"The best is a real vodka," retorted Lenz.
"Madam," Alfons turned to Pat, "we have been arguing about that ever sincje 1916. It started at Verdun, and the boy still won't hear reason. However: Welcome and good health!"
We drank.
"The kümmel is excellent," said Pat. "Like cool mountain milk."
"I'm glad you noticed that. Kümmel experts are rare." Alfons took the bottle from the counter. "Another?"
"Yes," said Pat, "one more."
Alfons filled her glass. "That's the stuff, that's the stuff." He winked benignly.
Pat emptied the glass and looked at me. I took it out of her hand and offered it to Alfons. "Give me another too."
"We'll all have one," declared Alfons. "And then the jugged hare with red cabbage and apple sauce."
"Pros't, Pat," said I. "Pros't, old comrade."
As a finale Alfons played the chords of the Don Cossacks on his gramophone. It was a very soft song where the choir merely hummed like a distant organ while a solitary, clear voice floated above it. To me it was as if the door opened without a sound and an old and tired man came in, sat down in silenceat one of the tables, and was listening to the song of his youth.
"Well, lads," said Alfons as the choir hummed ever softer and softer until at last it died away like a sigh, "do you know what I always think of when I hear that? Ypres, 1917, Gottfried; March, you remember, that night when Bertelsmann—"
"Yes," said Lenz, "I remember. The night when the cherry trees—"
Alfons nodded.
Köster stood up. "I think it's time." He looked at his watch. "Yes, we must be off."
"Just one cognac," said Alfons. "The real Napoleon. I brought it up specially for you."
We drank the cognac and got ready to go.
"Au revoir, Alfons," said Pat. "I'm so glad to have been here." She gave him her hand.
Alfons turned red. He held her hand tight between his great paws. "Well, if there's anything to be done—just say the word." He looked at her with utmost embarrassment. "You belong all right. I never would have believed a woman could belong, you know."
"Thank you," said Pat, "thank you, Alfons. You couldn't have said anything nicer to me. Au revoir and all the best."
"Au revoir! Soon!" Alfons blew his nose.
Köster and Lenz took us to the station. We stopped a moment at our house and I fetched the dog. Jupp had already taken the luggage.
We arrived just in time. We were hardly aboard when the train pulled out. As the engine gathered way, Lenz hauled out of his pocket a bottle, wrapped up, and held it out to me. "Here, Bob, take it. You can always do with a drop on a journey."
"Thanks," said I, "drink it yourselves to-night. I've got some."
"Take it," replied Lenz; "you can never have too much." He ran along beside the train and threw the bottle to me. "Au revoir, Pat!" he called. "When we go broke here, we'll all come up and join you. Otto as skier, me as dancing master, Bob as pianist. Then with you we'll form a troupe and go from hotel to hotel."
The train began to go faster and Gottfried was left behind. Pat hung out the window and waved until the station disappeared behind the curve. Then she turned round. She was very pale and her eyes were shining wet. I took her in my arms. "Come," said I, "now we'll have a drink. You've done splendidly."
"I don't feel splendid, though," she replied with an effort at a smile.
"Me neither," said I. "That's why we're going to have a drink."
I opened the bottle and gave her a little cup of cognac. "Good?" I asked.
She nodded and leaned against my shoulder. "Oh, darling, what is the good?"
"You mustn't cry," said I. "I've been so proud that you haven't cried all day."
"I'm not crying," she replied, shaking her head, and the tears ran down her thin face.
"Come, drink something," said I and held her tight. "It i is always the first moment, then it's all right again."
She nodded. "Yes, Robby. But you mustn't let it worry i you. It will be over soon; don't look, that's the best. Just let me sit by myself here a few minutes, then I'll soon get over it."
"But why not? You've been so brave all day, you can cry now as much as you like."
"I wasn't brave. You didn't notice, that was all."
"Perhaps," said I; "but that is just it."
She tried to smile. "Why is that it, Robby?"
"Because you didn't give in." I stroked her hair. "So long as a man doesn't give in, he is still more than his fate. That's an old Army rule."
"It's not courage with me, darling," she murmured. "With me it is simply fear—miserable fear of the great last fear."
"That is all there is to courage, Pat."
She leaned against me. "Ach, Robby, you don't know what fear is."
"I do," I replied.
The door opened. The collector asked for the tickets. I handed them to him. "Is the sleeper for the lady?" he asked.
I nodded.
"Then you must go to the sleeping car," said he to Pat. "The ticket is not good for the other compartments."
"Very well."
"And the dog must go into the luggage van," he declared. "The dog box is in the luggage van."
"Good," said I. "Where is the sleeping car, then?"
"Behind, the third car. The luggage van is away forra'd."
