"I'll see to it that I come and visit you sometime, Pat," said I.
"Really, Robby?"
"Yes, at the end of January, perhaps."
I knew it was hardly likely, for from February on we would have to rake up the money for the sanatorium. But I said it, so that she should have something she could think about. Then later it wouldn't be so difficult to postpone it until the day came when she would return.
"Good-bye, Pat," said I. "Look after yourself. Be happy, then I shall be happy too. Be happy to-night."
"Yes, Robby, I am happy, now."
I collected Georg and went with him to the Café" International. The smoky old shack was hardly recognisable. The Christmas tree was burning and its warm light reflected in all the bottles and glasses and in the nickel and copper of the bar. The pros'titutes in evening dresses decked with false jewellery were seated expectantly around the table.
Sharply at eight o'clock the glee-party of the cattlemen's club marched in. They formed up by the door, according to parts, first tenor on the right down to second bass away on the left. Stefan Grigoleit, widower and pig dealer, produced a tuning fork, gave out the notes and then they started in four voices:
O Holy Night, fill thou our hearts with heavenly peace, Give the poor pilgrim rest; pour balm upon his hurt, The stars are shining brightly, bright in the blue sky, Seeking to lead me back to thee—heavenward, home.
"So moving," said Rosa wiping her eyes.
The second verse died away. Thunderous applause resounded. The glee-party bowed its thanks. Stefan Grfgbleit mopped the perspiration from his forehead. "Beethoven is still Beethoven," he declared. No one contradicted. Stefan stowed away his sweat rag. "And now to arms."
The dinner table was in the big clubroom. In the centre on silver dishes over little spirit lamps, crisp and brown, reigned the twin suckling-pigs. They had lemons in their snouts, blazing fir trees on their backs and were surprised at nothing any more.
Alois turned out in newly dyed tails, a gift from the proprietor. He brought half a dozen pitchers of Steinhager and filled the glasses. With him came Potter of the Cremation Society, who had just been attending a funeral. "Peace on earth," said he magnificently, shaking hands with Rosa and taking a place beside her.
Stefen Grigoleit, who at once invited Georg to join them at the table, stood up and delivered the briefest and best speech of his life. He raised his glass of sparkling gin, looked around beaming, and cried "pros't!" Then he sat down again and Alois brought in the trotters, sauerkraut and chipped potatoes. The host arrived with big tall glasses of Pilsener beer.
"Eat slowly, Georg," said I. "Your stomach has to accustom itself to the fatty meat first."
"I have to accustom myself altogether first," he replied and looked at me.
"That won't take long," said I. "No comparisons, that's all. Then it goes all right."
He nodded and bent again over his plate.
Suddenly there arose a quarrel at the far end of the table. Potter's crowing voice was audible above the din. He had been trying to get one of the guests, Busch, a cigar merchant, to drink with him, but Busch had refused on the ground that he didn't want to drink, so as to be able to eat more.
"That's damned nonsense," snapped Potter. "To eat you have to drink. If you drink you can even eat more."
"Rot," boomed Busch, a gaunt, tall fellow with a flat nose and horn-rimmed spectacles.
Potter leapt up. " 'Rot?' You say that to me, you tobacco owl?"
"Peace," called Stefan Grigoleit. "No rows on Christmas Eve."
He had them explain what the trouble was and delivered a Solomon's judgment. The matter should be tried out. In front of each of the disputants were placed several plates of equal size with meat, potatoes and sauerkraut. They were enormous portions. Potter was allowed to drink whatever, he liked, Busch was to stay dry. To add spice to the whole, bets were laid on the two rivals. Grigoleit conducted the totalisator.
Potter built up a garland of beer glasses around him, and in between little glasses, like diamonds, of Steinhager. The betting was three to one in his favour. Then Grigoleit signalled the start.
Busch ate away doggedly, bent low over his plate. Potter fought in an open, upright posture. With every swig he took he gave Busch an exulting pros't, to which the latter replied with a spiteful look.
"I feel bad," said Georg to me.
"Come out with me." I took him to the lavatory and then sat down in the outer room to wait for him. The sweet smell of the candles mingled with the crackle and the smell of burning pine needles. And suddenly it was as if I heard the light, loved footstep, felt the warm breath, and saw before me two eyes . . .
"Damn," said I and stood up. "What's the matter with me?"
At the same moment I heard a mighty roar. "Potter! Bravo Aloysius!"
Cremation had won.
In the back room cigars were smoking and the cognac was passed around. I continued to sit by the bar. The girls came in whispering eagerly.
"What are you up to?" I asked.
"We get our presents now," replied Marian.
"Ach, so." I leaned my head against the bar and tried to think what Pat would be doing now. I pictured the hall of the sanatorium, the open fire and Pat at a table by the window with Helga Guttmann and some other people I didn't know. It was all so dreadfully far away. . . . Sometimes I used to think that one day I should wake up, and all that had been would be over, forgotten, sunk, drowned. Nothing was sure—not even memory.
