Three Comrades

by Erich Maria Remarque

  Köster had bought the car, a top-heavy old bus, at an auction for next to nothing. Connoisseurs who saw it at the time pronounced it without hesitation an interesting specimen for a transport museum. Bollwies, wholesale manufacturer of ladies' ready-made dresses and incidentally a speedway enthusiast, advised Otto to convert it into a sewing machine. But Köster was not to be discouraged. He took down the car as if it had been a watch, and worked on it night after night for months. Then one evening he turned up in it outside the bar which we usually frequented. Bollwies nearly fell over with laughing when he saw it, it still looked so funny. For a bit of fun he challenged Otto to a race. He offered two hundred marks to twenty if Köster would take him on in his new sports car—course ten kilometres, Otto to have a kilometre start. Otto took up the bet. But Otto went one better. He refused the handicap and raised the odds to even money, a thousand marks each way. Bollwies, delighted, offered to drive him to a mental home immediately. Everyone laughed and prepared to enjoy the joke. Köster's only response was to switch on his engine. They set off to settle the matter at once. Bollwies came back looking as if he had seen the great sea serpent, and wrote out the cheque and another as well. He wanted to buy the machine on the spot. But Köster just laughed at him. He wouldn't have parted with it for any money on earth. Outside it looked a terrible wreck, but inside it was like a new pin. For daily use we had rigged it with a particularly old-fashioned body that had just happened to fit; the paint was gone, the mudguards were split, and the hood was quite ten years old! We could have done it better, of course. But we had a reason for not doing so.

  "Karl," we christened him—Karl, the Road Spook.

  Karl was sniffing along the highway.

  "Otto," said I, "here comes a victim."

  A big Buick hooted impatiently behind us. He was overtaking us rapidly. Soon the two radiators were level. The man at the wheel glanced at us idly! His eye surveyed the shabby Karl contemptuously. Then he looked away—and had forgotten us already.

  A few seconds later he was obliged to notice that Karl was still running him neck-and-neck. He sat up a little, gave us an amused glance, and stepped on the accelerator. Still Karl did not yield. Little and fleet as a terrier running beside a bloodhound, he still held his place alongside the gleaming locomotive of nickel and varnish.

  The man gripped the wheel more firmly. He was still completely unsuspecting, and gave us a scornful look. He had decided, evidently, to show us what his sleigh could do. He stepped so hard on the accelerator that the exhaust roared again. But it was no good. He could not get by. Unsightly and ill-favoured, Karl stuck to him still.

  The man stared down at us in astonishment. He could not believe his eyes—at a speed of over sixty miles an hour not to have shaken off this antiquated rattletrap! He glanced at his speedometer in bewilderment—there must be something wrong with the thing. He opened her out.

  The two cars were now racing side by side along the straight road. After a few hundred yards a lorry came clattering up from the opposite direction. The Buick had to drop back behind us to let it pass. No sooner was he" alongside again than a motor-hearse swept into view, wreath-ribbons trailing in the wind; once again he had to give way. Thereafter the course lay open.

  In the meantime the man at the wheel had lost his arrogance; annoyed, lips compressed, he sat there leaning forward—the racing fever had got him and now his whole life depended on not being outdone by our little mongrel.

  We, on the other hand, sat apparently unmoved in our seats. For us the Buick simply did not exist. Köster kept his eyes calmly fixed on the road; Lenz, though a bundle of excitement, took out a newspaper as if be had nothing better to do than just read.

  A few minutes later Köster gave us a wink. Imperceptibly Karl slackened speed and the Buick came slowly up. Its broad gleaming mudguards urged past us. The exhaust sent a blast of blue smoke into our faces. Little by little he gained on us—twenty yards—then, as we had expected, red and perspiring but happy, the face of the owner showed in the window and grinned open triumph. He thought he had won.

  But he could not leave it at that; he could not forgo his revenge. He waved us on—waved nonchalantly, like a victor.

  "Otto," said Lenz warningly.

  But he had no need to speak; at that moment Karl made one bound. The compressor shrieked. And suddenly the waving hand at the window disappeared—for Karl had accepted the invitation; he came. He came steadily, until at last we had recovered the lost ground; then for the first time we took notice of the stranger. In innocent inquiry we looked to the man at the wheel, as if to ask why he had signalled. But he kept his eyes rigidly turned away; and Karl, the triumphant guttersnipe, stiff with dirt, flapping mudguards, drew away at top speed.

  "Well done, Otto," said Lenz to Köster. "There's one man won't enjoy his supper this evening."

  The chases were the reason we did not change Karl's body. He had only to show himself on the road for someone to want to take a rise out of him. To other cars he was as a lame crow to a pack of hungry cats. Even the most peace-loving family coach felt incited to pass him; at the sight of such an old rattletrap dancing now before, now behind them, even the most staid of middle-aged beavers would be seized with racing-fever. For who was to know that within that ridiculous body pulsed the great heart of a racer?

  Lenz maintained that Karl had an educative effect; he taught folk a proper respect for creative talent, that always lurks under ap unprepossessing exterior. At least, so said Lenz—who also said of himself that he was the last of the romantics.