He left. At his breast a little lantern dangled. It looked as if he were going along the shaft of a mine.
"Then we'll pull up our. stakes, Pat," said I. "I'll smuggle Billy in to you later. There's nothing for him in the luggage Van."
I had not taken a sleeper for myself. It was nothing to me to spend the night in a corner. Besides, it was cheaper.
Jupp had already put Pat's luggage in the sleeping car. The compartment was a pleasant little room panelled with mahogany. Pat had the lower berth. I asked the attendant if the upper one was booked.
"Yes," said he, "from Frankfurt."
"What time are we in Frankfurt?" I asked.
"Half-past two."
I gave him a tip and he went back to his corner. "In half an hour I'll be back here with the dog."
"But you can't do that; the attendant stays in the car."
"Can't I? Only don't lock your door."
I went back past the attendant, who looked at me. At the next station I got out with the dog and walked along the platform past the sleeper to the next carriage. There I waited until the attendant got out to have a chat with the guard. Then I got in again, walked back along the corridor to the sleeping car, and came to Pat without being seen by anyone.
She had on a soft white cloak and looked lovely. Her eyes were shining. "I'm quite over it now, Robby," said she.
"That's good. But won't you lie down? It's mighty narrow here. Then I'll sit beside you."
"Yes, but—" She hesitated and pointed to the upper bunk. "What if the President of the League for Fallen Girls suddenly appears in the doorway?"
"It's a long time to Frankfurt yet," said I. "I'll watch out. I won't fall asleep."
Shortly before Frankfurt I went back to my compartment. I sat in the corner by the window and tried to sleep. But at Frankfurt a chap with a walrus moustache got in, immediately unpacked a parcel, and began eating. He ate so intensively that I couldn't get to sleep. The meal lasted almost an hour. Then the walrus wiped his whiskers, stretched out, and started a concert the like of which I had never heard before. It was not a simple snore; it was a howling sigh punctuated with groans and long-drawn blubberings. I could discover no system in it, it was so varied. Fortunately about half-past five he got out.
When I waked, everywhere outside was white. It was snowing in great flakes and the compartment was bathed in a strange unearthly twilight. We were already passing through the mountains. It was almost nine o'clock. I stretched and then went to wash and shave. When I returned Pat was standing in the compartment. She looked fresh.
"Did you sleep well?" I asked.
She nodded.
"And
what sort of old witch did you have in the top bunk?"
"Young and pretty. She's called Helga Guttmann, and she's going to the same sanatorium as I am."
"Really?"
"Yes, Robby. But you've slept badly, that's evident. You must have a good breakfast."
"Coffee," said I. "Coffee with a dash of cherry."
We went to the dining car. I was suddenly quite cheerful again. Things didn't seem so bad as last night.
Helga Guttmann was already there. She was a slim, lively girl of southern type. "Extraordinary," said I, "that you should meet like that, going to the same sanatorium."
"Not so extraordinary at all," she replied.
I looked at her. She laughed. "All the birds migrating gather about this time. Over there—" she pointed to the corner of the dining car—"the whole table is going too."
"How do you know that?" I asked.
"I know everyone from last time. Everybody knows everybody else up there."
The waiter came with the coffee. "And bring me a large cherry brandy as well," said I. I had to have something to drink. It was suddenly all so simple. There were people sitting there who were going to the sanatorium for the second time, even, and they seemed to make no more of it than if they were going for a walk. It was stupid to be so frightened. Pat would come back, just as all these people had come back. I didn't stay to think that all these people were now going up again—it was enough to know that you did come back and have another whole year before you. In a year a lot can happen. The past had taught us to work on short credits.
We arrived late in the afternoon. The weather had cleared, the sun shone golden on the fields of snow, and the sky was bluer than we had seen it for weeks. At the station a crowd of people were waiting. They shouted greetings and waved and the new arrivals waved back from the train. Helga Guttmann was carried off by a laughing, fair-headed woman and two fellows in bright plus-fours. She was quite excited and giddy, as if she had come home again after a long absence. "Au revoir, afterwards, up top," she called to us, getting into a sleigh with her friends.
The people dispersed rapidly and a few minutes later we were alone on the platform. A porter came up to us. "What hotel?" he asked.
"Sanatorium Waldfrieden," I replied.
He nodded and signalled a driver. The two stowed our luggage into a bright blue sleigh, harnessed to a pair of white horses. The horses had gay tufts of feathers on their heads and the vapour of their breath drifted round their snouts like a cloud of mother-of-pearl.
We got in. "Do you want to go to the funicular, or up by sleigh?" asked the driver.
"How far is it with the sleigh?"
"Half an hour."
"Then by sleigh."
