A fair girl alongside us showered us with a cloud of confetti.
"Where do you come from?" she laughed. "Don't you know it's Shrove Tuesday?"
"Ach, so," said I. "In that case I guess I'll wash my hands." I had to cross the entire room to get to the lavatory. For a while I was held up by some people who were drunk and trying to hoist a woman on to a table to make her sing. The woman resisted, shrieking; the table fell over, and with the table the whole party. I was waiting for the gangway to clear, when suddenly it was as if I had received an electric shock. I stood there stiff and rigid; the restaurant sank; the noise, the music, nothing remained, only indistinct moving shadows were there; but distinct, monstrously sharp and clear, remained one table, and at the table a young fellow with a fool's cap awry on his head, one arm about a half-tipsy girl, glassy stupid eyes, very thin lips, and under the table bright yellow, loud, highly polished leather leggings.
A waiter bumped into me. Drunkenly I moved on and stopped again. I was burning hot, yet my whole body trembled. My hands were dripping wet. And now I saw the others at the table. I heard them singing in chorus with defiant faces some song or other and beating time on the table with their beer glasses. Again someone bumped into me. "Don't block, up the passage," he growled.
I walked on mechanically, I found the lavatory, I washed my hands and only realised it when I had almost boiled the skin off. Then I went back.
"What's the matter?" asked Köster.
I could not answer. "Are you ill?" he asked.
I shook my head and looked at the table alongside where the fair girl was still eyeing us. Suddenly Köster turned pale. His eyes narrowed. He leaned forward. "Yes?" he asked quite softly.
"Yes," I replied.
"Where?"
I looked in the direction.
Slowly Köster rose. It was like a snake preparing to strike.
"Careful," I whispered. "Not here, Otto."
He made a quick movement with his hand and went slowly forward. I held myself in readiness to start after him. A woman clapped a green-red paper cap on his head and hooked on to him. She fell back without his having touched her and stared after him. He walked in a slow curve through the room and came back.
"Not there now," said he.
I stood up and surveyed the room. Köster was right. "Do you suppose he recognised me?" I asked.
Köster gave a shrug. He now noticed for the first time the cap on his head and wiped it off.
"I don't understand it," said I. "I was only a minute or two at the most in the lavatory."
"You were away over a quarter of an hour."
"What?" I looked across once more at the table. "The others have gone too. There was a girl with them, she's not there either. If he had recognised me surely he would have disappeared alone."
Köster beckoned the waiter. "Is there a second exit?"
"Yes, over there, on the other side, on Hardenbergstrasse."
Köster took a coin from his pocket and gave it to the waiter. "Come on," said he.
"Shame," said the fair girl at the next table, smiling. "Such solemn cavaliers."
The wind outside struck at us. It seemed icy after the hot fog of the Café. "You go home," said Köster.
"There were several," I replied, getting in with him.
The car shot off. We combed all the streets around the café, wider and wider, but saw nothing. At last Köster stopped.
"Vanished," said he. "But that's nothing. We'll get him sooner or later now."
"Otto," said I, "we ought to drop it."
He looked at me. "Gottfried's dead," said I and marvelled myself at what I was saying. "It won't bring him to life again."
Köster still looked at me.
"Bob," he replied slowly, "I don't even know how many men I've killed. But I remember shooting down- a young Englishman. He had a stoppage and couldn't do a thing more. I was a few yards away from him in my machine and saw his terrified, baby face with the fear in his eyes quite distinctly—it was his first flight, so I learned after, and he was barely eighteen—and into that terrified, helpless, pretty baby face at point-blank range I pumped a burst with my machine-gun, so that his skull smashed like a hen's egg. I didn't know the lad and he hadn't done me any harm. It took me longer than usual to get over that, and to quiet my conscience with the bloody recipe 'war is war.' But if I don't murder the chap who murdered Gottfried—shot him down without cause like a dog—then, I tell you, that affair with the Englishman was an abominable crime. Don't you agree?"
"Yes," said I.
"And now you go home. I must see it to an end. It's like a wall—I can't go on until it's away."
"I'm not going home, Otto. If that's the way of it, we're sticking together."
"Rubbish," said he impatiently. "I can't use you." He raised a hand as he saw me about to speak. "I'll take care. I'll get him alone, without the others, entirely alone. Don't worry."
He pushed me impatiently from the seat and immediately raced off.
I realised that nothing could stop him now. I realised too why he had not taken me. Because of Pat. Gottfried he would have taken.
I went to Alfons'. He was the only one I could talk to. I wanted his advice—if we could do anything. But Alfons was not there. A sleepy girl told me he had gone to a meeting an hour before. I sat at a table to wait.
The place was empty. Only a small electric globe was burning over the bar. The girl had sat down to sleep again. I thought of Otto and Gottfried, I looked out the window at the street, becoming lighter from the full moon now rising over the roofs; I thought of the grave with the black wooden cross and the steel helmet on top; and suddenly I found I was crying. I wiped the drops away.
