‘Why did you follow me?’ he asked in a low voice.
She did not answer. He shook his head slightly. ‘You are reckless, Nurse Gertrud. In the future keep your humanitarian paws off drunken men. It might be misunderstood.’
‘You’re mad,’ she murmured. Her face was as white as her uniform, and she was breathing heavily.
‘We are all mad,’ he replied tranquilly. ‘We are living in an age of absolute madness; the few normal people are safely behind barbed wire because they have failed to understand that it’s no longer worth being normal.’ He laughed and felt the wound on his forehead. ‘Our century is changing everything. What was thought bad in the past will be thought good in the future, and what was good once will become bad. We will no longer lie on top of but under women, and some day we’ll reach the point where the men will bear the children and the women go out and earn the bread.’ He tittered. ‘We’re heading for a great age, nurse; madness will be total and the insane asylums emptied.’ He took a step toward her and lowered his voice. ‘You’re just as mad as I am, because if you were normal you’d stay home and darn socks and study cookbooks instead of coming to places where every man has two glands too many. You get me?’
‘My father is a doctor,’ she replied calmly.
‘So much the worse. Then he ought to know what comes of leaving his daughter to a horde of two-footed billygoats. If I were your father, I would have pounded your backside black and blue and locked you up in the cellar.’
He turned away abruptly, climbed over the wall and found his clothes. He was dead sober now, but his head ached as though it were locked in a vice. Dressed, he went over to the wall once more and looked into the garden. The nurse was still standing motionless in the same place. Her face seemed dark now, scarcely distinguishable against the background of the night. For a moment he was tempted to say a friendly word to her. Then he shrugged, turned away and strode along the beach until the massive structure of the divisional rest home appeared among the trees. With few exceptions the windows were dark. He remembered that ten o’clock was tattoo. It must be within a few minutes of ten. He hurried, found the front door open, and slowly mounted the stairs. In front of his room he hesitated. Then he went softly to the next door and leaned forward, listening. He glanced up and down the hall to make sure no one was there, and slowly depressed the latch. As he entered the dark room he heard a hasty sound and a sleepy voice asked: ‘Who’s there?’
‘Three guesses,’ he said, closing the door behind him. For a few seconds there was a dead silence. Then he heard a sound like that made by a blanket being thrown back. His eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness meanwhile and he saw a figure in white get out of the bed and hesitantly approach him. She seemed to recognize him, stood still and said indignantly: ‘Leave my room at once.’
‘You’ve got that out of the cinema,’ he said. ‘But don’t worry; I just wanted to ask you whether you have any aspirin. I’ve got a frightful headache.’
She came two steps closer, her long nightgown trailing around her ankles. ‘You’re drunk,’ she said with disgust.
He regarded her speculatively. ‘Not any more. I got rid of it all in the water. Have you aspirin?’
She hesitated. As she turned toward the door, he gripped her shoulders and held her tightly. ‘Were you going to turn on the light?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t need any light,’ he said, feeling along her arms. The nightgown had slipped off her right shoulder and he knew that she had slid it off deliberately. But she defended herself and panted: ‘Let me go. I’ll scream. I will scream.’
‘Sure, you will scream,’ he said.
Her breasts were firm and soft. When she tried to kiss him, he turned his face aside and laid her on the bed.
Later, when they were lying side by side, he mused about Gertrud. Why, he wondered, had she not run to the canteen for help. There was no doubt that she was a different sort, different from this girl beside him, whose name he did not even know. In the darkness he smiled and asked: ‘What is your name?’
‘My friends call me Inge.’ When he said nothing, she pressed close to him and stroked his chest. ‘Don’t you like the name?’
‘Why, of course I do; why shouldn’t I like it?’
‘How many girls have you said that to?’
He laughed. ‘Up to this moment I’ve never met a girl named Inge. At least not in bed,’ he added.
He tried to sit up. She held him tight. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To bed.’
‘But you can sleep here with me,’ she said, disappointed.
He shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t be able to sleep.’
Vexed, she pulled the blanket up under her chin and watched him dress. When he was finished, he came over to the bed once more and said: ‘Good night.’
