Three Comrades

by Erich Maria Remarque

  "He's been running round to every political meeting there has been, for months now," replied Georg out of the dark.

  "Ach, so!"

  Orlow and Erna Bönig had gone already. Frau Zalewski started to weep.

  "Don't take it to heart too much," said I. "It's all past mending now."

  "It is too dreadful," she sobbed. "I must move, I will never get over the sight."

  "You'll get over it all right," said I. "I saw some hundreds of people like that once. Gassed Englishmen. I got over it all right."

  I shook hands with Georg and went to my room. It was dark. Involuntarily I glanced toward the window before I switched on the light. Then I listened across into Pat's room. She was asleep. I went to the cupboard, took out the bottle of cognac and poured myself a glass. It was good cognac, and it was good to have it. I put the bottle on the table. The last glass out of it Hasse had drunk. I reflected that it would have been better not to have left him by himself. I felt depressed, but I could not reproach myself. I had done so many things that I knew either everything one did was cause for reproach, or there was none at all. It had been Hasse's bad luck that it had happened to him on a Sunday. On a weekday he would have gone to the office and perhaps have gotten over it.

  I drank another cognac. There was no use thinking about it. Who knows what may not be in store for himself? No man knows but that the person he is sorry for, now, may not some day be thought lucky.

  I heard Pat stir, and went across. She looked up at me. "I'm past praying for, Robby," said she. "There I've been fast asleep again."

  "That's good, though," I replied.

  "No." She propped herself on her elbows. "I don't want to sleep so much."

  "Why not? There are times when I'd like to sleep right through the next fifty years."

  "But you wouldn't like being fifty years older when you waked up."

  "I don't know. You could only tell that afterwards."

  "Are you depressed?" she asked.

  "No," said I. "The contrary. I've just decided that we are going to dress and go out and have a perfectly marvellous supper. Everything that you most like. And we'll get a bit drunk as well."

  "That's fine," she replied. "But does that belong to our bankrupt state, do you think?"

  "Yes," said I, "a direct consequence."

  Chapter XXI

  In the middle of October Jaffé sent for me. It was ten in the morning, but the weather was so dull that the light was still burning in the clinic. It mingled with the misty gloom from outside to make a pallid, sickly brightness.

  Jaffé was sitting alone in his big consulting room. He raised his bald, shiny head as I entered. He pointed ill-humouredly to the big window against which the rain was beating. "What do you think of this damned weather?"

  I gave a shrug. "Let's hope it will stop soon."

  "That won't stop."

  He looked at me and said nothing. Then he took up a pencil from the desk, contemplated it, tapped with it on the table and put it aside again.

  "I can imagine why you sent for me," said I.

  Jaffé muttered something.

  I waited a moment. Then I said: "Pat must go away soon now, I suppose—"

  "Yes."

  Jaffé stared moodily ahead. "I had reckoned on the end of October. But with this weather—" He reached again for the silver pencil.

  The wind flung a shower of rain rattling against the window. It sounded like distant machine-gun fire. "When do you think she should go?" I asked.

  Lifting his eyes he looked at me suddenly full in the face.

  "To-morrow," said he.

  For a second I felt the ground go from under my feet. The air was like cotton wool and stuck in my lungs. Then it passed, and I asked as calmly as I could—but my voice came from far away as if somebody else spoke: "Has it suddenly become so much worse?"

  Jaffé shook his head vigorously and stood up. "If it had changed so quickly, she wouldn't be able to travel at all," he declared unamiably. "It is better, that's all. With this weather every day is a risk. Colds and so on—"

  He took some letters from his desk. "I have already made arrangements. You have only to go. I've known the doctorin charge of the sanatorium since my student days. He is very sound. I've given him all details."

  He handed me the letters. I took them, but did not put them in my pocket. He looked at me, then he passed in front of me and placed a hand on my arm. It was light as a bird's wing; I hardly felt it at all. "Difficult," said he softly, in a changed tone. "I know it. That's why I have delayed as long as I could."

  "It is not difficult—" I replied.

  He made a gesture. "Don't tell me—"

  "No," said I, "I didn't mean that. I'd only like to know: will she come back?"

  Jaffé was silent a moment. His dark, narrow eyes gleamed in the sad, yellow light. "What do you want to know that for now?" he asked after a while.

  "Because otherwise it would be better she shouldn't go," said I.

  He looked up at me swiftly. "What did you say?"

  "Otherwise it would be better she should stay here."

  He stared at me. "Do you know what that would almost certainly mean?" he then asked softly and sharply.

  "Yes," said I. "It would mean that she would not die alone. And what that means I know too."

  Jaffé lifted his shoulders as if his flesh crept. Then he walked slowly to the window and looked out into the rain. When he returned his face was like a mask. He stopped full in front of me. "How old are you?" he asked.

  "Thirty," I replied. I did not understand what he was getting at.

