Three Comrades

by Erich Maria Remarque

  I flung the doors shut with a bang and rattled the handles. "Nothing worn. As tight as the taxes. Try them."

  Blumenthal did not try. It was self-evident. A damned hard nut.

  I led him to the windows. "Light as a feather to turn. Stay put, at any height."

  He did not stir.

  "And unbreakable glass," I went on, almost desperate. "An inestimable advantage. In the workshops there stands a Ford . . ." I told him the story of the baker's wife, improving on it a bit in that I smashed up a child as well.

  But Blumenthal had an inner life like a burglar-proof safe.

  "All cars have unbreakable glass," he interrupted. "That is nothing out of the way."

  "With no car is unbreakable glass the general thing," I replied with mild sharpness. "At most, in a few types, the windscreen. But in no case the big side windows."

  I sounded the horn and turned to a description of the inside comforts—the luggage carrier, the seats, the pockets, the switchboard; I went into every little detail; I even passed Blumenthal the cigarette-lighter, taking advantage of the opportunity to offer him a cigarette, to get at him that way perhaps—but he declined.

  "I don't smoke them, thanks," said he, and looked at me in such a bored way that a dreadful thought suddenly occurred to me—perhaps he did not want us at all, perhaps he had merely lost his way and wanted to buy something quite different—a machine for sewing buttonholes or a radio—and was just standing around here awhile, undecided, before going on.

  "Let us make a trial run, Herr Blumenthal," I suggested at last, already well beaten.

  "Trial run?" said he, as if I had said "railway station."

  "Yes, trial run. You ought to see, of course, how the car runs. She lies on the road like a board. Might be on rails. And the engine pulls as if the heavy body were no more than a feather—"

  "Ach, trial runs—" He made a belittling gesture. "Trial runs prove nothing. You find out only afterwards what's the matter with the car."

  Of course, you cast-iron limb of Satan, thought I wrath-fully; or do you think I'm going to make you a present of it?

  "Very well, then not," said I abandoning all hope. The fellow did not want it, that was clear.

  But then he turned round suddenly, looked me full in the eyes, and asked softly and sharply and very quickly: "What's the car cost?"

  "Seven thousand marks," I replied like a shot without flickering an eyelash. This chap must not see that I have to consider even for a moment. I knew that. One second's hesitation would have cost a thousand marks off the price. "Seven thousand marks net," I replied firmly, thinking, "and if you offer five you'll get away with it."

  But Blumenthal offered nothing. He just gave me one short snort: "Much too dear!"

  "Of course!" said I, and resigned the case.

  "Why of course'?" asked Blumenthal, suddenly almost human.

  "Herr Blumenthal," I replied, "where did you ever meet the man who ever answered anything else to a price?"

  A suspicion of a smile stole over his face. "True. But the car is really too dear."

  I could not believe my ears. There it was at last, the right note. The tone of the interested. Or was this only another damned twist?

  At that moment a smartly dressed young fellow walked in the gate of the yard. He drew a newspaper from his pocket, compared the number of the house once more, and strode up to me. "Is there a Cadillac for sale here?"

  I nodded and gazed speechless at the yellow bamboo cane and the pigskin gloves.

  "Can I see it then?" he went on without turning a hair.

  "This is it here," said I; "but perhaps you would not mind waiting a moment, I still have something to do. Won't you sit down inside awhile?"

  The young swell listened a moment to the humming of the engine, made at first a critical, then an appreciative face, and let me conduct him to the office.

  "Idiot," I growled at him and hastened back to Blumenthal.

  "If you had once driven the car, you would think differently about the price," said I. "You can gladly have it to try for as long as you like. Or I could call some evening and take you for a trial run perhaps, if that suits you better."

  But the momentary excitement had already flown. Blumenthal was again standing there like a glee-club president in granite.

  "Never mind," said he, "I must go now. If I should want to have a trial run, I can always telephone."

  I saw there was nothing more to be done for the present. This fellow was not to be talked into anything.

  "Very well," I declared, "but won't you give me your phone number, so that I can let you know if somebody else seems to be interested?"

  Blumenthal looked at me significantly. "Interested is still a long way from sold."

  He took out a cigar case and offered me one: He was smoking already—Corona-Coronas, by Jove! He must have money like hay. But that was nothing to me now. I took the cigar.

  He gave me a friendly handshake and left. I watched him go, and cursed him softly but thoroughly. Then I went back into the workshop.

  "Well?" I was greeted by the young toff, Gottfried Lenz. "How did I do? Saw you writhing about there, and thought I'd lend a hand. Lucky thing Otto changed here for the Income Tax. Saw. his good suit hanging there, leapt into it, out the window and back in again—a serious buyer. Pretty good, eh?"

  "Damned silly," I replied. "The fellow is slier than both of us put together. See this cigar? One mark fifty apiece. You've chased away a millionaire."

  Gottfried took the cigar out of my hand, smelled it and lit it. "I've saved you from a swindler. Millionaires don't smoke cigars like this. They smoke ones at twenty-four a shilling."

