Three Comrades

by Erich Maria Remarque

  "I dance with my gullet. That's quite good too."

  She shook her head. "A husband of mine who couldn't dance would get the sack."

  "You have strict principles," I replied. "But you have got other records. Only the other day you were playing a very lovely one—it was a woman's voice with a sort of Hawaiian accompaniment—"

  "Ah, that is marvellous. 'How could I live without thee?' —wasn't it?"

  "That's right. What things these song writers do think of! I guess they're the only romantics left."

  She laughed. "But why not? You know a gramophone like this is a sort of family history. Once people used to write verses in albums, nowadays they give one another gramophone records. If I want to recall some particular occasion, I have only to put on the records of that time, and there it all is again."

  I looked down on the pile of discs lying on the floor. "Measured by that, you must have a stack of memories, Erna."

  She stood up and brushed back her red hair. "Yes," said she, thrusting the heap aside with her foot. "But I'd sooner have one good one."

  I unpacked the things I had bought for supper and arranged everything as well as I could. No help was to be expected for me from the kitchen. I stood in too badly with Frida for that. The least she would have done would be to break something. But it wasn't so bad, and soon I hardly knew my old room again in its new splendour. The armchairs, the lamp, the covered table—I felt a restless expectancy gathering in me.

  I set off, though I had still more than an hour to wait. Outside the wind was blowing in long gusts round the corners of the streets. The lamps were already alight. The darkness between the houses was blue as the sea, and the International floated in it like a warship about to cast off. With one leap I was aboard.

  "Hopla, Robert," said Rosa.

  "What are you doing here, then?" Tasked. "Not going, on tour?"

  "It's too early yet."

  Alois slithered up. "Single?" he asked.

  "Triple," said I.

  "Going it heavy," observed Rosa,

  "Need something stiff," said I tipping down the rum.

  "Won't you play something?" asked Rosa.

  I shook my head. "Don't feel like it to-day. Too windy, Rosa. How's the kid?"

  She smiled with all her gold teeth. "Well—touch wood! I'll see her again to-morrow. Have done pretty well this week; the old buck is feeling the spring again. I'm taking her a new coat. Red wool."

  "Red wool! All the rage," said I.

  Rosa beamed. "You are a cavalier, Bob."

  "Let's hope you're right there," said I. "Come, have one with me. Anisette, isn't it?"

  She nodded. Alois brought it and we touched glasses. "Tell me, Rosa, what do you really think about love?" I asked. "You ought to know something about it."

  She burst into peals of laughter.

  "Well, of all the things—" said she then. "Love. Ach, my Arthur—whenever I think of the scamp my knees still turn to water. I'll tell you something, Bob, seriously— Human life is too long for love. Too long, that's all. My Arthur told me that when he cleared off. And it's right. Love is wonderful. But for one it is always too long. And the other one, he just sits there and stares. Stares like mad."

  "Agreed," said I. "On the other hand, without love one is no better than a mere walking corpse."

  "Do as I did," replied Rosa, "get yourself a kid. Then you have something to love and peace of mind as well."

  "Not a bad idea," said I. "Hasn't come my way yet."

  Rosa wagged her head dreamily. "All the kicks I've had from my Arthur-—and yet if he walked in here now with his bowler hat on the back of his head—man, it makes me cry just to think of."

  "Well, let's drink to Arthur," said I.

  Rosa laughed. "To the son-of-a-bitch, good health!" We emptied our glasses. "Au revoir, Rosa. Good business." "Au revoir, Bob."

  The house door banged.

  "Hello," said Patricia Hollmann, "so deep in thought?"

  "Not at all. But how are you? Are you better again? What's been wrong?"

  "Ach, nothing special. Cold and a bit of fever."

  She certainly did not look sick or worn. On the contrary her eyes seemed bigger and brighter than I had ever seen them, her face was a bit flushed, and her movements graceful as a young animal's.

  "You look wonderful," said I. "Quite fit. We'll be able to do a heap of things."

  "That would be fine," she replied. "But it can't be done to-day. I can't to-day."

  I stared at her, uncomprehendingly. "You can't?"

  She shook her head. "No, unfortunately."

  I still did not understand. I supposed she had reconsidered coming to my place and merely did not wish to have supper there.

  "I rang up a few minutes ago, so that you shouldn't come in vain. But you'd gone out already."

  Now I realised at last. "You mean you can't really? Not the whole evening?" I asked.

  "Not this time. I've a most important interview. Unfortunately I only learned of it half an hour ago."

  "Can't you postpone it? till to-morrow? We agreed on to-day!"

  "Can't be done." She smiled. "It's a sort of business affair."

  I was quite bowled over. I had reckoned on everything but that. I didn't believe a word she said. Business—she did not look like business. It was only an excuse, probably. Certainly, even. What important interviews does anyone have in the evening? Morning's the time for that sort of thing. And anyway one didn't hear of them only half an hour beforehand. She simply did not want to, that was all.