  We pulled up in front of a little inn and got out of the car. The evening was beautiful and calm. The troughs of the furrows in the new-ploughed fields glowed purple; the ridges were brown and burning gold. Great clouds, like flamingoes, floated in the apple-green sky, and slender in the midst of them lay the sickle of the waxing moon. Distressfully bare still, yet full of the promise of bud, a hazel bough held the evening and dream in its arms. From the inn issued a smell of frying liver. Onions, too. Our hearts swelled.

  Lenz followed the smell indoors. Satisfied, he came back. "You ought to see the chips! The best will be gone if you're not quick."

  At that moment a car came humming along. We looked. It was the Buick. With a sharp jolt it stopped beside Karl.

  "Hoopla!" said Lenz. We had had fights for the same reason before now.

  The fellow got out. He was big and heavy and had on a soft, brown camel's-hair coat. Displeased, he took a long look at Karl, then pulled off a pair of thick, yellow gloves and came forward.

  "What do you call it, your contraption?" he asked Köster, who stood nearest, with a face like a vinegar bottle.

  We all three looked at him without replying. Evidently he took us for mechanics in our Sunday togs, out for a run on the quiet.

  "Did you say something?" asked Otto finally in a dubious tone, to teach him to be more polite.

  The chap flushed. "I asked about the car there," he announced abruptly in the same tone as before.

  Lenz straightened himself up. His great nose flicked. He was extraordinarily particular about politeness in others. But before he could open his mouth, suddenly, as if by a ghostly hand, the second door of the Buick opened—a dainty foot slid out, a slim leg, a knee followed—then out stepped a girl and walked slowly toward us.

  Surprised, we looked at one another. We had not noticed before that there was somebody else in the car. Lenz changed "his attitude immediately. He was smiles all over his freckled face. We were suddenly all smiling—why, God only knows.

  The fat chap looked at us rather disconcerted. He became unsure of himself and evidently did not know, any more, what to make of the business.

  "Binding," said he at last with a slight bow, as if this name at least were something he could be sure of.

  The girl had now come up. We became still more friendly.

  "Show them the car, Otto," said Lenz, with a swift glance at Köster.

  "Why not?" replied Otto, returni
ng his glance with an amused twinkle.

  "I should like very much to see it," said Binding, already more conciliatory. "Must be damned fast. Just wiped me right off the map."

  The two went across to the parking place and Köster lifted up Karl's bonnet.

  The girl did not go. Slim and silent she stood beside Lenz and me in the twilight. I expected Gottfried to profit by the opportunity and get busy like a bomb. He was made for such situations. But he seemed to have lost the faculty of speech. Ordinarily he could woo like a turkey cock—but now he just stood like a Carmelite monk on leave and did not stir.

  "You must forgive us," said I at last. "We did not see you were in the car. Else we should not have behaved so absurdly just now."

  The girl looked at me. "But why not?" she replied calmly, in a surprisingly deep voice. "There was nothing at all bad about it."

  "Bad, no; but not quite fair. That car can do around two hundred kilometres."

  She leaned forward a little and put her hands into the pockets of her coat. "Two hundred kilometres?" she asked.

  "One hundred and eighty-nine point two, to be exact, official register," answered Lenz like a pistol shot proudly.

  She laughed. "And we thought about sixty or seventy."

  "Well, you see," said I, "you couldn't know, could you?"

  "No," she replied, "we certainly couldn't. We thought the Buick was twice as fast as your car."

  "That may be." I kicked aside a broken twig with my foot. "But we had too big an advantage. I dare say Herr Binding over there is pretty annoyed with us." She laughed again. "Oh yes, for a moment certainly. But one has to be able to lose once in a while."

  "True."

  There followed a pause. I glanced across at Lenz. But the last of the romantics merely grinned, twitched his nose, and left me to wallow.

  The birch trees rustled. A cock crowed at the back of the house.

  "Marvellous weather," said I at last to break the silence.

  "Yes, splendid," replied the girl.

  "And so mild," Lenz added.

  "Quite unusually mild," I supplemented.

  There followed a fresh pause. The girl must take us for a nice pair of muttons; but with the best will in the world nothing more occurred to me to say. Lenz was sniffing the air.

  "Apple sauce," said he feelingly. "There's going to be apple sauce with the liver, apparently. A tasty dish."

  "Doubtless," I agreed and cursed us both.

  Köster and Binding came back. In the few minutes Binding had become a different man. He was beaming, apparently in a seventh heaven to have found in Köster an expert. He asked if we would dine with them.

  "Of course," replied Lenz.

  We went in. As we entered the door Lenz winked at me and nodded in the direction of the girl. "She cancels out ten of your dancing old witches, of this morning."

  I gave a shrug. "Maybe—but in that case why did you leave me stuttering there like a fool?"

  He laughed. "You must learn to swim for yourself sometime, baby."

  "I've no wish to learn anything any more," said I. We followed the others. They were already seated at the table. The hostess arrived immediately with the liver and chipped potatoes. She brought as well a large bottle of rye whisky as an introduction.