  "Thirty," he repeated in an emphatic tone as if he were talking to himself and had not understood me at all. "Thirty; my Godl" He walked to his desk and stood there, small and strangely absent, quite forlorn beside the enormous bare desk. "I'll be sixty soon, now," said he, without looking at me; "but I couldn't do that. I would still try everything; still try, and even though I knew perfectly well it was hopeless."

  I said nothing. Jaffé stood there as if he had forgotten everything around him. Then he made a movement and his face lost the look. He smiled. "I believe definitely she will get through the winter quite well."

  "Only the winter?" I asked.

  "I hope, then, that in the spring she will be able to come down again."

  "Hope," said I. "What does that mean?"

  "Everything," replied Jaffé. "Always everything. I can't tell you more now. The rest is possibility. One must wait and see how things go up there. But I definitely hope she will be able to come back in the spring." '

  "Definitely."

  "Yes." He walked around the desk and with his foot kicked an open drawer shut so violently that the glasses rattled. "Damn it, man, it goes hard enough with me myself that she must go!" he muttered.

  A nurse came in. Jaffé waved her away. But she stood nevertheless, dumpy, four-square, with a bulldog face under grey hair.

  "Afterwards," growled. Jaffé. "Come again afterwards."

  The nurse turned away irritably. As she went she switched off the electric light. Grey and milky the day suddenly stood in the room. Jaffé's face was pale all at once. "Old witch," said he. "Twenty years now I've been meaning to get rid of her. But she's too good." Then he turned to me. "Well?"

  "We go to-night," said I.

  "To-night?"

  "Yes. If it has to be, then to-day is better than to-morrow. I'll take her. I can get away for a few days."

  He nodded and shook hands.

  I went. The way to the door seemed very far.

  Outside I stopped and stood. I noticed I had the letters still in my hand. The rain was beating on the paper. I wiped the letters and put them in my breast pocket. Then I looked around. An omnibus pulled up just in front of the house. It was chock-full and a swarm of people crowded out. Some girls in black shining mackintoshes were laughing with the guard. He was young and the white teeth flashed in his tanned face. It can't be, thought I, that can't all be. So much life
, and Pat must go!

  Ringing, the bus drove off. Its wheels spurted a swathe of water over the footpath. I walked on to tell Köster and to get the tickets.

  At noon I came home. I had fixed everything and already wired the sanatorium. "Pat," said I, still in the doorway, "can you have everything packed by this evening?"

  "Must I go?" ,

  "Yes," said I. "Yes, Pat."

  "By myself?"

  "No. We're going together. I'm taking you."

  Her face regained colour. "When must I be ready then?" she asked.

  "The train leaves to-night at ten."

  "And are you going out again now?"

  "No. I'm staying here till we leave."

  She took a deep breath. "Then it's quite simple, Robby," said she. "Should we begin at once?"

  "We've time still."

  "I'd rather begin at once. Then it will be done."

  "Right."

  I quickly stowed in the few things I wanted to take with me and was finished in half an hour. Then I went across to Frau Zalewski and told her we were leaving in the evening. I paid her for the room up to the first of November, unless she were able to let it earlier. She wanted to start a long discussion, but I went back again quickly.

  Pat was kneeling in front of her wardrobe trunk. Around it hung her dresses, on the bed lay linen, and she was now packing in her shoes. I recalled that she had knelt just so when she moved into this room and unpacked, and it seemed to me as if that was an endless long time ago, and yet only yesterday . . .

  She looked up.

  "Are you taking your silver dress too?" I asked.

  She nodded. "What shall we do with the rest of the things, Robby? With the furniture?"

  "I've already spoken to Frau Zalewski. As much as I can I'm taking into my room. The rest we'll give to a removal firm to store. Then we'll take it out again when you come back."

  "When I come back," said she.

  "Yes," I replied, "in the spring, when you come back all brown from the sun."

  I helped her to pack, and by afternoon, when it was already turning dark outside, we had done. It was queer— the furniture was still all in the same place, only the cupboards and drawers were empty, and yet the room appeared suddenly bare and depressing.

  Pat sat on her bed. She looked tired. "Should I make a light?" I asked.

  She shook her head. "Leave it so awhile."

  I sat beside her. "Would you like a cigarette?" I asked.

  "No, Robby. Only to sit a bit like this."

  I stood up and went to the window. Outside the street lamps were burning unsteadily in the rain. The trees were tossing in the wind. Below, Rosa walked slowly by. Her high boots gleamed. She had a parcel under her arm and was on her way to the International. She had her knitting with her apparently, to do some woollen things for her youngster. Fritzi and Marian followed her, both in new, white, close-fitting raincoats, and presently Mimi trailed after them, bedraggled and tired.

