidden for Jews to enter a café in France …?”

“I know,” said Segal.

“Also,” said the major, “all Jews are instructed to wear the yellow star on their coats.…”

“Yes.”

“You don’t wear yours and I find you in a café in broad daylight.”

“Yes.”

“You’re very brave.” There was a little note of irony in the major’s voice. “Is it worth it for a drink—to risk being deported?”

Segal shrugged. “It isn’t for the drink,” he said. “Maybe you won’t understand, but I was born in Paris, I’ve lived all my life in the cafés, on the boulevards.”

“What is your profession, Mr.…? Mr.…?”

“Segal.”

“What do you do for a living?”

“I was a musician.”

“Ah,” there was an involuntary little tone of respect in the German’s voice. “What instrument?”

“The saxophone,” said Segal, “in a jazz orchestra.”