Shadows in Paradise

by Erich Maria Remarque

  "That's just it," said Ravic. "Kahn always recognized the inevitable, and made the most of it. This is inevitable."

  I had no need to make a decision. Throughout the months of hesitation the decision had lain dormant within me, now rekindled by my nightmares, now lulled by the fascination of my new life. It rose to full consciousness the moment it became clear to me that I could go back. Then I knew I would go. I had to. It was no longer revenge that drove me. I was going in order to set things right with myself. Until I had done that, I would never find peace. Disgust at my cowardice, intolerable remorse, and the thought of suicide would follow me wherever I went. I had no precise plan, but I was fairly sure that whatever I did it would not have much to do with legal retribution, with courts and trials. I knew the courts and I knew the judges in the country to which I was returning. They had been docile servants of the government, and I could not conceive of their suddenly undergoing a change of heart. I had only myself to rely on.

  When the armistice was proclaimed, I went to see Vrieslander. I found him radiant. "At least the rotten mess is over. Now we can start building."

  "Building?"

  "Of course. We Americans. We'll invest billions in Germany."

  "Doesn't it seem odd to destroy something in order to build it up again? Or am I wrong?

  "Not wrong, but unrealistic. We've destroyed the system, now well rebuild the country. The possibilities are enormous. Think of the construction industry alone."

  It was refreshing to speak to a man who dealt in hard facts. "Do you really believe the system has been destroyed?" I asked.

  "Of course. After such a defeat."

  The defeat of 1918 was just as disastrous. But that didn't prevent Hindenburg, who had shared the responsibility, from being elected president seven years later."

  "Hitler is dead," said Vriesländer with youthful enthusiasm. "The Allies will hang or imprison the rest. A new day is dawning, and we've got to be ready for it" He winked at me. "Isn't that what you've come to see me about?"

  "Yes."

  "I haven't forgotten my offer."

  "It may be some time before I can repay you," I said, and no sooner had I spoken than a faint hope stirred within me. If Vriesländer backed out, I would have to wait till I had saved my passage money. That would give me a little more time in this country which seemed like more and more of a paradise now that I was about to leave it.

  "I keep my promises," said Vriesländer. "How do you want the money? In cash or a check?"

  "In cash."

  "I thought so. I haven't mat much on hand, but you can pick it up tomorrow. And there's no hurry about paying it back Are you going to invest it?"

  "Yes," I said, after a moment's hesitation.

  "Good. Let's say you'll pay me six-per-cent interest. You're sure to make a hundred per cent on your investment. That's fair enough, isn't it?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "Fair" was a pet word with Vriesländer, though he actually was fair in his dealings. Usually pet words are a habit and a subterfuge. I stood up to go, torn between relief and despair. "Many thanks, Mr. Vriesländer."

  With his right hand he patted me on the back, while with his left he pinched Lissy Koller, who was scurrying past, in the behind—quite an acrobatic feat. "Why, Mr. Vriesländer!" she exclaimed with a routine affectation of indignation.

  "It's the spring," said Vriesländer. "It even creeps into these old bones."

  For the moment I was devoured by envy. There he stood, a pillar of strength, surrounded by a family and a thriving business, in a world that was clear and simple. I remembered that Lissy had told me he was impotent and tried to believe it for a moment to down my envy.

  "Going back soon?" he asked.

  "As soon as I can get a ship."

  "It won't be long. The war with Japan is almost over. Just a mopping up operation. The traffic with Europe will be restored even before that Are your papers in order now?"

  "My residence permit is good for another three months."

  "You oughtn't to have any trouble."

  I knew it wasn't so simple. But Vriesländer was a man of grand strategy. Details didn't interest him. "Come and see me again before you leave," he said, as though we were already in the thick of peace and the ships were running daily.

  "Definitely," I said. "And many thanks."

  XXXIV

  It wasn't as simple as Vriesländer had thought. It took me more than two months to cut through all the red tape and complete my arrangements. Nevertheless, I was easier in my mind than I had been for years. Everything that had tormented me was still present; but now it was bearable because my mind was made up, and I became more firmly convinced from day to day that no other course would have been possible. I had to go back, and I stopped thinking about what I would do when I got there. The rest would take care of itself. My dreams did not leave me. In fact, they were worse and more frequent than ever. I was in Brussels crawling down a shaft that became narrower and narrower, until I awoke with a scream. I saw the face of the man who had hidden me and been dragged away by the Gestapo. For years that face had been indistinct in my dreams, as though veiled from me through my fear of confronting it Now I saw it clearly, the tired eyes, the creased forehead. I woke up in horror, but no longer as confused and close to suicide as before. The bitterness and lust for vengeance were still with me, but I no longer felt crushed and dejected. The horror was almost outweighed by a fierce impatience and by joy at finding myself alive and able to make use of my life: Those who had been tortured and murdered and burned could not be brought back to life. But there was something that could be done, and I was going to do it. The source of my determination was not revenge, though it sprang from the same primitive roots;, it was the feeling that crime must not go unpunished, for if it did the foundation of morality would collapse and chaos would reign.