  I was disappointed in quite a childish fashion. Only now" did I realise how much I had been looking forward to the evening. I was vexed that I was so annoyed, and did not want her to see it.

  "Very good," said I, "then there's nothing doing. Au revoir."

  She looked at me searchingly. "There's not all that hurry. I haven't to be there till nine. We could go for a short walk. I haven't been out the whole week."

  "All right," said I reluctantly. I suddenly felt empty and tired.

  We walked along the street. The night had cleared and the stars stood bright between the roofs. We came to a grassy space where were a few shrubs in the shadow. Patricia Hollmann stopped short.

  "Lilac," said she. "I smell lilac! But that's quite impossible, it's much too early of course."

  "I don't smell anything," I replied.

  "Yes!" She leaned over the railing.

  "It's a Daphne indica, lady," came a thick voice out of the darkness.

  A municipal gardener with a cap with a metal badge was there leaning against a tree. Swaying a bit, he came toward us. The neck of a bottle glinted from his pocket. "We put it in to-day," he explained with a hiccough. "It's over there."

  "Thank you," said Patricia Hollmann and turned tome. "Can't you smell anything yet?"

  "Yes, I smell something now all right," I replied ungraciously. "Good old brandy."

  "Go up to the top of the form!" The chap in the shadows belched loudly.

  I could smell perfectly well the heavy, sweet perfume that floated out of the darkness; but I would not have admitted it for anything in the world.

  The girl laughed and took a deep breath. "How lovely it is, when you have been so long shut up in a room. It's a shame I have to go. This Binding—always in a hurry and at the last minute—I think he might really have postponed it till to-morrow."

  "Binding?" I asked. "You've an appointment with Binding?"

  She nodded. "With Binding and someone else. It's the someone else that counts. Real serious business. Can you imagine it?"

  "No," I replied. "I can't imagine it."

  She laughed and went on talking. But I was not listening any longer. Binding—it entered me like a stroke of lightning. I did not reflect that after all she had known him much longer than me—I saw only his big Buick, larger than life and gleaming; his expensive suit and his fat pocket wallet appeared before my eyes. My poor, gallant, tricked-out old room! What had I been thinking of! Hasse's l
amp, Zalewski's armchairs! The girl was not for me, of course. What was I, anyway? A pedestrian who once borrowed a Cadillac, an uncouth schnapps drinker, that was all. The sort of thing you could pick up at any street corner. Already I saw the porter at the "Bunch of Grapes" salute Binding, I saw bright, warm, elegant rooms, clouds of cigarette smoke, and smart people, I heard music and laughter—laughter at me. Back, thought I, back quickly. An idea, a hope—that was already a great deal. It was senseless to get entangled on the strength of that. There was nothing for it but back.

  "We could meet to-morrow night perhaps," said Patricia Hollmann.

  "I've no time to-morrow evening," I replied.

  "Well, the day after, or sometime during the week. I have nothing on the next few days."

  "It would be difficult," said I. "We got a rush job in to-day, we'll probably have to work on it well into the night the whole week."

  It was a swindle, but I could not help it. There was too much cold anger and humiliation in me.

  We crossed the square and went along the street toward the graveyard. From the direction of the International I saw Rosa approaching. Her high boots were gleaming. I could have turned off, and at another time probably would have done so; but now I kept straight on toward her. Rosa looked me over as if we were total strangers. That was a matter of course; none of these girls recognise one when one is not alone.

  "Day, Rosa," said I.

  Taken aback she looked first at me, then at Patricia Hollmann, nodded hastily and walked on embarrassed. A few paces behind her came Fritzi, dangling a handbag, with very red lips and swaying hips. She looked through me indifferently as if I had been a pane of glass.

  "Grüss Gott, Fritzi," said I.

  She inclined her head like a queen and in no way betrayed her astonishment; but I heard her pace quicken when she was past—she was going to discuss the matter with Rosa. I might still have turned into a bystreet, for I knew the rest would also be coming—it was just the time for the first big patrol. But in a sort of spite I kept on— why should I avoid them? I knew them a sight better than I did the girl beside me with her Binding and his Buick. She should see—see it thoroughly.

  There they came, past the long row of street lamps—

  Wally, the beautiful, pale, slim, elegant; Lina with the wooden leg; the strapping Erria; Marion the chicken; Margot of the red cheeks; the pansy, Kiki, in a. squirrel coat; and lastly Mimi, the grandmother with the varicose veins, looking as shabby as an owl. I greeted every one, and when we came to Mother at the sausage stall, I shook her vigorously by the hand.

  "You have a lot of acquaintances here," said Patricia Hollmann after a while.

  "Yes, of a sort," I replied bluntly.

  I noticed that she looked at me. "I think we should turn round now," said she after a time.

  "Yes," I replied. "I think so too."

  We stopped at the house door.

  "Good luck," said I, "and lots of fun."

  She did not answer. With some difficulty I detached my eyes from the press-button on the door and looked at her. And really—I hardly believed my eyes—there she stood, and, instead of being thoroughly snappy, around her lips there was a twitching, her eyes twinkled; and then she laughed, heartily and untrammelled—simply laughed at me.

