Three Comrades

by Erich Maria Remarque

  He looked at me a bit embarrassed. "She went last night to her friends. I don't know where they live."

  "Do you know the name, then? In that case you could ask 'Enquiries.'"

  "I've tried that already. They don't know the name."

  He had the expression of a beaten dog. "She was always so mysterious about the people; if I so much as asked she would flare up at once. So I let her alone. I was glad she had someone to go to. She was always saying, surely I didn't grudge her that too."

  "Perhaps she'll come yet," said I. "In fact I'm pretty certain she'll come soon. Have you tried the casualty wards and the police? You never know."

  He nodded. "Everything. They know nothing."

  "Well, in that case," said I, "you don't need to get excited. Perhaps she didn't feel well during the evening and has stayed the night. That sort of thing often happens. She'll probably be here again in an hour or two."

  "Do you think so?"

  The kitchen door opened and Frida appeared with a tray. "Who's that for?" I asked.

  "For Fräulein Hollmann," she replied, slightly incensed at my glance.

  "Is she up then?"

  "She must be, of course," retorted Frida promptly, "else she wouldn't have rung for breakfast."

  "God bless you," I replied. "You're a perfect angel some mornings, Frida. Do you think you could bring yourself to make my coffee right away too?"

  She growled something and strode off down the passage, wagging her bottom contemptuously as she went. She was good at that. I had never seen anybody who could put so much expression into it.

  Hasse had waited. I was suddenly ashamed when I turned and saw him there beside me, so resigned and still.

  "All your troubles will be over in an hour or two," said I, offering him my hand.

  He did not take it, but looked at me strangely. "Do you think we could look for her?" he asked softly.

  "But you don't even know where she is!"

  "Still, one could look for her, perhaps," he repeated. "If we took your car—I would pay everything, of course," he added hastily.

  "That's not the point," I replied. "It's just hopeless. Where would we drive to? She wouldn't be about the street at this hour."

  "I don't know," said he, still ever so softly. "I only thought we could try."

  Frida came back with the empty tray. "I must go now," said I, "and I think you are worrying unnecessarily. Still, I'd willingly do you the favour, but Fräulein Hollmann has to go away soon and I rather wanted to be with her to-day. This is perhaps her last Sunday here. You will understand, I'm sure?"

  He nodded.

  It pained me the way he stood there, but I was impatient to get to Pat. "But if you want to go off immediately, you can always get a taxi below, of course," I went on, "but I don't advise it. You wait a bit, rather—then I can ring up my friend Lenz and he'll look with you."

  I had the feeling he wasn't listening.

  "You did not see her this morning?" he then asked suddenly.

  "No," said I, mystified. "Else I would have told you long ago."

  He nodded again and then went absently, without a word, back into his room.

  Pat had already been into my room and found the flowers. She laughed as she came back. "Robby," she said, "I am innocent, though. Frida has just been telling me that fresh roses on Sunday morning early, at this time of year, must have something to do with stealing. She told me too this sort isn't to be had in any of the florists about here."

  "Think what you like," I replied. "The main thing is that they give you some pleasure."

  "More now than ever, darling. You've run a risk to get them."

  "Yes, and what risk!" I thought of the priest. "But what are you doing up so early?"

  "I couldn't sleep any more. And besides I dreamed. Nothing nice."

  I glanced at her. She looked tired and had shadows under the eyes. "Since when have you been dreaming like that?" said I. "I thought that was my specialty."

  She shook her head. "Did you see that autumn has arrived outside?"

  "With us that's called late summer," I replied. "Why, the roses are still flowering. It is raining, that's all I can see."

  "It is raining," she repeated. "It has been raining for too long already, darling. At night sometimes when I wake, I imagine I'm quite buried under all the rain."

  "You must come to me at night," said I. "Then you won't have such thoughts any more. On the contrary, it's nice if you're with somebody and it's dark and it's raining outside."

  "Perhaps," she replied leaning against me.

  "I quite like it when it rains on a Sunday," said I. "You see then so much better how lucky you are. We're here together, have a good warm room and a free day ahead—that seems to me a lot already."

  Her face brightened. "Yes, we are lucky, aren't we?"

  "It seems to me we are marvellously lucky. When I think of before—my God I I never thought I would be so lucky again."

  "It's lovely when you say that. Then I believe it too. You must say it oftener."

  "Don't I say it often enough?"

  "No."

  "Maybe," said I. "I think I'm not very loving. I don't know why, but I just can't be. Yet I would like to be."

  "You don't have to be, darling, I understand you as you are. Only sometimes one does like to hear it, all the same."