  Those last months had a strange weightless quality. My whole picture of America changed. Shadowy unreality gave way to a serene, enchanted reality. It was as though the fog had lifted and colors had come into view—a late-afternoon idyll bathed in golden light, a gleaming mirage over a restless city. The scene was transfigured by my awareness of leave-taking, and sometimes it seemed to me that a life of perpetual leave-taking was the closest we could ever come to the dream of eternal life. In those months every evening was the last.

  I had decided not to tell Natasha until the last moment that I was going back. I knew she suspected it, but I said nothing. I was willing to be taken, and to take myself, for a traitor and deserter rather than face the torment of a long-drawn-out parting, with its bitterness and reproaches, the brief reconciliation and renewed scenes.

  Those were luminous weeks, as full of love as a well-tended beehive is full of honey. Spring turned to summer, and then first news of postwar Europe came through. It was as though a long-sealed tomb had opened. Previously I had avoided the news or let it glance off the top of my mind, for fear of being overwhelmed. Now I devoured the papers. Now the news had a bearing on my aim, my departure. I was blind and deaf to everything else.

  "When are you leaving?" Natasha asked me suddenly.

  For a moment I was silent. Then I said: "At the beginning of July. How did you find out?"

  "Not from you. Why didn't you tell me?"

  "I only found out myself yesterday."

  "That's a lie."

  "Yes," I said.' "It's a he. I didn't want to tell you."

  "You could just as well have told me. Why not?"

  "It's very hard for me," I mumbled after a pause.

  She laughed. "Why? We've been together for a while. We haven't, kidded each other. One of us has made use of the other. Now we're breaking up. What's so sad about that?"

  "I didn't make use of you."

  "But I made use of you. And you of me, too. Dont lie. There's no need."

  "I know."

  "It would be nice if you stopped lying for once. Now at the end at least."

  "I'll try."

  S
he gave me a quick glance. "Then you admit it?"

  "How can I? And how can I deny it? You'll just have to believe what you like."

  "Do you think that's easy?"

  "No, it's not at all easy. I'm going away. That's true. I can't even explain why. I can only say that it's like having to go to war."

  "Having to?" she asked.

  This was torture, but I had to face it "I can't answer that," I said finally. "But you're right. If there is any right and wrong in a case like this. I'm everything you've said. A liar, a cheat an egotist And then again I'm not. What does it matter? Only one thing matters ..."

  "Go on."

  I found difficulty in speaking. "What matters is that I love you. But this is hardly the time to say so."

  "No," she said, suddenly grown gentle. "No, Robert, it's hardly the time."

  Her suffering was as painful to me as if I had cut into my own flesh.

  "It's nothing," she said. "We meant less to each other than we thought. We both lied."

  "Yes," I said helplessly.

  'I've been with other men. While we were together. You weren't the only one."

  "I know, Natasha."

  "You knew?"

  "No," I said quickly. "I didn't know. I'd never have believed it."

  "You'd better believe it Ifs the truth."

  I knew her wounded pride had sought refuge in this dismal invention. Even at that moment I did not believe her. "I believe you," I said. "I'd never have expected it."

  She thrust out her chin. I had never loved her more. I was in despair, but she was even more so. The one who is left behind always suffers more. "I love you, Natasha," I said. "I wish you could understand Not for my sake. For yours."

  "Not for your sake?"

  I saw that I had blundered. "I'm helpless," I said. "Cant you see that?"

  "We never really cared for each other. Chance threw us together for a while and now we're breaking up. We've never understood each other. How could we have?"

  I was expecting her to bring up my German character; but I also knew she knew I was expecting it. What she did not know was that I would not have contradicted her. "It's just as well," she said. "I wanted to leave you, only I didn't know how to break it to you."

  I knew I was supposed to answer. I couldn't But then I finally said: "You wanted to leave me?"

  "Yes. I've been wanting to for a long time. We've been together much too long. Affairs like ours should be short and sweet."

  "Yes," I said. "Thank you for waiting. I'd have been lost"

  She turned around "Why do you always have to lie?"

  "I'm not lying."

  "Words, words. You always have something to say."

  "Not now."

  "Not now?"

  "No, Natasha. I'm miserable and helpless."

  "More words!"

  She stood up and reached for her dress. "Don't look at me," she said. "I don't want you to look at me any more."

  She put on her shoes and stockings. I looked out of the open window. Someone was practicing "La Paloma'.' on the violin. He kept making the same mistakes and repeating the first eight measures. I felt wretched and bewildered. It seemed to me that even if I hadn't been leaving it would have been all over between us. I heard Natasha behind me, slipping into her dress.

  I turned around when I heard the door opening. "Don't come with me," she said. "Stay here. I want to go by myself. And don't ever get in touch with me. Ever. Don't get in touch with me."