  I turned round. It had now become so dark that I could not see Pat any more. I only heard her breathing. Slowly and dismally behind the trees of the graveyard the electric signs started to climb upward. The red lettering of the cigarette advertisement lay like some gay ceremonial decoration across the roofs of the houses, the blue and emerald circles of the wine merchants started spraying, and the bright contours of the laundry sign lit up. Their light shed a soft, confused glow through the window on to the wall and the bedcover. It wandered to and fro, and the room suddenly seemed like a lost little diving-bell on the floor of the ocean, around which the rain waves washed, and down to which penetrated, out of the far distance, a feeble glimmer of the gay world.

  It was eight o'clock. Outside a klaxon sounded. "That's Gottfried with the taxi," said I. "He's come to get us for supper."

  I stood up, went to the window and called down that we were coming. Then I switched on the little pocket lamp and went into my room. It was damned strange to me. I took the rum bottle and drank a quick glass. Then I sat in the armchair and stared at the carpet. After a while I stood up again and went to the washstand to brush my hair. I forgot what I was doing, for I suddenly saw my face in the glass. Cold and curious, I contemplated it. I contracted my lips and grinned at it. It grinned back, tense and pale. "You," said I, soundlessly. Then I went back to Pat.

  "Shall we go, old man?" I asked.

  "Yes," said she; "but I want to go into your room once more."

  "Why?" I replied. "The old shack—"

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

  I waited for some time, then I went across. She was standing in the middle of the room and started when she caught sight of me. I had never seen her like that before. She was utterly extinguished. It was only a second; then she was smiling again.

  "Come," said she. "Now let us go."

  At the kitchen Frau Zalewski was awaiting us. Her grey locks were waved and she was wearing the brooch with the late Zalewski of blessed memory, on the black silk dress. "Look out," I whispered to Pat, "she'll hug you."

  The next moment Pat had already disappeared into the capacious bosom. The big face above her was twitching. It was only a matter of seconds and Pat must be overwhelmed. When Frau Zalewski wept her eyes were like syphon bottles under pressure.

  "Pardon me," said I, "we must go quickly. It's high time."

  "High time?" Frau Zalewski surveyed me with an annihilating glance. "The train doesn't leave for two hours. In the meantime I suppose you will make the poor child drunk!"

  Pat had to laugh. "No, Frau Zalewski. We only want to say good-bye to the others."

  Mother Zalewski shook her head incredulously. "You see in this young man a golden bowl, Fräulein Hollmann. At the best he is a golden schnapps bottle." • "A very nice picture," said I.

  "My child—" Frau Zalewski was again seized with emotion. "Come back again soon. Your room is always there for you. And if the Kaiser himself is in it, he will have to go out, when you come."

  "Thank you, Frau Zalewski," said Pat. "Many thanks for everything. For the card-telling too. I will remember it all."

  "That's right. And take care of yourself and get quite well again."

  "Yes," said Pat. "I'll try. Au revoir, Frau Zalewski. Au revoir, Frida."

  We went. The passage door banged to, behind us. On the staircase it was half-dark; some of the electric lights were burnt out. Pat was silent as she descended the stairs softly and lightly. I felt as if a leave were over and we were now going in the grey dawn to the railway station, to go to the front.

  Lenz opened the door of the taxi. "Mind," said he.

  The car was full of roses. Two enormous sprays of white and red roses were lying on the back seats. I recognised at once where they came from—the cathedral garden. "The last," announced Gottfried, well pleased with himself. "Cost a certain amount of trouble, too. Had to have a longish argument with a priest about it."

  "Was it one with clear, blue, childlike eyes?" I asked.

  "Aha, you too, brother!" replied Gottfried. "It was you he told me about then. The old boy was mighty disappointed when he realized what the doing the Stations was all about. He was beginning to think the piety of the male population was on the increase."

  "Did he let you get away with the flowers then?" I asked.

  "He allowed himself to be persuaded. In the end he even helped me pick them." Gottfried's nose wrinkled.

  Pat laughed. "Is that true?"

  Gottfried grinned. "Of course. It was marvellous to see the holy gentleman jumping in the twilight for the highest branches. He developed a real sporting spirit. Told me that he had been a good footballer at the University. Inside right, I think."

  "You have led a priest to steal," said I. "That'll cost you a few hundred years' purgatory. But where's Otto?"

  "He's at Alfons' already. We are having supper at Alfons', I suppose?"

  "Yes, of course," said Pat.

  "Right, off we go then."

  Alfons was awaiting u
s in striped trousers, morning coat and silver-grey tie.

  "Going to a wedding?" asked Lenz.

  "No, but I know what is fitting," announced Alfons, kissing Pat's hand. The seams of his too-tight coat creaked, his mountain of muscles swelled so.

  "Quick, have you got anything stiff to drink?" Lenz wiped his hand across his eyes as if he had seen an apparition.

  Alfons straightened and majestically signalled Hans, the waiter, who brought a tray with glasses. "Say what you like, Gottfried, kümmel is the best appetizer."