  "From now on I'll tell you every time. Even though it makes me feel absurd."

  "Ach, absurd," she replied. "In love there is nothing absurd."

  "No, thank God," said I. "Otherwise it would be dreadful to think what it turns you into."

  We had breakfast together, then Pat lay down in bed again. Jaffé had ordered it so. "Will you stay here?" she. asked from under her covers.

  "If you like," said I.

  "Of course, I like; but you don't have to—"

  I sat down by the bed. "I didn't mean it that way. I only remember you said once you didn't like people watching while you were asleep."

  "Once, yes—but now I'm frightened sometimes, by my-• self."

  "I was that way too, once. In hospital, after an operation. I used to be frightened to go to sleep at night. I would always stay awake and read or think about something, and only fall asleep when it grew light. But that passes."

  She laid her cheek on my hand. "You get frightened you won't come back, Robby."

  "Yes," said I, "but you do come back, and it passes. I'm proof of it. You always come back—if not quite to the same place."

  "That's just it," she replied already a bit sleepy, her eyes half-closed. "I'm afraid of that too. But you'll see to it, won't you?"

  "I'll see to it," said I, stroking her forehead and her hair, which also seemed to be tired. "I'm an old, wakeful soldier."

  She breathed deeper and turned a bit on her side. A minute later she was fast asleep.

  I sat by the window and looked again out into the rain. It was now driving in grey gusts past the window panes, and the house was like a little island in the endless dreariness. I was anxious, for it was rare for Pat to be dispirited and sad in the morning. But then I remembered that only a few days ago she had been still lively and gay, and that it would perhaps be all different when she woke again. I knew she thought a lot about her illness, and I knew too from Jaffé that it had not improved—but I had seen so many dead in my time, that any illness was for me still life and hope. I knew a man could die from wounds—I had had ample experience of that—but for that very reason I often found it hard to believe that an illness in which one remained exteriorly whole could be dangerous too. So I always got fairly quickly over such attacks of depression.

  There was a light knock on the door. I went across and opened. Hasse was standing outside. I put a finger to my lips and went out into the passage.

  "Excuse me," he stammered.

  "Come into my room," said I and opened the door.

  Hasse stopped on the threshold. His face seemed to have become smaller. It was white as chalk. "I only wanted to tell you
, we don't need to go out any more," said he almost without moving his lips.

  "It's all right, come in," I replied. "Fräulein Holl-mann's asleep, I have time."

  He had a letter in his hand and looked like a man who had been shot but still imagined it had been only a blow. "You read it, if you don't mind," said he and handed me the letter.

  "Have you had coffee yet?" I asked.

  He shook his head. "Read the letter—"

  I went out and gave Frida the order. Then I read the letter. It was from Frau Hasse and consisted of a few lines. She informed him that she meant to get something out of life still, so she was not coming back any more. There was somebody who understood her better than Hasse. It was no use his trying to do anything about it; she wouldn't come back under any circumstances. It was best for him too probably. He wouldn't have to worry any more now if his salary was enough or not. She had taken part of her things—she would collect the rest when it was convenient.

  It was a clear, matter-of-fact letter. I folded it and gave it back to Hasse. He looked at me as if everything depended on me.

  "What should I do?" he asked.

  "First of all drink this cup, and then have something to eat," said I. "There's no point running around and knocking yourself up. Then we'll think about it. You must try and get quite calm, then you'll make the best decision."

  Obediently he emptied the cup. His hand shook and he could eat nothing. "What shall I do?" he asked again.

  "Nothing at all," said I. "Wait."

  He made a movement.

  "What do you want to do, then?" I asked.

  "I don't know. I can't grasp it."

  I said nothing. It was difficult to say anything to him. One could only reassure him; the rest he must find for himself. He did not love the woman any more, that was obvious—but he was used to her, and for a bookkeeper habit can be more than love.

  After a while he started to talk, confused stuff that only showed how he was shaken. Then he began blaming himself. He did not say one word against his wife. He only tried to make it quite clear that the fault was his.

  "Hasse," said I, "what you're saying is just nonsense. In these things there is neither guilt nor innocence. Your wife has left you, not you her. You've no need to blame yourself."

  "Oh, yes," he replied and looked at his hands. "I haven't made a do of it."

  "What?"

  "I haven't made a do of it. That's something for blame, not to make a do."

  I glanced in surprise at the pitiful little figure in the red plush armchair.

  "Hasse," said I then, quietly, "that may be a reason, if you like, but not a matter for blame. And anyway you have made-a do of it, up to now."