  I stood staring at her, her pale expressionless face, her eyes that were looking through me, her lips and her hands. She made no sign, she was gone, the door closed behind her.

  I didn't run after her. I didn't know what to do. I just stood there gaping. Then I moved about the room, putting things away, the cups and glasses and left-over cold cuts. I moved automatically, not knowing what I had in my hands. I picked up an ash tray and saw two cigarette butts smeared with lipstick. I put it down again. The pain was brief and unbearable. I opened my mouth and took a deep breath. For a moment I couldn't move. Then I picked up the ash tray again, went to the window, and emptied it Maybe I could catch up with Natasha if I took a cab, I thought. I was already at the door, but then I realized what would happen if I did catch up with her, and abandoned the idea. For a while I stood still in the middle of the room. I didn't want to sit down. Finally I went downstairs. Melikov was there. "Didn't you take Natasha home?" he asked in surprise.

  "No. She wanted to go by herself."

  "Don't worry," he said. "You'll patch it up."

  A senseless hope seized hold of me. "Do you think so?"

  "Of course. Are you going to bed? Or shall we have some vodka?"

  My hope hung on. I still had two weeks ahead of me before sailing. Suddenly I was flooded with joy. It seemed to me that if I had a drink with Melikov, Natasha would call up or come to see me next day. It wasn't possible that we should part like this. "Good," I said. "Lefs have some vodka. What about your trial?"

  "It's coming up in a week. I still have a week to live."

  "What do you mean?"

  "If they put me in jail for any time, it will be the end of me. I'm seventy and I've already had two heart attacks."

  "I knew a man who got his health back in prison," I said. "No more liquor, light work out-of-doors, a regular life. A good night's sleep."

  Melikov shook his head. "That's all poison to me. But well see. No use thinking about these things before we have to."

  "That's right," I said. "If we could only stop."

  We didn't drink much. We sat down as if we were settling in for the night; there seemed to be so much to say. But it turned out that there was very little. I knew I shouldn't have asked Melikov about his trial, but that wasn't it. We were both deep in our own thoughts. Finally I stood up. "I'm restless, Vladimir. I think I'll roam around until I feel tired."

  He yawned. "In that case I'll sleep, though I guess there'll be plenty of time for that."

  "You really think they can convict you?"

  "They can convict anybody."

  "Without proof?"

  "They can prove anything. Good-night, Robert."

  I walked until I was dead tired. I passed Natasha's house; I revolved around public telephones, but I didn't call. I still had two weeks ahead of me, I thought. The hardest was to get through the first night, because in such situations it seems very close to death. What did I want? A conventional parting, with kisses, at the foot of the gangplank and promises to write? A tender memory? But memories were a terrible burden; they could choke you like lianas in the jungle. Natasha had been right in making a clean break. Why couldn't I? Why was I running around like a sentimental schoolboy, blubbering with love and desire and too cowardly to do anything about it? Instead of taking life as a matter of course and following where it led, I was circling around as in a room full of mirrors, looking for a way out and bumping into myself at every step. I was passing Van Cleef and Arpels. I didn't want to look, but I forced myself to stop. I saw the Empress Eugenie's tiara. I thought of how Natasha had worn it, borrowed jewels on a borrowed woman —just the thing for my counterfeiter's existence. At the time, I had enjoyed the irony with a spurious satisfaction. Now, as I looked at the glitter, I wondered if I was not making a big mistake, exchanging a vestige of fleeting happiness for a bundle of ridiculous moth-eaten prejudices and a quixotic battle with windmills. What should I do? I asked myself. I clung to the thought that I still had two weeks in New York. Somehow I had to get through that night. But shouldn't I call her then and there? What if she was waiting for my call? I stood staring at the jewels and whispered no, no, over and over again. In other bad moments I had found it helped me to talk to myself as I might have talked to a child. No, no, tomorrow, tomorrow, I whispered in a hypnotic, conjuring monotone until I felt calm enough to go on. Haltingly at first, then almost at a run, I went back to the hotel.

  I did not see Natasha again. Perhaps we were both waiting for the other to make a sign. I often had an imp
ulse to call her, but each time I told myself that it could lead to nothing. I could not jump over the shadow that pursued me, and I told myself over and over again that it was better to let what was dead be dead than to go on hurting myself, for what more could I have accomplished? Now and then it occurred to me that Natasha may have loved me more than she ever admitted; the thought took my breath away, but little by little my agitation blended with the general excitement of my departure. I looked for Natasha in the street but never saw her.

  Melikov was sentenced to a year in prison. I spent the last few days alone. Silvers gave me a bonus of five hundred dollars. "Maybe I'll see you in Paris," he said. "I'm going over in the fall to buy a few pieces. Write me." I promised to write. It comforted me to know that he was going to Europe and for so humdrum a reason. It made the thought of Europe seem less forbidding.