Time No Longer

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  But it was Eric himself who had to release himself from her frenzied hold. Finger by finger, he lifted the ice-cold hands from his arm. They were like dead fingers. When he had removed the last one she relaxed all over. Her head fell on her breast and her face was concealed by her flaxen hair. Eric put her in Therese’s arms, where she seemed to collapse. He stood looking at her for a moment, then turned away and left her. She did not appear to hear his going, though when Karl anxiously lifted her head he found that she had not fainted. Her blind blue eyes were wide open and fixed; her mouth had fallen open slightly, and her lips were white and cold as stone.

  Therese led her into the library off the hall. The servant, whimpering, followed, and turned on lights. “Coffee, quickly,” said Therese, putting the girl on a couch and sitting beside her, holding the small fragile body close to her warm and steadfast one. She began to rock gently, murmuring consoling sounds. She kept up that murmuring, hoping to drown out the sound of Eric’s going. When the coffee came, she tried to force some into Gerda’s mouth. The girl swallowed obediently, like a child. They heard nothing in the hall beyond, not even the closing of the door.

  Karl had always gently ridiculed the knocker on Kurt’s door. It was a wolf’s head, in heavy brass. Romanticism in a gay and ribald man was acceptable; but for such as Kurt to be romantic always seemed overpoweringly absurd. Such as he were usually sentimental; the harder and more obdurate and less subtle a man, the more sentimental he was, thus making sentimentality a shameful as well as a pathetic thing.

  But as he looked at that wolf’s head, shining dimly in the waning light of the street lamps, Karl did not smile. He remembered nothing of his long walk through the empty dark streets walled with empty dark houses. When he looked at the knocker he had a sickening sensation of shock, like a sleep-walker who had abruptly come awake to discover that his awful nightmare was a reality. He lifted the knocker in a hand that felt numb; he brought it down heavily upon the door several times, slowly and ponderously. It filled all the sleeping dark street with echoes. He could not stop; he kept knocking until lights flew on above and voices, sharp with alarm, were heard, and until the door was flung open revealing the shawled figure of the sleepy servant. In the meantime, the knocking had aroused other sleepers, and heads appeared cautiously in the windows of neighboring houses.

  He was admitted to the house. The servant held a lighted candle in her hand, for she had come from her own quarters, where there were no electric lights. He asked for his brother, in the dim remote voice of one who is imperfectly awake. But Kurt was already coming down the stairs, hastily tying his robe about him, and angrily demanding to know who had been making that ungodly noise. When he saw Karl he stopped as though hit by a bullet, and fell back a step, clutching the newel post at the foot of the stairway. His face was a gray blotch in the wavering yellow light cast by the candle.

  Karl came towards him and stopped less than two feet from him. He said, very quietly: “They have taken Eric. You must call them at once to let him go.” And then he said, without raising his voice: “But you knew, did you not?”

  They looked into each other’s eyes for a long and terrible moment. The servant saw their two heads so close together, and seeing their expressions she felt a sharp and nameless terror. She backed away, extinguished her candle, and crept up the stairway in a rabbitlike flight. In the darkness below there was no sound, not even that of breathing.

  Kurt, with an ice-cold and sweating hand, fumbled for the hall light. It exploded into a fierce white glare. Karl had not moved; his head was thrust forward a little. The flesh seemed to have shrunk upon his face, revealing all the bones like a death’s-head.

  “Karl,” said Kurt in a muffled voice, “let us go into the library. I must talk to you.”

  He turned away; he could hardly walk. The air in the library was cold and lifeless as that of a vault. He switched on a lamp, and stood there in the bitter white circle of it. Karl had followed him in silence.

  “Karl, will you sit down?” asked Kurt. “Do not look at me like that! I swear, nothing shall happen to him. But he cannot marry my sister. I cannot allow that. Why will you not understand?” His voice became thin and strained, and then broke, as though he were about to weep. “Why will you not understand? My sister cannot marry a Jew. Do you know what that means? Do you not know what shame and ruin will be ours?

