Three Comrades

by Erich Maria Remarque

  "Aha, put off," said she poisonously.

  "True," I agreed, still absorbed in her get-up. What a mercy the invitation had fallen through!

  Mother Zalewski looked at me disparagingly. "And you can laugh? I always did say, where others have hearts you have a schnapps bottle."

  "A bon mot," I replied. "But won't you do us the honour, Frau Zalewski?"

  She hesitated. But curiosity triumphed, and the hope of learning something yet. I opened the bottle of sherry.

  Later, when all was quiet, I took my coat and a blanket and slipped across the passage to the telephone. I knelt down in front of the table on which the instrument stood, placed the coat and blanket over my head, lifted the re ceiver and with my left hand held the coat together from below. Thus I was sure no one could overhear me. The Pension Zalewski possessed immensely long, inquisitive ears.

  I was in luck. Patricia Hollmann was home.

  "Have you been back long from your mysterious interview?" I asked.

  "About an hour."

  "Pity. If I had known that—"

  She laughed. "No, it wouldn't have been any use. I'm in bed and am a bit feverish again. It's a good thing I got, home early."

  "Fever? What sort of fever?"

  "Ach, a boring business. And what have you been doing this evening?"

  "I've been discussing the world situation with my landlady. And you? Did your affair come off?"

  "I hope it came off."

  In my cubby-hole it was getting devilish hot. So I opened the curtain whenever the girl was speaking, took a quick breath of the cool air outside and closed the lid again when I myself spoke close into the microphone.

  "Is there nobody among your friends called Robert?" I asked.

  She laughed. "I don't think so."

  "A pity. I should like to have heard how you pronounce it. Won't you just try anyway?"

  She laughed again.

  "Just for a joke," said I. "For instance: 'Robert is an ass.'"

  "Robert is a baby, and long may he be one."

  "You have a wonderful pronunciation," said I. "And now let us try it with Bob. Thus: 'Bob is—'"

  "Bob is a drunkard," said the soft, remote voice slowly; "and now I must sleep—I've taken a sleeping draught and my head is singing already."

  "Yes—good night—sleep well—"

  I put down the receiver, and pushed the coat and blanket aside. Then I straightened up and suddenly stiffened. Like a ghost one pace behind me stood the retired accountant who lived in the room next the kitchen. I grunted something or other, indignantly.

  "Pst!" said he and grinned.

  "Pst!" I responded and wished him in hell.

  He raised a finger. "I won't let on—-political, eh?"

  "What?" said I astonished.

  He winked. "Don't worry. I'm extreme Right, myself. Secret political conversation, eh?"

  I understood. "Highly political," said I, now grinning also.

  He nodded and whispered: "Long live His Majesty!"

  "Three cheers!" I replied. "But now something else: Do you happen to know who it was invented the telephone?"

  Astonished, he shook his bald pate.

  "Neither do I," said I, "but he must have been a wonderful chap."

  Chapter IX

  Sunday. The day of the race. Köster had been training every day the last week. Then at night we would work on Karl into the small hours, checking every tiniest screw, oiling and putting him in order. Now we were sitting in the pits waiting for Köster, who had gone to the starting place.

  We were all there—Grau, Valentin, Lenz, Patricia Hollmann, and above all Jupp—Jupp in overalls, with racing goggles and helmet. He was Köster's offsider, being the lightest. Lenz had all kinds of doubts—he maintained Jupp's enormous, outstanding ears offered too much wind resistance: either the car would lose twenty kilometres in speed, or turn itself into an aeroplane.

  "How did you come by your English Christian name?" Gottfried asked Patricia Hollmann, who was sitting beside him.

  "My mother was English. It was her name too: Pat."

  "Ah, Pat—that's another matter. That's much easier to say." He produced a glass and a bottle. "So—to good comradeship, Pat! My name's Gottfried."

  I stared at him. While I was still labouring around with the full style of address, he could do such things in broad daylight without a blush. And she laughed, and actually called him Gottfried.

  But that was nothing to Ferninand Grau. He was com-petely crazy and did not let her out of his sight. He recited rolling verses and explained she must certainly learn to paint. He actually sat her on a box and started to draw her.

  "Look here, Ferdinand, old vulture," said I taking the drawing pad away from him, "you stick to the dead. Don't attack living human beings. You tell us some more about the absolute. I'm a bit touchy about the girl."

  "Will you drink with me afterwards the remains of my pub keeper's aunt?"

  "I don't know about all the remains. But one foot certainly."

  "Good. Then I'll oblige you, boy."

  The crackle of the engines drifted round the course like machine-gun fire. There was a smell of burning grease, petrol and castor oil. Exciting, wonderful smell; exciting, wonderful tattoo of the motors.

  Mechanics on either side in their well-equipped pits were shouting. Ourselves, we had only very meagre supplies. A few tools, plugs, some spare wheels with reserve tyres that we had managed to get from a firm of manufacturers, several smaller spare parts—that was all. Köster was not driving for any firm. We had to pay for everything ourselves. For that reason we had not very much.

