Three Comrades

by Erich Maria Remarque

  Köster gave me a prod. Lenz wasn't there. He signed with his head toward the exit. I nodded and we went. The ushers followed us with suspicious, evil looks. In the anteroom was a band ready to march into the hall, behind them a forest of banners and symbols.

  "Well done, eh?" asked Köster when we were outside.

  "First rate. As an old propaganda merchant I'm a judge of that."

  We drove on a few streets farther. Here was the'second political meeting. Other banners, other uniforms, another hall; but for the rest identical. On the faces the same expression of undefined hope and credulous vacancy. The white-covered committee table faced the rows of chairs; at it the party secretaries, the committee, a few zealous old spinsters. The speaker, an official type, was feebler than the last. He talked paper German, adduced statistics, proofs; all that he said was true, but for all that he was not so convincing as the other, who proved nothing but merely made statements. Wearily the party secretaries at the committee table gazed sleepily ahead; they had hundreds of such meetings behind them.

  "Come on," said Köster after a while. "He's not here either. I hardly expected it anyway."

  We drove on. The air was cold and fresh after the used-up atmosphere of the over-full halls. The car shot through the streets. We came along by the canal. The street lamps cast only oily yellow reflections on the dark water that lapped softly on the concrete bank. A barge moved, black and slow, across. The tug had red and green signal lights out. A dog barked, then a man passed in front of the light and disappeared into a hatchway which shone out golden for an instant. On the far side of the canal the houses of the West End lay brilliantly lighted. The arch of a bridge swung from them to the other side. Unceasingly cars, buses and electric trains passed back and forth across it. It looked like a shining, coloured snake over the sluggish black water.

  "I think we'll leave the car here and go the last bit on foot," said Köster after a while. "It will be less conspicuous."

  We halted Karl under a lamp outside a pub. A white cat moved silently off as we got out. A bit farther along some pros'titutes with aprons were standing in an archway and ceased talking as we passed. Against a house corner an organ-grinder was leaning asleep. An old woman was rummaging in the garbage on the edge of the street.

  We came to a gigantic, grimy apartment house with numerous blocks behind and courtyards and passages. On the lower floor were shops, a bakery, and a receiving depot for old clothes and iron. On the street in front of the first passage were two lorries with police.

  In a corner of the first courtyard was a stand built of planks of wood, and from it hung several large star charts. In front of a table with papers stood a chap in a turban on a little platform. Above his head there hung a signboard:

  Astrology, Palmistry, Fortunetelling—Your Horoscope for 50 Pfennigs. A swarm of people surrounded him. The harsh light of the carbide lamp fell on his yellow, wrinkled face. He was addressing the spectators, who were looking up at him in silence—with the same lost, absent, miracle-desiring look as, a while ago, that of the audiences of the various mass-meetings with their banners and bands.

  "Otto," said I to Köster, who was walking in front of me, "I know now what those people are wanting. They don't want politics at all. They want substitute religion."

  He looked around. "Of course. They want to believe in something again—in what, it doesn't matter. That's why they are so fanatical, too, of course."

  We entered the second courtyard, near the place of the third meeting. All windows were lighted. Suddenly we heard a row from inside. The same moment, as at an agreed signal, several young people in wind-jackets dashed out of a dark side-entrance, across the yard, along close under the windows, to the door of the meeting place. The foremost tore it open and they charged in.

  "A stormtroop," said Köster. "Come here against the wall behind the beer barrels."

  A raging and yelling began in the hall. The next second a window splintered and someone came flying through. Immediately the door burst open, a heap of human beings came hurtling out, those in front stumbled and the rest fell over them. A woman screamed, yelling for help, and ran out through the archway. A second thrust followed, with chair legs and beer glasses, an inextricable fury. One gigantic carpenter sprang out, took up a position more or less on the outskirts; whenever he saw in front of him the head of an opponent, his long arm would swing and knock him back into the melee. He did it perfectly calmly, as if he were chopping wood.

  A fresh scrum burst out and suddenly, not three yards in front of us, we saw Gottfried's yellow thatch in the hands of an old regular.

  Köster took one dive and disappeared into the heap. A few seconds later the regular let Gottfried go, and with an air of utter astonishment flung up his arm and like an uprooted tree fell back into the crowd. Immediately after I discovered KSster dragging Lenz behind him by the collar.

  Lenz was resisting. "Let me go, Otto, just a moment," he choked.

  "Nonsense," called Köster, "the cops'll be here in a minute. Quick, out, at the back there."

  We ran across the courtyard to the dark side-entrance. It was not a moment too soon. Immediately a sudden whistle shrilled through the yard, the black helmets of the police flashed up, a cordon was thrown round the courtyard. We ran up the staircase in order not to be caught by the patrol. From a landing window we watched how it went below. The police worked superbly. They cut off the retreat, drove a wedge into the scrum, tore the heaps asunder, arrested and immediately began transporting them—first the indignant carpenter, who tried in vain to explain something.