After some time I heard swift, light footsteps in the house. The door on to the courtyard opened and Alfons entered. His face was shining with perspiration.
"It's me, Alfons," said I.
"Here, quick!"
I followed him into the room on the right behind the taproom. Alfons went to a cupboard and took out two old Army first-aid packets. "You might just bandage me," said he pulling off his trousers without a sound.
He had a gash on the thigh. "Looks like a running shot," said I.
"It is, too," growled Alfons. "Get busy, bandage away."
"Alfons," said I as I straightened up, "where's Otto?"
"How should I know where Otto is?^ he muttered, squeezing out the wound.
"Weren't you together?"
"No."
"You haven't seen him?"
"Not the faintest. Open up the other packet and lay it on top. It's only a scratch."
Muttering away he busied himself with his wound. "Alfons," said I, "we saw the—you know, about Gottfried—we saw him to-night and Otto's gone after him."
"What?" He was attention at once. "Where is he then? There's no sense, any more. He must clear out."
"He won't clear out."
Alfons threw aside the scissors. "Drive there. You know where he is? He should disappear. Tell him the business with Gottfried's settled. I knew before you. There you see it. Fired, but I hit his hand down. Then I fired. Where is Otto?"
"Somewhere around Mönkestrasse."
"Thank God for that. He left there long ago. But get Otto out of the way all the same."
I went to the telephone and rang up the taxi stand where Gustav usually hung out. He was there. "Gustav," said I, "can you come to the corner of Wiesenstrasse and Bellevueplatz? Quickly? I'm waiting there."
"Right. Be there in ten minutes."
I put up the receiver and went back to Alfons. He was putting on another pair of trousers.
"Didn't know you were on the lookout too," said he. His face was still damp. "Would have been better if you had sat in somewhere. For the sake of the alibi. Maybe they will be asking after you. You never know."
"What about yourself?" said I.
"Ach, what d'you think." He was talking quicker than usual. "Had him by himself. Waited for him in his room. Up in an
attic. No neighbours. Besides, self-defence. He shot the moment he came in. Don't need an alibi. Could have a dozen, if I want."
He looked at me. He sat on the chair, his damp, broad face turned toward me, his sweaty hair, his big mouth drawn awry, and his eyes were almost unendurable, so much torment, suffering and love lay suddenly exposed and hopeless in them. "Now Gottfried will rest," said he softly, and hoarsely. "Had the feeling he didn't rest before."
I stood mutely in front of him.
"Go now," said he.
I walked out through the barroom. The girl was still sleeping, and breathing loudly. Outside the moon had risen high and it was very bright. I went to the Bellevueplatz. The windows of the houses gleamed in the moonlight like silver mirrors. The wind had dropped. It was perfectly still.
Gustav arrived a few minutes later. "What's up, Robert?"
"Our car was stolen this evening. I've just heard it's been seen around the Monkestrasse. Can we drive over?"
"Why, sure." Gustav became eager. "What isn't being pinched these days? Every day a few cars. But mostly they only drive round in them till the petrol's out and then leave them standing."
"Yes; it's, probably that way with ours."
Gustav told me he meant to get married soon. There was a little one on the way, so there was nothing else for it. We drove down the Mönkestrasse and then through the side streets.
"There she is!" called Gustav suddenly.
The car was standing in a dark, concealed side alley. I got out, took my key and switched on the ignition. "O.K., Gustav," said I. "Thanks very much for bringing me."
"Shouldn't we have a drink somewhere?" he asked.
"No, not to-night. To-morrow. I must get off at once."
I put my hand to my pocket to pay him the fare.
"Are you balmy?" he asked.
"Right, thanks, Gustav. Don't wait. Au revoir."
"What d'you say to looking around to see if we can't nab the boy that pinched it?"
"No, no, he'll be gone long since, sure." I was suddenly in a frenzy of impatience. "Au revoir, Gustav."
"Have you petrol?"
"Yes, enough. Looked at that already. Good night, then."
He drove off. I waited awhile, then I followed, reached the Mönkestrasse and drove along it in third. As I came back again Köster was at the corner.
"What is it?"
"Get in," said I quickly. "You don't need to hang around any more. I've just been to Alfons. He's—he's met him already."
"And?"
"Yes," said I.
Köster got in without a word. He did not take the wheel. He sat beside me, rather huddled, and I drove. "Shall we go to my place?" I asked.
He nodded. I accelerated and took the road by the canal. The water was one broad silver band. The warehouses on the opposite bank lay deep black in the shadow, but the streets were drifting pale blue light, over which the tyres slipped along as over invisible snow. The broad baroque spires of the cathedral towered up beyond the roofs of the houses. They gleamed green and silver against the receding, phosphorescent sky where the moon hung like a great flaming onion.