A bell rang. The girls ran across to the billiard room like a flock of hens at feeding-time. There stood Rosa with the bell. She beckoned me to come too.
On the billiard table under a little Christmas tree stood an array of plates covered with tissue paper. On each lay a slip of paper with the name, and under it the parcels with the presents that the girls were giving one another. Rosa had arranged it all. Each girl had had to give her presents for the others, wrapped up, to Rosa, and she had distributed them over the several plates.
The girls in their excitement tumbled over one another, like children in their haste to see as quickly as possible what they had got.
"Won't you look at your plate?" asked Rosa.
"What plate?" :
"Yours. There are presents for you too."
Sure enough, there stood my name in two colours, red and black, and capitals even. Apples, nuts, oranges—a pullover from Rosa, knitted herself, a grey-green tie from the hostess, a pair of real artificial silk pink socks from Kiki, a leather belt from Wally the beautiful, a half-bottle of rum from Alois the waiter, half a dozen handkerchiefs from Marian, Lina, and Mimi together, and from the host two bottles of cognac.
"Boys," said I, "boys, but this is most unexpected."
"A surprise, eh?" cried Rosa.
"Absolutely."
I stood there confounded, and, damn it, was touched to the marrow.
"Lads," said I, "do you know when I last got a Christmas present? I don't even remember. It must have been before the war. But now I have nothing at all for you!"
There was an immense outburst of delight that I had been so completely outwitted.
"Because you've always played something for us," said Lina, blushing.
"Yes, play something for us, that's your present," declared Rosa.
"Anything you like," said I. "Everything you like."
"Something out of childhood," called Marian.
"No, something cheerful," opposed Kiki.
He was overruled. He never quite counted as a man in any case. I sat down to the piano and began. They all sang with me.
Out of my childhood—comes a song to me . . .
Oh, how far off now lies—the land that once was mine . . .
The hostess turned out all the electric lights. Only the soft light of the candles remained. The beer tap trickled gently like some spring in the woods and the flat-footed Alois hovered in the background to and fro like a dark Pan. I started the second verse. With shining eyes and good little
middle-class faces the girls stood around the piano—but look, who is that snivelling tears? Kiki, Kiki from Luckenwalde.
Softly the door opened from the big clubroom. Humming melodiously, the glee-party goose-stepped in and took up position behind the girls, Grigoleit leading with a black Brazilian cigar.
When first I said farewell—the world seemed full to me,
When I came back again—it all was gone . . .
Softly the mixed chorus died away. "Beautiful," said Lina.
Rosa lit the magic candles. They hissed and sprayed.
"So, and now for something jolly," she called. "We must cheer Kiki up."
"Me too," said Stefan Grigoleit.
At eleven Köster and Lenz arrived. With Georg, still pale, we sat at a table by the bar. To steady him up, Georg was given a couple of slices of dry bread to eat. Soon after Lenz was lost to view in the tumult of the cattlemen. A quarter of an hour later he turned up at the bar with Grigoleit. The two had linked arms and were pledging eternal brotherhood.
"Stefan," said Grigoleit.
"Gottfried," replied Lenz and both tipped the cognac down.
"I'll send you a parcel of blood and liver sausage to-morrow, Gottfried. Suit you?"
"Down to the ground." Lenz clapped him on the shoulder. "Good old Stefan!"
Stefan beamed. "You have a grand laugh," said he, "I like people who can laugh well. I get so easily depressed myself, that's my weakness."
"Mine too," said Lenz, "that's why I laugh, of course. Come, Bob, have one with us to endless world laughter."
I went across to them. "What's up with the lad there?" asked Stefan, pointing to Georg. "He looks mighty depressed too."
"It wouldn't take much to make him happy, though," said I. "All he wants is a bit of work."
"Not so easy," replied Stefan, "nowadays."
"He'll do anything."
"Everybody will do anything nowadays." Stefan grew soberer.
"He only needs seventy-five marks a month."
"Impossible. He couldn't live on that."
"He does live on it," said Lenz.
"Gottfried," replied Grigoleit, "I'm an old toper. Good. But work's a serious matter. It's not a thing you give to-day and take away to-morrow. That's worse than letting a man marry and taking his wife away again in the morning. But if the lad's honest and can live on seventy-five marks he's had a hell of a time. He can report to me at eight o'clock Tuesday. I need an assistant with my running-about for the club and so on. Now and then there's a parcel of meat thrown in. Looks as if he ought to have something between his ribs."
"Is that honour bright?"
"It's the honour bright of Stefan Grigoleit."
"Georg," I called. "Here a minute."
He started to shake when he heard it. I went back to Köster.
"Listen, Otto," said I, "if you could live your life over again, would you like to?"