  Behind us a door clicked. A woman in a nightshirt, with white, thin legs, a candle in her hand, poked her head out. "Is that you?" she asked ill-humouredly.

  "No," said Lenz, who had recovered himself. The woman banged the door to. Lenz examined the door with his pocket torch. It was Gerhard Peschke, head bricklayer who was being waited for here.

  Below it became quiet. The police retired and the courtyard emptied. We waited a while longer, then went down the stairs again. Behind one door a child was crying, crying softly and plaintively in the dark. "He's right too," said Gottfried. "He's crying beforehand."

  We walked through the outer courtyard. The astrologer was standing deserted before his star charts. "A horoscope, gentlemen?" he called. "Or the future from the hand?"

  "Fire away," said Gottfried, offering him his hand.

  The fellow studied it. "You have a weak heart," said he then, categorically. "Your emotions are well developed, your headline very short; to make up for it you are gifted musically. You dream a lot, but you will be no good as a husband. Still I see here three children. You. have a diplomatic disposition, are inclined to be taciturn, and will live to be eighty."

  "That's right," declared Gottfried. "Just what my mother used to tell me before she was married—the bad live to be old. Mortality is man's invention; not in the logic of life."

  He gave the chap his money and we went on. The street was empty. A black cat darted away in front of us. Lenz pointed to it. "We ought to turn back now, really."

  "Don't worry," said I, "we saw a white one a while ago; that cancels out."

  We walked along the street. Some people were approaching on the other side. They were four young lads. One was wearing bright yellow, new leather-leggings, the others sort of military boots. They halted and looked across at us. "There he is!" suddenly called the one with the leggings, running across the street toward us. The next moment there were two shots, the young fellow sprang away and all four made off as fast as they could. I saw Köster about to set off in pursuit, but then with an extraordinary twist he swung back, stretched out his arms, uttered a stifled, wild cry and tried to catch Gottfried Lenz, who crashed heavily to the pavement.

  For one second I thought he had merely fallen; then I saw the blood. Köster ripped his coat open, tore away the shirt—the blood welled out thickly. I pressed my handkerchief against it.

  "Stay here, I'll get the car," called
Köster and ran off.

  "Gottfried," said I, "can you hear me?"

  His face turned grey. His eyes were half-shut. The lids did not move. With one hand I supported his head, with the other I pressed my handkerchief on the bleeding place. I knelt beside him, I listened for his gurgling, his breathing, but there was nothing, no sound anywhere—the endless street, endless houses, endless night—I heard only the light dripping of the blood on the pavement and knew that that must have been another time and that it could not be true.

  Köster raced up. He pulled away the back rest of the left-hand seat. Carefully we lifted Gottfried up and laid him on the two seats. I jumped into the car and Köster shot off. We drove to the nearest casualty station. Köster braked cautiously.

  "See if there's a doctor there. Else we must go on."

  I ran in. An orderly came towards me. "Is there a doctor?"

  "Yes. Have you got someone?"

  "Yes. Come with me. A stretcher."

  We lifted Gottfried on to the stretcher and carried him in. The doctor was already standing in his shirt-sleeves. "Over here."

  He pointed to a flat table. We lifted Gottfried off the stretcher. The doctor pulled down a light close over the body. "What is it?"

  "Revolver shot."

  He took a swab of cotton wool, wiped away the blood, felt Gottfried's pulse, listened to him and straightened up. "Nothing to be done."

  Köster stared at him. "But the shot is well to the side. It can't be so bad."

  "There are two shots," said the doctor.

  He wiped the blood away again. We bent forward. Then we saw that obliquely under the heavily bleeding wound there was a second—a little black holein the region of the heart.

  "He must have died instantly," said the doctor.

  Köster straightened up. He looked at Gottfried. The doctor plugged the wounds and stuck strips of sticking plaster across.

  "Would you like a wash?" he asked.

  "No," said I.

  Gottfried's face was now yellow and fallen in. The mouth was drawn a little awry, the eyes were half-closed, one a bit more than the other. He looked at us. He kept on looking at us.

  "How did it happen?" asked the doctor.

  No one answered. Gottfried looked at us. He looked at us. fixedly.

  "He can stay here," said the doctor.

  Köster moved. "No," he replied. "We're taking him with us." .

  "Can't be done," said the doctor. "We must telephone the police. The criminal police as well. Everything must be done immediately to find the culprit."

  "Culprit?" Köster looked at the doctor as if he did not understand him. "Good," said he then, "I'll drive along and fetch the police."

  "You can telephone. They'll be here quicker then."

  Köster slowly shook his head. "No. I'll fetch them."