The driver clucked with his tongue and we set off. The road led out of the village and then zigzagged upwards. The sanatorium lay on a height above the village. It was an elongated, white structure with long series of windows. In front of each window was a balcony. On the roof a flag waved in the wind. I had expected it to be fitted up like a hospital, but on the ground floor at least it was more like a hotel. In the hall was a big open fire and a number of small tables spread with tea things.
We reported ourselves at the office. A manservant fetched in our luggage and an elderly woman explained that Pat had room Number 79. I enquired if I could also have a room, for a few days.
She shook her head. "Not in the sanatorium. But in the annex, perhaps."
"Where's the annex?"
"Right alongside."
"Good," said I; "then give me a room there and have my luggage sent over."
We travelled in a perfectly silent lift up to the second floor.
Up there it did look rather more like a hospital—a very comfortable hospital, it'is true, but nevertheless a hospital. White passages, white doors, everywhere sparkling with glass, nickel, and cleanliness. A sister in charge received us. "Fräulein Hollmann?"
"Yes," said Pat. "Room Seventy-nine, isn't it?"
The sister nodded, went ahead and opened a door. "Here is your room."
It was a bright, middle-sized room into which the evening sun was shining through a wide window. On the table was a vase of blue and red asters, and outside lay the brilliant snow fields in which the village nestled as under a great white blanket.
"Do you like it?" I asked Pat.
She looked at me a moment. "Yes," she then said.
The manservant brought the trunks. "When must I be examined?" Pat asked the sister.
"To-morrow morning. You had better go to sleep early to-night so that you'll be rested."
Pat took off her coat and laid it on the white bed, above, which a new temperature chart had been placed.
"Must I do anything now?" asked Pat.
The sister shook her head. "Not to-day. Not till after the examination to-morrow will anything be settled. The examination's at ten. I'll fetch you."
"Thank you, sister," said Pat.
The nurse went. The manservant still waited at the door. I gave him a tip and he also went. It suddenly was very still in the room. Pat was standing at the window looking out. Her head was quite dark against the glow outside.
"Are you tired?" I asked.
She turned round. "No."
"You look it," said I.
"I'm tired another way, Robby. But I've plenty of time for that."
"Do you want to change?" I asked. "Or should we go down for an hour first? I think it would be better if we went down first."
"Yes," said she, "it would be better."
We went down again in the soundless lift and sat at one of the little tables in the hall. After a while Helga Guttmann arrived with her friends. They joined us. Helga Guttmann was excited and of a rather overheated gaiety, but I was glad she was there and that Pat already had some acquaintances. It is always hard going the first days.
Chapter XXII
A week later I returned. From the station I went straight to the workshop. It was evening when I arrived and still raining; it seemed years since I had left with Pat.
Köster and Lenz were sitting in the office. "You've come just in time," said Gottfried.
"Why, what's the matter?" I asked.
"Let the man get in the door first," said Köster.
I sat down.
"How's Pat?" asked Otto.
"All right. Right as may be. But, tell me, what's the trouble?"
It had to do with the Stutz. We had completed the repairs and delivered the car a fortnight ago. Yesterday Köster had gone to get the money. But in the meantime the fellow to whom the car belonged had gone bankrupt, and the car had been lumped in with the assets.
"It's not so bad, though," said I. "We're only concerned with the insurance."
"So we thought," said Lenz dryly. "But the car's not insured."
"Damn! Is that so, Otto?"
Köster nodded. "Only found out to-day."
"That's what we get for being Good Samaritans, to say nothing of the hiding the bus cost us," Lenz muttered. "Now to carry the baby to the tune of four thousand marks!"
"Would you believe it!" said I.
Lenz started to laugh. "It's damned funny!"
"And now, what, Otto?" I asked.
"I've lodged our claim with the receivers. But I don't expect much will come of it."
"We'll have to shut up shop, that's what," said Gottfried.
"Possible," admitted Köster.
Lenz got up. "Equanimity and a brave face in difficult circumstances are the ornament of the soldier." He went to the cupboard and fetched the cognac.
"After this spot of cognac we'll be needing an heroic face," said I. "If I'm not mistaken it's our last good bottle."
"An heroic face, my boy," replied Lenz scornfully, "is something for difficult times. But we're living in desperate, times. The only suitable face for that is the comic." He emptied his glass. "Now I think I'll saddle Rosinante and go and round up a bit of small change."
He crossed the dark courtyard and went out wi
th the taxi. Köster and I continued to sit.
"Stiff luck, Otto," said I. "We've had a damned lot of it lately."
"I learned in the Army not to worry more than is useful," replied Köster. "And that's plenty. What was it like up the mountains?"
Three Comrades Page 35