  Otto came up, behind him Braumüller already dressed for the race.

  "Well, Otto," said he, "if my plugs hold to-day, you're lost. But they won't hold."'

  "Soon see," replied Köster.

  Braumüller shook his fist at Karl. "You look out for my Nutcracker!"

  The Nutcracker was a heavy, new machine that Braumüller was driving. It ranked as the favourite.

  "Karl will make you stretch your legs, Oscar!" Lenz called across to him.

  Braumüller was about to reply in good army language, but suddenly swallowed when he saw Patricia Hollmann with us; he made telescope eyes, grinned aimlessly in our direction and pushed off.

  "The greater the victory," said Lenz contentedly.

  The roar of wheels swept along the track. Köster had to get ready. Karl was entered in the sports-car class.

  "We won't be able to help you much, Otto" said I looking at the tools.

  He waved a hand. "It won't be necessary. If Karl does break down, a whole workshop won't be any use."

  "Well, shouldn't we flag, so you'll know how you lie?"

  Köster shook his head. "It's a massed start. I'll see there how it is. Besides Jupp knows his job."

  Jupp nodded eagerly. He was trembling with excitement and eating chocolate steadily. But that was only now. With the starting shot he would be as cool again as a tortoise.

  "Well, off we go, neck or nothing!"

  We pushed Karl out. "Now don't jib at the start, you rascal," said Lenz, fondling the radiator. "Don't disappoint your old father, Karl."

  Karl steamed off. We watched him go.

  "Just get an eyeful of that contraption," suddenly said someone beside us. "Man, it's got a behind like an ostrich!"

  Lenz straightened. "Do you mean the white car?" he asked, red in the face, but still calm.

  "I do," replied the gigantic mechanic from the next pit casually over his shoulder, passing the beer bottle to his neighbour. Lenz began to stutter with wrath and prepared to climb over the low partition. Thank God he had not launched any of his insults. I pulled him back. "Leave that rot," I cursed, "we need you here. Do you want to go into hospital before it starts?" Intractable as a mule, he tried to pull away. He could abide nothing against Karl.

  "Look," said I to Patricia Hollmann, "this is the balmy goat that gives himself out as the last of the romantics. Would you beli
eve it, he once wrote a poem to the moon!"

  The effect was immediate. It was Gottfried's sore spot.

  "Long before the war, it was," he excused himself. "Besides, baby, it's not a crime to go crazy at a race. Is it, Pat?"

  "It's not a crime to go crazy at any time."

  Gottfried saluted. "A noble saying."

  The thunder of the engines drowned all else. The air shuddered. Earth and sky shuddered. The field tore by.

  "Last but one," growled Lenz. "The swine has jibbed again at the start."

  "No matter," said I; "the start's Karl's weak point. He may get away slowly, but he never stops again." As the uproar died away the loud speakers began their chant. We could hardly believe our eats. Burger, a dangerous rival, had been left standing on the starting line.

  The cars came growling back. They chirrupped in the distance like grasshoppers on the track, grew bigger and raced along the opposite side, past the grandstands into the big curve. They were six still, and Köster still second last. We held ourselves in readiness. Echo and re-echo beat louder and fainter from the curve. Then the pack shot out. Number One well ahead, second and third close together behind him, and then Köster. He had gone ahead in the curve and was now riding fourth.

  The sun came out from under the clouds. Broad strips of light and grey poured across the track, suddenly flecked with bright and shadow like a tiger. Shadows of clouds drifted across the human sea in the stands. The storm of the engines had entered the blood like some monstrous music. Lenz walked fidgeting around, I chewed a cigarette to pulp, and Patricia Hollmann was sniffing the air like a foal in the early morning. Only Valentin and Grau sat quietly there, and let the sun shine on them.

  Again the immense heartbeat of the machines roared back, on past grandstands. We stared across at Köster. He shook his head. He did not mean to change any tyres. As he had returned he had picked up a little. He was now clinging to the black wheel of Number Three. Thus they raced off up the unending straight.

  "Damn!" Lenz took a pull from the bottle.

  "He has practised that," said I to Patricia Hollmann. "Going ahead in the curve is his specialty."

  "Have a swig out of the bottle too, Pat?" asked Lenz.

  I looked at him indignantly. He stared me out.

  "I'd prefer a glass," said she. "I haven't learned to drink from a bottle yet."

  "There you see it." Lenz fished for a glass. "That's the weakness of modern education."

  In the following lap, the field drew farther apart. Braumüller was leading. The first four had now three hundred metres, start. Köster disappeared behind the stands running Number Three radiator to radiator. Then the cars roared up once again. We jumped up. Where was Number Three? Otto came sweeping along alone behind the other two. There—at last Number Three came bumbling up: burst rear tyres. Lenz grinned malicious joy—the car pulled up in front of the next pit. The gigantic mechanic cursed. A minute later the machine was afloat again.