  Binding proved to be a perfect torrent of a talker. It was amazing all the things he found to say about motor cars. When he learned that Otto had actually done racing, his good will knew no restraint any more.

  I looked at him more closely. He was a big, heavy fellow with bushy eyebrows above a ruddy face; a bit given to boasting, a bit noisy, and apparently good-humoured, like folk who have been successful in life. I could picture him before going to bed at night, solemnly, appreciatively, approvingly contemplating himself in the mirror.

  The girl was seated between Lenz and me. She had taken off her coat and beneath it wore a grey English costume. About her neck was tied a white scarf that looked like a stock. Her hair was brown and silky and in the lamplight had an amber sheen. Her shoulders were very straight but inclined a little forward, her hands were slender, a bit long, and bony rather than soft. Her face was narrow and pale, but the large eyes gave it an almost passionate strength. She looked very good, I decided—but I thought no more about it.

  Lenz on the other hand was all fire and flame. He was completely changed from what he had been just now. His yellow head of hair shone like the hood of a hoopoe. He let off a whole firework of wise cracks and in company with Binding ruled the table. I just had to sit by and could do little to make myself noticed even—at most, pass a plate once or offer cigarettes. And touch glasses with Binding. I did that fairly often.

  Lenz suddenly clapped his hand to his forehead: "The rum! Bob, go and fetch our birthday rum."

  "Birthday? Is it someone's birthday?" asked the girl.

  "Yes, mine," said I. "I've been plagued with it all day."

  "Plagued? Then you won't be wanting my congratulations, I suppose?"

  "Oh, yes," said I; "congratulations is another matter."

  "Fine; then all the best."

  For a moment I held her hand in mine and felt her warm, dry pressure. Then I went out to get the rum. The night stood big and silent about the little house. The leather seats of our car were moist. I stood and looked toward the horizon where the red glow of the city rose against the sky. I would gladly have stayed out there; but already I could hear Lenz calling.

  Binding could not carry the rum. After the second glass one could see that. As he went out into the garden he rocked. I stood up and walked with Lenz into the bar. He asked for a bottle of gin.

  "Wonderful girl, eh?" said he.

  "Don't ask me, Gottfried," I replied. "Haven't paid that much attention."

  He gazed at me a while with his iris-blue eyes and then shook his gleaming head. "What do you live for then, baby, tell me?"

  "I've been asking myself that a long time," I answered.

  He laughed. "You'd like me to tell you, I suppose. Well I won't right off, just like that. But I think I'll go and see if I can't dig out how the girl stands with Fatty, the auto catalogue."

  He followed Binding out into the garden. After a while they both came back to the bar. The information must have been good, for Gottfried, who now apparently saw the road clear, from sheer pleasure joined up enthusiastically with Binding. The two got a fresh bottle of gin and an hour later were patting each other on the back like old friends. There was always something charming about Lenz, so that it was difficult to resist him when he was in good humour. Indeed at such times he could hardly resist himself. Now he simply overflowed Binding, and soon the two of them were out in the arbour singing soldiers' songs. And in the meantime the girl had entirely forgotten the last of the romantics.

  We three were now left alone in the inn parlour. It was suddenly very quiet. The cuckoo clock ticked. The hostess cleared away and looked down on us maternally. A brown retriever lay stretched, out in front of the stove. Now and then he would bark in his sleep, softly, high and plaintive. Outside the wind sighed past the window. Snatches of soldiers' songs drifted in; the little room seemed to lift us and float with us through the night and through the years, past many memories and half-forgotten things.

  It was a strange feeling. Time seemed to have ceased to flow—it was no longer a river that came from the darkness and passed out into darkness again—it was a lake in which life was noiselessly mirrored. I held up my glass in my hand. The rum glowed. I thought of the account I had drawn up that morning in the workshop. I had been depressed then; I was so no longer. I looked at Köster. I heard him talking with the girl; but I did not attend to their words. I felt the first soft glow of intoxication that makes the blood warmer and spreads an illusion of adventure over uncertainty. Outside Lenz and Binding were singing the song of the Argonnerwald. Beside me the unknown girl was talking—she spoke softly and slowly in that deep, exciting, slightly hoarse voice. I emptied my glass.

  The other two came in again
. They had sobered a little in the open air. The party broke up. I helped the girl into her coat. She was standing immediately in front of me, lithely moving her shoulders to receive the cloak, her head thrown back and turned aside, her lips slightly open with a smile that was meant for no one directed to the ceiling. I lowered the cloak an instant. Where had my eyes been all this time? I suddenly understood Lenz's enthusiasm.

  She turned half toward me inquiringly. Quickly I raised the cloak again and glanced across at Binding who was standing by the table, cherry-red and still with a rather glazed look in his eye.

  "Do you think he is fit to drive?" I asked.

  "I think so."

  I looked at her steadily. "If he is not quite safe, one of us could go with you."

  She took out her powder compact and opened it. "It will be all right," said she. "He drives much better when he has had something to drink."