"I'm glad it's happened that way, Otto," said I.
"I'm not," replied he. "I should have got him myself."
Frau Zalewski's light was still burning. As I unlocked the door she came out of her sitting room. "There's a telegram for you," said she.
"A telegram?" I asked in surprise. I was still thinking of the night. Then I realised, and ran to my room. The telegram lay in the centre of the table, chalky in the harsh light. I ripped open the seal-stamp; my chest constricted; the letters swam, vanished, came again; I breathed with relief; everything stood still and I gave the telegram to Köster. "Thank God. I thought—"
It was only three words: ROBBY, COME SOON.
I took the sheet again. Relief vanished. Fear returned.
"What can be the matter, Otto? God, why couldn't she say more? There must be something the matter." .
Köster put the telegram on the table. "When did you hear from her last?"
"A week ago. No longer."
"Put a call through. If it's anything, we'll go at once. In the car. Have you a timetable?"
I booked a call to the sanatorium and fetched the timetable from Frau Zalewski's sitting room.
"The next good connection isn't till noon to-morrow," said he. "We'd best take the car and go as far as we can. Then we can always catch the next train. It will save a few hours certainly. What do you say?"
"Yes, in any case." I couldn't imagine how I should endure the idle hours in the train.
The telephone rang. Köster went into my room with the timetable.
The sanatorium answered. I asked for Pat. A minute later the matron told me it would be better if Pat did not speak.
"What's the matter?" I shouted.
"A slight hemorrhage a few days ago. And now some fever."
"Tell her I'm coming," I called. "With Köster and Rarl. We're leaving now. Do you understand?"
"With Köster and Rarl," repeated the voice.
"Yes. But tell her at once. We are leaving now."
"I'll let her know immediately."
I went back to my room. My legs were strangely light. Köster was sitting at the table writing out the trains.
"Pack your bag," said he. "I'll drive home and get mine. I'll be back here in half an hour."
I took the trunk from the cupboard. It was Lenz's with the coloured hotel labels. I packed quickly and settled with Frau Zalewski and the proprietor of the International. Then I sat at the window in my room to wait for Köster.
It was very still. I thought that to-morrow evening I should be with Pat, and suddenly a hot, wild expectancy seized me, before which all else—fear, anxiety, melancholy, despair—vanished. To-morrow evening I would be with her —that was an inconceivable happiness, something I had almost ceased to think possible again. So much had perished since then.
I took my bag and went down. Everything was suddenly near and warm, the staircase, the stale smell of the landing, the cold, glinting rubber-grey of the asphalt, over which Karl was just approaching.
"I've brought a few rugs," said Köster. "It will be cold. Wrap yourself well in."
"We take turns driving, eh?" I asked.
"Yes. But I'll drive to start. I had a sleep this afternoon."
Half an hour later we left the city behind us and the immense silence of the clear moonlit night received us. The road ran white ahead to the skyline. It was so bright we were able to drive without the searchlight. The sound of the engine was like a deep organ note; it did not disturb the stillness, only made it the more sensible.
"You ought to sleep a bit," said Köster.
I shook my head. "Can't, Otto."
"Then stretch out at least, so you'll be fresh early to-morrow. We have all Germany to cross yet."
"I rest like this quite well."
I remained seated beside Köster. The moon glided slowly across the sky. The fields gleamed like mother-of-pearl. Now and then villages flew past,, sometimes a town, asleep, empty, the gullies of the streets between the rows of houses filled with ghostly, immaterial moonlight that made the night an unreal film picture.
Toward morning it turned cold. The meadows were suddenly shimmering with dew, the trees stood out like molten steel against the greying sky; in the woods it began to blow and here and there from chimneys streamers of smoke arose. We changed over and I drove till ten. Then we had a hasty breakfast at. an inn by the roadside and I drove again till twelve. From then on Köster kept the wheel. It went quicker when he drove alone.
In the afternoon, as it was turning dark, we reached the mountains. We had snow chains and shovels with us and enquired how far we would be able to get.
"With chains you might try it," said the secretary of the Automobile Club. "There's very little snow this year. But how it may be the last few kilometres I can't say exactly. You may stick there possibly."
We had a big start on the
train and decided to try and get right up. It was cold so there was no fear of fog. The car climbed the zigzags like a clock. Halfway up we put on the snow chains. The road was shovelled clear but at many places it was iced over and the car danced and skidded. Occasionally we had to get out and push. Twice we sank and had to shovel Karl out. At the last village we got them to give us a bucket of sand, for we were now very high and were anxious lest the curves on the descent ahead might be iced. It was now quite dark, the mountain walls towered steep and bare above us into the night, the pass narrowed, the engine roared in bottom gear, and curve after curve dropped downward. Suddenly the beam of the searchlight slid off the slope and plunged into nothingness, the mountains opened, and lying before us we saw below the network of the village lights.
Three Comrades Page 41