  "Rot," I answered. "Swindlers don't call themselves Blumenthal. They, call themselves Count Blumenau or some such."

  "He'll come back again," said Lenz, optimistic as ever, and blowing smoke from my own cigar into my face.

  "Not he," said I with conviction. "But how did you come by the bamboo waddy and the gloves?"

  "A loan. Over the way, from Benn and Co. I know the salesgirl there. I think I might even keep the stick. I like it."

  Pleased with himself, he twirled the thick cane in the air.

  "Gottfried," said I, "you're wasted here. D'you know what—you should go into vaudeville. That's where you belong."

  '"They've been ringing up for you," said Frida, Frau Zalewski's squint-eyed housemaid, as I came in unexpectedly at lunchtime.

  I swung round. "When?"

  "About half an hour ago. A lady."

  "What did she say, then?"

  "She'd call up again in the evening. But I told her it wouldn't be much use, you were never home in the evening."

  I stared at her. "What? You told her that? Herrgott, it's high time someone taught you how to use a telephone."

  "I know how to use a telephone," announced Frida loftily. "And you are as good as never at home of an evening."

  "That's none of your affair," I cursed. "Next time you'll be telling her I have holes in my socks."

  "I could if you like," retorted Frida, looking at me malevolently with her red inflamed eyes. We were old enemies.

  I should have liked to stick her into her soup pot, but controlled myself, felt in my pocket, pressed a mark into her hand and asked in a conciliatory tone? "Did the lady not say her name?"

  "No," said Frida.

  "What kind of voice had she then? Rather deep and as if she were a bit hoarse?"

  "I don't know," declared Frida phlegmatically, as if I had never pressed a mark into her hand.

  "A pretty ring you have there on your finger,", said I. "Quite charming; now just think if you can't remember."

  "No," replied Frida and malicious triumph shone in her face.

  "Then go hang yourself," said I and left her.

  Sharp on six I was home again. As I opened the door I was met by an unusual picture. In the passage, surrounded by all the women of the boardiing house, stood Frau Bender. "Just come here," said Frau Zalewski.<
br />
  The cause of the gathering was a ribbon-bedecked baby about six months old. Frau Bender had brought it in a pram from the orphanage. It was a perfectly normal child, but the ladies were bending over it with expressions of ridiculous enchantment, as if it were the first baby the world had produced. They uttered clucking noises, clipped their fingers before the eyes of the little creature, and pursed their lips. Even Erna Bönig, in her dragon kimono, joined in this orgy of platonic maternity.

  "Isn't he a charming little thing?" asked Frau Zalewski with swimming eyes.

  "One will be able to tell that better in twenty or thirty years' time," said I with a sidelong glance toward the telephone. Let's hope a call wouldn't come just now while they were all assembled here.

  "But take a good look at it," Frau Hasse insisted.

  I looked. It was a baby like any other. I could discover nothing remarkable about it. At most it had terribly small hands, and it was extraordinary to think one had been just so tiny oneself once.

  "Poor worm," said I, "little does he guess what is ahead of him. What sort of war has he arrived just in time for, I wonder."

  "Don't be horrid," replied Frau Zalewski. "Have you no feeling?"

  "Much too much," I explained, "or I wouldn't hit on such ideas." And so withdrew to my room.

  Ten minutes later the telephone bell rang. I heard my name and went out. Sure enough the whole gang was still there! They did not lower their voices even when I had the receiver to my ear and detected the voice of Patricia Hollmann, thanking me for the flowers. On the contrary, the baby, who was apparently the most sensible of them all and had had enough of the monkey business, suddenly started to howl.

  "Pardon me," said I desperately into the telephone. "I can't catch what you say, there is a baby here having a fit; it's not mine though."

  The ladies were hissing like a nest of cobra's to quiet the shrieking creature. They succeeded promptly in setting it off even louder. Now I did begin to perceive that it really was a remarkable child; its lungs must reach down to its knees, otherwise this shattering voice was not to be explained. I was in a difficult situation; while with my eyes I. was shooting angry glances at the mother complex before me, with my lips I was endeavouring to speak friendly words into the mouthpiece; from the crown of my head to the tip of my nose I was a thunderstorm incarnate, from the nose to the chin a sunny spring landscape; it is a mystery to me that in spite of everything I did contrive to fix an appointment for the next evening.

  "You ought to install a soundproof telephone box," said I to Frau Zalewski.

  But she was ready for me. "Why so?" she flashed back. "Have you so much to conceal?"

  I said no more and made off. It is no use quarrelling with excited maternal instincts. They have the moral support of the entire world behind them.

  We were to forgather that evening at Gottfried's. I had supper at a small pub and then went along. En route, by way of celebration, I bought myself a magnificent new tie at a smart outfitter's. I could not get over my susprise about how smoothly it had all gone, and I warned myself that to-morrow I must be as serious as the managing director of a burial club.

  Gottfried's digs were a sight worth seeing. They were hung with souvenirs that he had brought back from South America. Gay raffia mats on the walls, several masks, a dried human head, grotesque pots, spears and, as pièce de résistance, an enormous collection of photographs that occupied one entire wall: Indian girls and Creoles—lovely, brown, lithe creatures of incredible grace and nonchalance.