‘Aren’t you at least going to kiss me?’ Her voice was quivering with anger. He stooped and casually kissed her shoulder.
‘Is that all?’ she asked.
‘Isn’t it enough. Do you want to be paid?’
She started up as though the pillow under her back had become a hot iron. Then she threw herself face down on the bed and began to sob wildly. Steiner stood for a moment looking at her in embarrassment. Then he slowly withdrew, closing the door behind him. For a while he stood in the corridor with eyes closed. When the sobbing stopped, he went to his room. For a long while he stood at the window, staring out at the sea. He felt oddly wakeful and not at all tired. Dispiritedly, he undressed again. His headache was almost gone, but the cut on his forehead throbbed painfully. He took out his pocket-mirror and by the light of a candle examined the narrow, blood-encrusted slit over his right eyebrow. Irritably, he shook his head. Then he threw himself down on the bed and closed his eyes. The candle burned down and went out. Outside the open window the sea breathed, gasping, rolling blindly up on the beach, and the moon hung above the water like a savage mask, grinning like a faun.
Steiner awoke early next morning. He felt as fresh and rested as if he had slept for twenty-four hours without a break. Carefully, he washed the encrusted blood from his forehead, put a bit of adhesive over the wound, and appeared punctually in the dining-room. As he approached the private’s table he saw that a place was set for him. Several of the men were already at the table; in response to his greeting they winked significantly. The one who had fetched the card of regulations for him last night pulled out the chair for him, saying: ‘Congratulations, Sergeant.’ ‘You gave it to them,’ another man commented. ‘What did you do to your forehead? Been rubbing elbows with the big chief?’
Steiner sat down. ‘No, just rubbing noses with the ground.’ He leaned back comfortably in his chair. ‘Here come their lordships,’ someone said. Everyone turned to look at the door, where the NCOs were entering. Leatherskin came last. They sat down without so much as a glance in Steiner’s direction. Later Steiner noticed Inge serving at the NCOs’ table. After breakfast he went up to his room, straightened it up and then set out for the beach. In spite of the early-morning chill he decided to take a swim, and drifted about in the water for a long time. Suddenly he caught sight of Towhead sitting on a bench and apparently watching him. Steiner pretended not to notice him; he swam back to where his clothes lay and dressed. He suddenly felt the impulse to talk with somebody about Nurse Gertrud, and the only person to talk to was Towhead. He began sauntering idly in his direction and stopped in pretended surprise when his name was called. ‘Well, what are you doing here so early?’ He sat down on the bench.
‘What happened to your head?’ Towhead asked.
Steiner touched the adhesive. ‘Slight accident,’ he said casually. ‘Did you stay long?’
‘In the canteen?’
‘Yes.’
They looked out over the water. After a while Towhead asked: ‘Did you see Gertrud later last night?’
‘How come?’ Steiner asked, feeling his way.
‘Oh, I was just wondering. She went out a
fter you. Said you were so drunk you had to be watched.’
‘Why didn’t you come with her?’
Towhead laughed in vexation. ‘She said I was so tight myself I wouldn’t be any help. I waited over an hour in the canteen, but she didn’t come back.’
‘Well,’ Steiner said pensively.
Towhead regarded him suspiciously. Then he stooped, picked up a pebble and skipped it over the water. ‘At any rate,’ he went on maliciously, ‘she was awfully queer this morning.’
‘Just one of her days, I guess,’ Steiner said.
Towhead shook his head vigorously. ‘No, it’s something else. I’m not usually nosy, but I’d give a lot to know what happened last night.’
‘You can ask her.’
They sat in silence. The beach was gradually coming to life. Alone and in groups men were appearing. Most of them headed straight for the water. Others stretched out on the pebbles in the sun. Since it was obvious that he would get no further information out of Towhead, Steiner stood up. ‘I have things to do.’
‘Won’t you be coming over this evening.’
Steiner shook his head. ‘No, thanks. I’ve had enough for the present.’
‘But you haven’t even met the other girl yet,’ Towhead said insistently. ‘The breasty one. She wasn’t around last night. There’s a girl for you.’