  “I know everything. I know that today she intends leaving with him for Holland, and then marrying him. That cannot be. The Fatherland needs women like Gerda, of pure heroic German blood, to bring children like herself, like us, into the world.” He stopped; he seemed to be choking. He flung out his arms imploringly, desperately. “Karl, do not look at me like that! Please, can you not—”

  “Then,” said Karl softly, meditatively, “you did this thing to Eric? to Gerda?”

  “O God!” groaned Kurt. He fell into a chair. He covered his face with his hands, and began to rock to and fro as though in unbearable anguish. “You will not understand. Do you think it was easy for me? Do you think anything but duty would have made me do it? But you have always been cruel and unfeeling to me. You have always hated me. There was nothing that I ever did that was not either ridiculous or contemptible to you. You have never tried to understand the slightest thing about me. If you had made only the smallest effort at any time you would now understand what has made me do this.

  “You would understand that I could do nothing else. I went to the local captain of the Storm Troopers, and I said: ‘My sister, who is a foolish and misguided girl, intends to leave her Fatherland and flee to America with a Jew. She must be prevented. She is my sister. Issue a warrant for his arrest, on the charge of subversive utterances. At one time he made derisive remarks about the Fuehrer—That will frighten him, that warrant. And then, she must be made to promise to let him go. He will go away, alone.’”

  He lifted his head from his hands and looked at his brother. Karl had not moved. He seemed to have dwindled; his clothing appeared too large for him, and hung on his body.

  Kurt started to his feet, and again he flung out his arms desperately. “Why do you look at me like that! I cannot bear it. Is there no mercy in you? Is there no remembrance that you are my brother? Is this Jew more to you than I? What have I done that you should look at me that way?”

  Only the lower half of Karl’s body was in the blazing arc of the light. The upper half was in shadow. His features were almost tenuous. But his eyes seemed to glow and burn with a fire of their own creating.

  “Listen to me,” he said, very softly, “Gerda shall not marry Eric. She shall remain with me, and Therese. If it must happen this way, it must. But Eric will be released immediately?”

  His voice was so soft that Kurt took sudden hope; he, himself, understood nothing but violence. Perspiration of relief appeared on his upper lip and forehead. “Yes, yes!” he exclaimed eagerly. “It was only to prevent her marrying him. He will be escorted in the morning to the border. His possessions are packed? They will be called for, and delivered to him at the border—”

  “He will not be allowed to say good-bye to us, to Gerda?”

  “No, that is impossible,” said Kurt imploringly.

  “Where is he now?”

  “They will have taken him to the police station. Not to the concentration camp! There he will be held until morning—”

  “Then we must go to him, to say good-bye.”

  Kurt took a step towards him, half held out his hands. “No, Karl, that too is forbidden. I-I tried to arrange that. You must not think so badly of me! But they would not promise. It is better so. Do you not see? It is better so.”

  Karl’s nostrils dilated, and he drew in a thin wavering breath.

  “I have your word? Eric will be unhurt? I have heard such—things. He will be delivered to the border today?”

  “Yes, yes! You have my word. Have I ever lied to you? Had I lied, how much better you would have thought of me, all my life! But I have never lied. You have
my word. This was all arranged. The captain is a personal friend—He knows that Eric—he—is my adopted brother.”

  Karl thought: I must control myself. I have hurt Eric enough. I must control myself, and not seize him by the throat and strangle him. I must control myself, until Eric is safe. He said aloud expressionlessly: “Then, it is done. I have your word.”

  He turned and went out of the room. He found himself in the dark hall. He went to the street door. Then he heard Kurt call his name as though from the very bottom of hell:

  “Karl! Karl! Is that all you have to say to me? Will you not tell me that you understand?”

  Karl took the cold smooth doorknob in his hand. He shook violently from head to foot. A horrible sickness struck him at the pit of his stomach. He thought: I shall be sick, right here. But I must control myself. I must go out. If I so much as turn, I shall take him by the throat—

  He went out. His legs bent like rubber as he went down the street. A pale cold green glimmered in the eastern sky.

  3

  Karl Erlich had always believed that truth, like all powerful and awful forces, should be approached with care, and regarded with respect. Like radium, a little of it went a very long way. Only fools tampered with it injudiciously. He, himself, touched it delicately, with gloves.