  He went out and I heard Karl leap away. The doctor pushed a chair toward me. "Won't you sit down in the meantime?"

  "Thanks," said I and continued to stand. The bright light still lay on Gottfried's bloody chest.

  The doctor pushed the lamp a bit higher. "How did it happen?" he asked once more.

  "I don't know. Must have been a mistake for somebody else."

  "Was he in the war?" asked the doctor.

  I nodded.

  "You can see that by the scars," said he. "And the withered arm. He's been wounded several times."

  "Yes. Four times."

  "A skunk's trick," said the stretcher-bearer. "And all young bastards who were still in their cradles then."

  I made no reply. Gottfired looked at me steadily.

  It was a long time before Köster returned. He was alone. The doctor put aside the newspaper in which he had been reading. "Are the officers there?" he asked.

  Köster stood still. He had not heard what the doctor said.

  "Are the police there?" asked the doctor once again.

  "Yes," replied Köster. "The police. We must telephone them to come."

  The doctor looked at him, but said nothing and went to the telephone.

  A few minutes later two officers arrived. They sat at a table and took down Gottfried's personal description. I don't know, but somehow it seemed to me silly to state what his name was, and when he was born and where he lived, now, when he was dead. I stared at the black stump of pencil which the officer moistened from time to time with his lips, and replied mechanically.

  The other officer began to prepare a statement, Köster gave the necessary information. "Can you say roughly what the culprit looked like?" asked the officer.

  "No," replied Köster. "I didn't notice."

  I looked across at him. I thought of the yellow leggings and the uniforms.

  "You don't know to which political party he belonged? You didn't see the badges or the uniform?"

  "No," said Köster. "I didnt see anything before the shots. And then I only thought—" he balked an instant— "of my comrade."

  "You belong to a political party?"

  "No."

  "I mean, because you said he was your comrade—"

  "He is my comrade from the war," replied Köster.

  The officer turned to me: "Can you describe the culprit?"

  Köster looked at me hard.

  "No," said I. "I saw nothing either."

  "Extraordinary," said the officer.

  "We were talking at the time, and not noticing anything. Then it all happened very quick."

  The officer sighed. "Then there's not much chance of catching the blighter." He finished the statement.

  "Can we take him with us?" asked Köster.

  "Actually—" The officer looked at the doctor. "The cause of death is established beyond all doubt?"

  The doctor nodded. "I've already written the certificate."

  "And where is the bullet? I must take the bullet."

  "The bullets are still in. I should have—" The doctor hesitated.

  "I must have them both," said the officer. "I must see if they are both from the same weapon."

  "Yes," replied Köster, at a look from the doctor.

  The orderly pulled the stretcher into position and pulled down the light. The doctor took his instruments and with a probe explored the wounds. The first ball he found quickly; it was not very deep. For the other he had to cut. He pulled his rubber gloves right up and reached for the forceps and the knife. Köster stepped up quickly to the table and closed Gottfried's eyes that still stood half-open. I turned away as I heard the light hiss of the knife. For an instant I wanted to jump in and thrust the doctor aside, for it suddenly came over me that Gottfried was merely unconscious and that the doctor was now really killing him—but then I knew again. We had seen enough dead men to know.

  "There she is," said the doctor and straightened up. He wiped the bullet and gave it to the officer.

  "It is the same. From the same weapon, isn't it?"

  Köster bent down and looked closely at the little, dull shining bullets that rolled to and fro in the officer's hand.

  "Yes," said he.

  The officer wrapped them in paper and put them in his pocket.

  "It is not allowed really," said he, then, "but if you want to take him home . . . The facts are clear, aren't they, doctor?" The doctor nodded. "You are coroner's doctor as well, of course," went on the officer; "in that case—if you like—only you must . . . It may be that a commission will come to-morrow—"

  "I understand," said Köster. "We will leave everything just as it is."

  The officers went.

  The doctor had covered and stuck down Gottfried's wounds again. "How will you do it?" he asked. "You can take the stretcher. You only need send it back sometime during the day to-morrow."

  "Yes, thank you," said Köster. "Come on, Bob."

  "I'll help you," said the orderly.

  I shook my head. "We can manage."

  We took up the stretcher, carried it out and laid it on the two left-hand seats, which with the lowered backs made a flat place. The orderly and the d
octor came out and watched us. We put Gottfried's coat over him and drove off. After a while Köster turned to me.

  "We'll drive through the street again. I've done it once already. But it was too soon then. Perhaps they'll be about again now."

  It began slowly to snow. Köster drove the car almost noiselessly. He declutched, and often even shut off the en gine. He did not want to be heard, though the four we were looking for didn't know, of course, that we had a car. We glided along soundlessly like a white ghost through the ever more thickly falling snow. I took a hammer out of the tool box and laid it beside me to be ready to spring out of the car and strike at once.