"Just as it was?"
"Yes."
"No."
"Me neither," said I.
Chapter XXIV
It was a cold night in January, three weeks later, and I was sitting in the International playing vingt-et-un with the proprietor. The place was deserted, not even the pros'titutes had come. There was unrest in the city. Every few minutes columns marched past outside, some with crashing military marches, others to the tune of the Internationale, and then again silent, long processions with placards carried in advance demanding work and bread. The beat of the many footsteps on the pavement was like the inexorable ticking of some gigantic clock. During the afternoon there had already been a clash between strikers and the police; twelve people had been hurt, and for hours the entire force had been standing to. The whistle of motor ambulances shrilled through the streets.
"There's no rest," said the proprietor, showing a sixteen. "Ever since the war there's been no rest. And yet we all wanted nothing else then, but rest. Crazy world."
I showed seventeen and raked in the pot.
"It's not the world that's crazy," said I. "It's the people in it."
Alois, who was standing behind the proprietor, rocking backwards and forwards on his toes, interjected: "They aren't crazy, merely covetous. One grudges the other. And because there's too much of everything, most have nothing at all. It's only a matter of distribution."
"True," said I and passed with two cards. "But that's been the trouble for a few thousand years."
The proprietor laid down his cards. He had fifteen and eyed me doubtfully. Then he bought one, an ace, and was cooked. I showed my cards. They were only twelve pips and he might have won already with his fifteen.
"Damn, I'm stopping now," he cursed, "that was a low-down bluff. I thought you had eighteen at least."
Alois chuckled. "That's the way they play in the infantry."
I raked in the money. The proprietor yawned and looked at his watch. 'Nearly eleven. I think we'll shut down. Nobody else is coming."
"Here comes someone now," said Alois.
The door opened. It was Köster. "Anything fresh outside, Otto?"
He nodded. "A hall fight at the Borussia rooms. Two badly hurt, a few dozen slightly injured and about a hundred arrests. Two shootings in the north. One bobby dead. Don't know how many hurt. But the fun will probably only start when the mass meetings finish. Are you through here?"
"Yes," said I. "We were just about to close down."
"Then come along."
I looked across at the proprietor. He nodded. "So long, then," said I.
"So long," replied the proprietor indolently. "Look after yourselves."
We went. Outside it smelt like snow. Broadsheets were lying on the street like big, white, dead butterflies.
"Gottfried's missing," said Köster. "He's in one of these mass meetings. I hear they're going to be broken up, and imagine anything might happen. It would be good if we could nab him before the finish. He's not exactly the coolest of people."
"Do you know where he is then?" I asked.
"Not exactly. But almost certainly at one of the three main meetings. We must do the round. Gottfried's pretty easy to spot with his yellow top."
"Good." We got in and set off with the car for the first meeting place.
On the street was a lorry with police. The straps of their helmets were lowered. Carbine barrels glimmered dully in the lamplight. Coloured banners were hanging from the windows. Crowded in the entrance were a number of people in uniform. Nearly all were very young.
We bought two tickets, declined pamphlets, collecting boxes and membership cards, and went into the hall. It was crowded and well lighted in order that interrupters could be spotted immediately. We stayed near the entrance and Köster ran his keen eyes over the rows.
On the platform was a powerful, stocky fellow, talking. He had a full chesty voice that could be understood without difficulty in the remotest corner. It was a voice that carried conviction without one's heeding, much what it. said. And what it did say was easy to understand. The man walked about the stage, casually, with little movements of his arms, off and on drank a mouthful of water and cracked a joke. But then suddenly he stood still, turned full on the audience, and in a changed, shrill voice, whipped out sentence after sentence, truths that everybody knew of misery, starvation, unemployment, climbing all the time higher and higher, sweeping his hearers along with him till in a furioso he smashed out, "This cannot go on I This must be changed!"
The audience roared applause, it clapped and yelled, as if that had already changed everything. The man above waited. His face shone. And then it came—broad, persuasive, irresistible—promise after promise; it simply rained promises; a paradise was built up over the assembled heads; domes majestically coloured—it was a lottery where every loser was a winner, and in which every man found his private happiness, his private right and his private revenge.
I looked at the audience. They were people of every calling—clerks, little business people, civil servants, a sprinkling of workers and lots of women. They sat ther
e in the hot hall, leaning back or looking forward, row upon row, cheek by jowl, the torrent of words pouring over them, and it was curious—different as they all were, the faces had all the same absent expression, a sleepy yearning look into the remoteness of some misty Fata Morgana; there was vacancy in it, and at the same time a supreme expectancy that obliterated everything—criticism, doubt, contradictions and questions, the obvious, the present, reality. He, up there, knew everything—had an answer for every question, a help for every need. It was good to trust oneself to him. It was good to have someone to think for one. It was good to believe.
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