  So he mixed truth and half-truth and falsehood together in his explanations to Therese and Gerda. He told them that Kurt had immediately, in outrage, called up the local headquarters of the Storm Troopers, and had berated the officer in charge. He had inspired them with the fear of God. He had then been informed that the treatment accorded Eric Reinhardt was customary, that all would-be exiles were carefully examined before leaving, to prevent smuggling of currency, and then were immediately escorted to the port of exit. Once admitted over the border, they were, of course, immediately free, and could then communicate with their relatives. This was what was happening to Eric. Within a few hours he would be across the Dutch border. He would then communicate with Gerda—Here Karl paused, and pressed his lips together.

  Gerda’s stone-white face flushed with the color of life. Light came back into her blind eyes. She would go immediately to the office of the Storm Troopers and join Eric there! They would go to the border together. She must prepare immediately! She laughed a little, then cried.

  Karl glanced at his wife. By her pallor, by the steadfast gravity of her look, he knew that she knew he was lying. He took his sister’s hand gently, and held it in his warm palms. Then, as he spoke, he felt that little hand grow colder and colder, and saw the white rigidity come back into her face.

  “Dear little Gerda, it is not so simple as that. You must have courage, and patience, for a few days. You see, these Nazi imbeciles do not believe in intermarriage between what they call ‘Aryans’ and ‘non-Aryans.’ Should you go to Eric now, you may cause him embarrassment, and delay. It is best for him to go alone. Then, in a week, or less, we’ll find some way to smuggle you out of Germany—”

  Gerda fixed her eyes, full of anguish and terrible, questioning, upon him. She did not speak. She seemed to be probing into the very depths of his mind. She remembered Karl’s diplomacy and tact on other occasions; she remembered his soothing half-truths, which she recalled resulted from both his natural kindness and his aversion to disturbances and pain. Being of a simpler and therefore more ruthless nature, herself, she had often laughed with mingled annoyance and amusement at him. Now, as she stood there, with her eyes fixed with that anguish and terrible questioning upon his face, she seemed to be imploring: Do not lie to me! I cannot bear it, if you lie to me! Tell me the truth even if it kills me.

  But Karl knew that the truth would indeed kill her, and he did not tell it. Instead, he smiled at her indulgently and fondly, holding her hand tighter as if to warm it. “So, you see, my love, you must just be patient a few days longer. In these evil times, one learns patience.”

  Her lips trembled and parted. She said, with simplicity: “For my own sake, Karl, I must believe you. I do not dare not to believe you. If I did, I should die.”

  “What a romanticism! Girls do not die because they are not married on the hour previously decided. In the meantime, you must rest and relax. Go to Therese, love, and have your hot coffee, and then lie down for an hour or two. This has been an exciting night, but only the first of such nights for all of Germany.”

  Therese led the girl away. At the door the older woman paused and glanced back at her husband with an expression of sorrowful understanding.

  It was broad daylight now. Karl, pleading weariness, locked himself in the library. Then too, he said, he had a chapter to complete. But in the library he walked to and fro, very softly, almost tiptoeing. Gerda must not know of this constant walking back and forth. She must not know of the almost unendurable anxiety of her brother. A servant brought his luncheon to the library as usual. He could not eat it. He kept staring at the boxes tied and waiting, which had been piled in the library. He kept looking vacantly at the African box. Then he would resume his endless walking.

  He glanced at his watch. It was almost four. Eric would be at the border, or practically near it. In an hour, he would be across and free. By twilight, there ought to be a telegram from him, telling of his safe arrival.

  At five o’clock Therese tapped softly at the door. He called to her to come in. He tried to smile at her as she entered. She was a tall and slender woman, with light hair and gray eyes and a lovely figure. There was a serenity and dignity about her which awakened respect and admiration in every one. Karl had never lied to her. He never found it necessary. Therese was a brave woman, and to lie to her would be to insult both her and one’s self.