  Besides Lenz and Köster there were Braumüller and Grau. Oscar Braumüller, with sunburnt, copper head, was squatting on the arm of the sofa enthusiastically examining Gottfried's photographs. He was racer for a firm of car manufacturers, and had long been friends with Köster. He was driving in the race on the sixth, for which Otto had entered Karl. Massive, bloated and already fairly drunk, Ferdinand Grau was sitting at the table. As he caught sight of me he reached out his great paw.

  "Bob," said he in a thick voice, "what do you want here among the damned? There is nothing here for you. Go away. Save yourself. While there is time."

  I glanced across at Lenz. He winked at me. "Ferdinand is in high form. For two days now he has been drinking to the beloved dead. He has sold a portrait and got the money."

  Ferdinand was a painter. And he would have starved long since, had he not had a specialty. He painted after photographs marvellously lifelike portraits of deceased persons, for pious relatives. He lived by it—quite well, in fact. His landscapes, which were excellent, nobody bought. This gave to his conversation a somewhat pessimistic tone.

  "A licensed victualler this time, Bob," said he; "a pub keeper with a rich deceased aunt in vinegar and oil." He shuddered. "Horrible."

  "Look here, Ferdinand," protested Lenz, "you oughtn't to use those harsh expressions. You live off one of the most beautiful of human traits, off piety."

  "Nonsense," declared Ferdinand, "I live off the sense of guilt. What's piety but the sense of guilt? People want to square off all the things they have wished and done to the beloved dead while they were alive." He passed his hand slowly over his burning brow. "Just think how often my licensed victualler has wished his aunt in her grave! To make up, he now has her painted in the finest colours and hung above his sofa. He likes her better that way. Piety I Mankind remembers its few meagre good qualities only when it is too late. And then he comforts himself by thinking how very nasty he could have been, and counts it for righteousness. Virtue, kindliness, generosity—he desires that in others so that he can impose on them."

  Lenz grinned. "You are attacking the pillars of human society, Ferdinand."

  "The pillars of human society are covetousness, fear, and corruption," retorted Grau. "Man is evil, but loves the good—when others do it." He held out his glass to Lenz.

  "So, and now pour me one and don't talk the whole evening. Let someone else get a word in."

  I climbed over the sofa to where Köster was standing. An idea had suddenly occurred to me. "Otto, I want you to do me a favour. I want the Cadillac for to-morrow evening."

  Braumüller interrupted his intensive study of a scantily clad Creole dancer.

  "Can you take corners now, then?" he enquired. "I thought you could only drive straight ahead as yet, when someone else steered for you."

  "Don't you worry, Oscar," I replied, "we're going to make mincemeat of you in the race on the sixth."

  Braumüller almost choked with laughing.

  "Well, what about it, Otto?" I asked eagerly.

  "The car isn't insured, Bob," said Köster.

  "I'll crawl like a snake and hoot like a bus. Only a few kilometres into the country."

  Otto closed his eyes until they were narrow slits and smiled. "It's all right by me, Bob."

  "You want the car, I suppose, to go with your new tie?" asked Lenz, who had come over. '"You shut up," said I, pushing him aside.

  But he was not to be eluded.

  "Show us, baby!" He felt the silk between his fingers. "Fine. Our boy as a gigolo. Strikes me he's going to a bride show."

  "You haven't anything on me to-day, you quick-change artist," I replied.

  "Bride show?" Ferdinand Grau lifted his head. "And why shouldn't he go to a bride show?" He became livelier and turned to me. "You do, Bob. You have the requirements for it. A certain simplicity is necessary for love. You have it. Keep it. It is a gift of God. Never to be gotten again once it is lost."

  "Don't take it to heart too much, though, baby," said Lenz with a grin. "It's no shame to be born stupid. Only to die stupid."

  "Now you be quiet, Gottfried." With one movement of his powerful paw Grau wiped him aside. "You don't come into it, you back-area romanticist. It's no pity about you."

  "You just say your say, Ferdinand," said Lenz. "Expression always eases the soul."

  "You, you are a malingerer," declared Grau. "A miserable escapist, that's what you are."

  "So are we all," grinned Lenz. "We live
only on, illusions and credits."

  "Yes, indeed," said Grau surveying us from under his bushy eyebrows. "On illusions out of the past, and credits on the future." Then he turned to me again. " 'Simplicity,' I said, Bob. Only envious people call it stupidity. Don't you worry on that score. It's not a weakness; it's a gift."

  Lenz wanted to interrupt. But Ferdinand went on. "You know what I mean. A simple courage, not yet eaten away by skepticism and over-intelligence. Parsifal was stupid. If he had been bright, he would never have conquered the Holy Grail. Only the stupid conquer in life; the other man foresees too many obstacles and becomes uncertain before he starts. In difficult times simplicity is the most priceless gift—a magic cloak that conceals dangers into which the super-intelligent run headlong as if hypnotized."