  The next laps changed nothing in the order. Lenz laid the stop watch aside and calculated.

  "Karl still has reserves," he announced then.

  "So have the others, I'm afraid," said I.

  "Misbeliever!" He gave me a crushing glance.

  Again in the second last lap Köster shook his head. He was going to risk not changing tyres. It was not yet so warm that they could not hold out.

  Like a glass-clear beast the tension settled down over the flat and the stands, as the cars entered on the final struggle,

  "Touch wood, everyone," said I, grasping the hammer handle. Lenz seized my head. I shoved him off. "Ach, so; pardon, it's straw of course," he explained and gripped the barrier.

  The rumble swelled to a roar, the roar to a howl, the howl to thunder, to a high-pitched singing as the racing cars touched the limit of revs. Braumüller flew high up the banking; close behind raced the second. With a whirl of dust and grinding back wheels it cut in deeper, further in; he apparently meant to pass below in the curve.

  "Fault!" cried Lenz. Already Köster shot in after them; whirring, the car mounted to the extreme edge of the banking; for one instant we froze—it looked as if he would fly over—then the engine roared and the car sprang round.

  "He's gone in on full gas!" I shouted.

  Lenz nodded. "Crazy."

  We hung far out over the barrier, in a fever of excitement to know if it had succeeded. I lifted Patricia Hollmann onto the tool box. "You'll see better there. Lean on my shoulder. He'll get him in the curve, you see."

  "He's got him!" she called. "He's past already."

  "He's going after Braumüller. Himmelherrgott, heiliger Moses!" cried Lenz again. "He's actually past and going for Braumüller."

  In a whirl of thunderstorms the three cars swept out, up; we yelled like madmen, Valentin too; and Grau's tremendous bass now joined us—Köster's folly had succeeded, from above in the turn he passed Number Two, who had wasted himself and lost speed on the sharper, inside curve; and like a hawk he was now stooping for Braumüller, who suddenly was only twenty metres ahead of him and apparently misfiring.

  "Go for him, Otto! Go for him! Eat the Nutcracker!" we shouted and waved.

  The cars disappeared into the last turn. Lenz prayed aloud for help to all the gods of Asia and South America, and waved his amulet. Patricia Hollmann supported herself on my shoulder, her face peering into the distance ahead like the figurehead of a galleon.

  They were coming again. Braumüller's engine was still sputtering; it was missing every other moment. I shut my eyes; Lenz turned his back on the track—we meant to tempt destiny.

  A cry brought us round. We were just in time to see Köster pass the finishing line with two metres to spare.

  Lenz went crazy. He flung the tools to the ground and did a handstand on the tyres.

  "What did you say a while ago?" he bawled when he was upright again, to the herculean mechanic next door. "Contraption?"

  "Ach, man, don't quack at me," replied the mechanic, ill-humouredly. And, for the first time since I had known him, the last of the romantics did not get an attack of rage at an insult, but a St. Vitus's dance from laughing.

  We were waiting for Otto. He was still occupied with the race authorities.

  "Gottfried," suddenly said a hoarse voice behind us.

  We turned round. There stood a human mountain in too tight striped trousers, too tight grey jacket, and a black bowler.

  "Alfons!" exclaimed Patricia Hollmann.

  "Himself," he conceded.

  "We've won, Alfons!" she cried.

  "That's the stuff, that's the stuff. Then I guess I've come too late, eh?"

  "You never come too late, Alfons," said Lenz.

  "Wanted to bring you some grub, as a matter of fact. Cold pork chops and some pickled cutlets. Ready cut."

  "Pass it here and sit down, you lovely boy," cried Gottfried. "We'll start right now."

  He undid the parcel. "My God," said Patricia Hollmann, "there's enough for a regiment!"

  "You can't be sure till after," observed Alfons. "And there's a spot of kümmel as well."

  He produced two bottles. "Corks are drawn already."

  "That's the stuff, that's the stuff," said the girl. Alfons winked at her benignly.

  Karl came blubbering along. Köster and Jupp sprang out. Jupp looked like the youthful Napoleon, his ears glowing. In his arms was a hideous, vulgar, enormous silver cup. "The sixth," said Köster, laughing. "Extraordinary nothing else ever occurs to them."

  "Only the milk jug?" asked Alfons, realistically. "No cash?"

  "Oh, yes," Otto reassured him, "cash as well."

  "Then we're just about swimming in money," said Grau. "Looks like being a nice evening."

  "At my place?" asked Alfons.

  "Of course—official," replied Lenz.

  "Pea soup, giblets, trotters and pig' ears," said Alfons, and even Patricia Hollmann's expression was one of respect. "Gratis, of course," added Alfons.

  Braumüller came up, cu
rsing his luck, his hand full of greasy plugs.

  "Calm yourself, Oscar," called Lenz. "First prize in the next pram race is sure to be yours."

  "Will you give me my revenge in cognac?" asked Brau-Müller.