  She came up to him without hurry and kissed his cold and twitching cheek. “Gerda is almost asleep,” she said. “I gave her a sedative. And now, I can stay with you.” She added, looking gently into his eyes, “I will stay with you, waiting for that telegram you expect, and which I pray to the Almighty God will arrive.”

  He knew then what a fool he had been to have denied himself the comfort and courage of her presence all that day. He could not speak. He just put her into a chair and thought: I am always insulting her. He sat beside her and they clasped hands in silence.

  She must have made some arrangement with her maid, for the latter came in, just as the twilight was deepening, with a tray of coffee and a light supper. She informed her mistress that Fräulein Erlich was still sleeping, and that when she awakened Frau Erlich would be called immediately. Therese made Karl eat a little, and to set him a good example, she ate also, sitting serene and smiling and steadfast in her chair.

  It grew chill and dark in the library. The walls of books receded, leaving nothing but the shadows of nothingness beyond the oasis of husband and wife, who were completely silent now, their cold hands clenched together. No one drew the curtains. The street-lamps, bleakly glaring, sent shafts of empty light into the great room. Rectangles of warm bright gold appeared in the dim nebulous walls of the houses across the street. A wind rose, and began to fumble at the high windows. Karl thought he could hear the beating of his own and his wife’s heart in the silence that seemed to transfix his house. All sorts of fantastic ideas moved palely through his mind. He could easily imagine that only those two hearts were alive in all the world, beating slowly yet with gathering terror and doom, knowing that they, too, must be stopped very soon. He could no longer see the African box, but he knew in what corner it lay. All at once he had the idea that the head of Gilu, grimacing madly in that box, could actually see this man and woman sitting in the darkness, waiting, always waiting, and that it was experiencing a sort of obscene and gleeful delight in their suffering. Through his miasma of exhaustion and rapidly-growing fear and dread, Karl’s mind could not tear itself away from the thought of that head. He began to think that until that head was destroyed, or buried, no one in this house was safe; danger and frightful death were part of it, emanating from it. Danger and death and evil, all the evil guessed at, and shuddered
at, and resolutely disbelieved, but which waited like a dreadful presence outside the brilliantly-lighted rooms of the world.

  He felt the warm pressure of Therese’s hand. There was something warning as well as heartening in that hand. She had felt his vagueness, his tortured mental wanderings. The street-lights had glinted on his eyeballs, and she had seen such an expression in them. The clock in the hall intoned nine.

  “The telegram will not come,” said Karl. His voice was hoarse and without emotion.

  “My dear,” said Therese pitifully, “you must not give up hope. Many things might have caused the delay. After all, it could not have come sooner than seven o’clock. And it is only nine. Think what could have caused the delay! A later train, confusion at the border, the searching for a telegraph office, a delayed train—so many things. Even if the telegram comes at midnight it will not be abnormal.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Karl mechanically. But he listened only for a sound at the door, a ring. Therese sighed; some prescience warned her that the telegram would never come. She began to concoct ways of protecting Karl. For some reason, she felt a passionate urgency to protect him. She felt that it was even more necessary to protect him than to protect Gerda. For all his logic and reason, kindness and patience, wisdom and comprehension, she knew suddenly, with a painful plunge of her heart, that he was more innocent than Gerda, and that this innocence, torn and wounded, might become a formidable poison, which might, at the end, destroy him and others within his orbit. The disingenuous man may be wounded and assaulted many times, growing more cynical and callous with each blow, and reacting to each successive injury with less and less violence. But innocence assaulted became ferocity, became, only too often, madness.

  Perhaps, she thought wearily, this was what was the matter with the German people. Innocent, ingenuous, they had been self-insulted against reality. Attacked and wounded at last by reality, their lacerated and outraged innocence had made desperate madmen of them. Karl had always laughed at Kurt, but Therese penetratingly, and for the first time, saw how similar they were. It was this sudden insight which made her understand how frightfully necessary it had become to reconcile the brothers, for the sake of their intimates. She understood, too, that the world would never be safe from Germany’s frenzied recoil from reality until its innocent unreality had been restored. The French, who were not innocent, could look on reality and endure it with a shrug, and therefore they were not a threat to peace and all humanity.