  "You baby," said she, "O God, what a baby you are!"

  I stared at her. "Well, if you—" said I then. "Anyway—" and suddenly I saw the situation. "You find me a bit idiotic, I suppose, eh?"

  "One might put it that way."

  She looked marvellous, her face flickered over by the lamplight—young, merry and beautiful. Swiftly I took a step forward and drew her to me, let her think what she may. Her silky hair brushing my cheek, her face close in front of mine, I detected the faint peach smell of ber skin; then her eyes came nearer and suddenly I felt her lips on my mouth. . . .

  She was gone before I rightly knew what had happened. Like a brindled ass I stood looking after her. "Holy Moses!" said I then, out loud.

  I retraced my steps and passed Mother's sausage stall once more. "Give me a large bockwurst," said I, beaming.

  "With mustard?" asked Mother in her clean white apron.

  "With a lot of mustard, Mother!"

  I ate the sausage greedily where I stood and had Alois bring me out a glass of beer from the International. "Man is a queer creature, Mother, eh?" said I.

  "I should say so," replied Mother eagerly. "A gentleman came here yesterday, ate two Wieners with mustard and afterwards couldn't pay for them. It was late, there was nobody about, what could I do? Well, you know, I let him ge. And just think of it, to-day he comes back and pays for the Wieners and shouts me a drink as well!"

  "A pre-war nature, Mother. And how's business otherwise?"

  "Bad! Yesterday seven brace of Wieners and nine bock-wursts. You know, if I hadn't the girls, I'd have been finished long ago."

  The girls were the prostitutes who supported Mother to the best of their ability. When they had captured a suitor and it was in any way possible, they would bring him round by Mother's stall to eat a bockwurst first, so that the old woman should make something.

  "It will soon be getting warm now," Mother continued; "but in winter, in the wet and the cold—put on what clothes you like, you catch something."

  "Give me another bockwurst," said I; "I've got a kind of wish to live. And how are things at home?"

  She looked at me out of her water-bright, little eyes. "Always the same. He sold the bed the other day."

  Mother was married. Ten years ago her husband had slipped, when jumping off a moving underground train, and been run over. They had to take off both his legs. The accident had had an extraordinary effect on him. As a cripple he was so humiliated before his wife that he never slept with her again. In addition to that, in the hospital he had learned to take morphia. That brought him down very speedily; he got into homosexual circles, and before long the man who had been a normal husband for fifty years, was going around only with nancy boys. To get money for the boys and the morphia, he took everything of Mother's he could lay hands on and sold it. But Mother stuck to him, though he used often to beat her. Every night until four in the morning she stood with her son at the sausage stall. During the day she took in washing and did charring. All the time she suffered from some internal complaint and weighed barely ninety pounds—yet one never saw her other than friendly. She believed things were still not so bad with her. Occasionally, when he was feeling miserable, her husband would come to her and cry. Those were her best times.

  "Have you still got your good job?" she asked me.

  I nodded. "Yes, Mother. I earn pretty well now."

  "See that you keep it."

  "I'll see to it, Mother."

  I came home. In the hall, as if called of God, stood the kitchen maid, Frida.

  "You are a nice child," said I, for I felt moved to do some good deed.

  She made a face as if she had drunk vinegar.

  "Seriously," I went on, "what's the use of always quarrelling? Life's too short, Frida, and full of accidents and perils. People should stand together these days. Let's make peace."

  She ignored my outstretched hand, muttered something about damned boozing, and, banging the door, vanished.

  I knocked at Georg Block's. A strip of light was visible under his door. He was cramming.

  "Come, Georg—eats," said I.

  He looked up. His pale face flushed. "I'm not hungry."

  He thought it was from pity. So he did not want to.

  "Well, come and have a look. It'll go bad otherwise. Do me the favour."

  ' As we went down the passage I noticed that Erna Bönig's door was open a chink. Behind it I heard a light breathing. "Aha," thought I, and heard the lock turn cautiously at the Hasses' and the door there likewise give a centimeter. The entire pension was on the watch, apparently, for my cousin.

  In the harsh top light of my digs stood Frau Zalewski's brocade armchairs. The Hasses' lamp made a fine display, th
e pineapple shone, the super leberwurst, the salmon, the bottle of sherry . . .

  When I and the speechless Georg were sailing well in, there was a knock on the door. I knew what was coming.

  "Get ready, Georg," I whispered, and called "Come in!"

  The door opened and, bursting with curiosity, in walked Frau Zalewski. For the first time in my life she brought the post herself—a circular exhorting me to eat more food. She was got up like a fairy—a real great lady out of the good old days, lace dress with fringed shawl and brooch with the portrait of the late Zalewski as a pendant. A sugar-sweet smile suddenly froze on her face; startled, she stared at the embarrassed Georg. I burst into heartless laughter. She recovered herself swiftly.