  He shook his head vigorously. "No, no, I drove my wife crazy with my everlasting fear of getting the sack. And I haven't made a do of it. What was I able to offer her? Nothing-"

  He sank into a brown study. I got up and fetched the cognac bottle.

  "Let's have a drink," said I. "Nothing is lost yet."

  He raised his head.

  "Nothing is lost yet," I repeated. "A human being is lost only when he is dead."

  He nodded hastily and reached for the glass. But he put it down again without drinking.

  "I was made head clerk yesterday," said he softly. "Chief accountant and head clerk. The manager told me last night. I got it because I worked overtime all these last months. They've merged two offices. The other head clerk has been sacked. I get a rise of fifty marks." He suddenly looked at me desperately. "Do you think she would have stayed if she'd known that?"

  "No," said I.

  "Fifty marks more. I could have given them to her. She would have been able to buy things for herself. And I have twelve hundred marks in the savings bank, too. What was the use of saving now? I wanted to have something to put by for her, if things went bad with us. And now she has gone away because I did save for that."

  He stared ahead once more. "Hasse," said I, "I believe that has less to do with it than you think. You mustn't brood over it, that's all. You've only to get over the next few days. Then you'll know better what you want to do. Your wife may even be^back here this evening, or to-morrow. She will be thinking about it just as you-are."

  "She will never come back," he answered.

  "You don't know that."

  "If I could tell her that I had got a rise and that we could have a holiday and take a trip on the savings—"

  "You'll be able to tell her all that. People don't part just like that, you know."

  It surprised me that he did not seem to recognise at all that there was another man in the show. But he had apparently not got that far; he only knew that his wife was gone —all the rest lay hidden still behind a dim mist. I should have liked to tell him that in a week or two he would perhaps even be glad she was gone—but to have said so now in the midst of his trouble seemed to me unnecessarily brutal. The truth is always too brutal, almost intolerable, to injured feelings.

  I talked with him a while longer—only to let him talk I did not achieve anything—he merely went round in circles, but I had the feeling he was a bit calmer. And he drank a cognac. Then I heard Pat call next door.

  "One moment," said I and got up.

  "Yes," he replied like an obedient child and stood up likewise.

  "You stay, I'll be back in a minute."

  "Forgive me—"

  "I'll be back immediately," said I and went in to Pat.

  She was sitting upright in bed and looked fresh and well. "I've had a wonderful sleep, Robby. Is it midday already?"

  "You have been asleep exactly one hour," said I and showed her the watch.

  She looked at the hands. "So much the better; we have lots of time to ourselves still. I'll get up at once."

  "Fine. I'll come again in ten minutes."

  "Have you a visitor?"

  "Hasse," said I. "But it won't take long."

  I went back, but Hasse was not there. I opened the door into the corridor, but the passage was also empty. I went down the passage and knocked on his door. He did not answer. I opened the door and saw him standing by the chest of drawers. Some of the drawers were pulled out.

  "Hasse," said I, "take a sleeping draught and lie down and sleep on the business awhile. You're overexcited now."

  He turned slowly toward me. "Always alone, every night! Sitting around always like last night; think of it."

  I told him that would soon change, that there were lots of people who were alone at night. He made no real response. I told him again he should go to sleep, perhaps it would all turn out quite harmless yet and his wife be back by evening. He nodded and gave me his hand.

  "I'll look in again this evening," said I and went. I was glad to get away.

  Pat had the newspaper spread out before her. "We could go to the museum this morning, Robby," she suggested.

  "To the museum?" I asked.

  "Yes. There's an exhibition of Persian Carpets. You haven't often been to the museum, perhaps?"

  "Never," I replied. "What should I be doing there?"

  "True," said she laughing.

  "But that doesn't matter." I stood up. "In wet weather you can afford to do something for your education."

  We dressed and went. The air outside was lovely. It smelt of the forest and dampness. As we passed the International I saw through the open door Rosa sitting by the bar. It being Sunday, she had her cup of chocolate in front of her. On the table lay a little parcel. Evidently she intended going afterwards to see her child as usual. It was a long time since I had been in the International, and it struck me as odd that Rosa should still be sitting there, placid as ever. So much had changed with me that I thought it must have been so everywhere else.

  We arrived at the museum. I had supposed we would be pretty much alone, but to my amazement there were a great number of people there. I asked a warder what was doing.

  "Nothing," he replied. "It's always like this on free days."

  "You see," said Pat. "There
are still lots of people who are interested in such things."

  The warder pushed his cap back on his head. "It's not quite that way, lady. They are mostly unemployed. They don't come for the art, but because there's nothing else they can do. Here they do at least have something to look at."

  "That is an explanation I understand better," said I.