Steiner raised his eyebrows. ‘I thought the paymaster had reserved her.’
‘God, what would that mean around here. A man like you would put that old barrel-belly in the shade.’
‘Too strenuous,’ Steiner said, grinning. Towhead’s jealousy was all too obvious. He was surprised to find himself slightly pained by the thought that there might be something between Towhead and the nurse. What did he care? Nevertheless, as he walked along the beach, his early-morning good humour was gone.
After supper Steiner decided to take a walk through the town. He strolled aimlessly down the street between the spacious lawns whose scent mingled with the tang of the water. A strange mood had taken possession of him, and he stopped frequently to gaze up at the massive mountain slopes, or over the sea. He had the feeling that he was walking upon a narrow path that led between the heights and depths, between serenity and restiveness, to the intersection of all roads; and he smiled bitterly at the thought that there should be a new road from there, one going in a different direction. There was only one road for him, and it was the road taken by all the men who stopped in this resort for a brief breathing spell—the road back to the front. For a moment he closed his eyes. Better not to think about that, he told himself. Every such thought was like a razor-edged knife cutting another sliver off the little time remaining to him.
From the windows of the houses light flowed upon the dark yards. Steiner turned his steps toward the beach. Like a barrier of black clouds the mountains towered up against the sky. They seemed to be staring westward, breathlessly, where the last embers of the day rent the heavens. Steiner shuddered. He felt an acute need to talk to someone, to make contact with some human being and he was pleased when he saw Towhead coming towards him. At the sight of Steiner, he hailed him excitedly, ‘There you are!’ and broke into a run. ‘I’ve got her, I’ve got her all organized for you,’ he said excitedly.
‘Got whom?’
‘Anne,’ Towhead said hastily. ‘You know-’
At the mention of the name Steiner started. He gripped the boy’s shoulder hard and whispered tensely: ‘Anne? Who is Anne?’
‘The breasty one,’ Towhead said eagerly wrenching away. ‘She’s right on my heels.’ Although the moon was overcast, it was possible to see a long way down the beach. Steiner noticed a figure approaching and recognized the white uniform of a nurse.
‘Listen, I don’t want-’
‘Have fun.’
Before Steiner could finish, Towhead had freed himself and was running off into the night. Slowly the nurse came up to Steiner. He pulled his cap down low over his forehead. It’s crazy, he told himself, there are a million girls named Anne. But when he heard her voice, he suddenly began to tremble. He pulled his flashlight out of his pocket and flashed it full in her face. She closed her wide, dark eyes, but her mouth was smiling. ‘Turn out that light,’ she raised her hand to her dazzled eyes. ‘I can’t see.’
Without a word he switched off the flashlight and thrust it into his pocket. ‘Do you study all girls so thoroughly?’ she asked. Her voice was flat and rather common. Turning his face to one side, he murmured: ‘Excuse me. I always like to see who I’m dealing with.’
She gave a cooing laugh. ‘Are you satisfied?’ He glanced quickly to the right and left. Then he nodded. He reached out so fast that before she could make a move to defend herself, he had pulled her close to him. His face was right above hers. She was still smiling. He took off his cap, quietly stuck it into his coat pocket, and said: ‘Good evening, Anne.’
Her smile froze.
‘And how I’m satisfied!’ he said. He laughed hoarsely, dangerously and held her more tightly. ‘Nothing is lost,’ he said. ‘Nothing is lost and the past is never so dead that we may not meet it again.’
She tried to pull away. Her face was twisted into an ugly grimace and she groaned under the hard pressure of his arms. Suddenly she went limp and sank to her knees. He let go of her and she slid slowly to the ground. He stooped over her. She lay still, with face averted, her mouth open and twitching. My God, he thought, my God. It still seemed to him that he was dreaming. But this was no dream, this was reality. He closed his eyes. Thirteen months had passed, more than a whole year since....
He straightened up, and saw that her eyes were open and fixed on his. ‘Get up!’ he ordered harshly. His voice was so imperative that she obeyed at once. She made no resistance as he led her to a bench a few yards away. ‘Sit down,’ he said curtly. He sat down beside her. For the moment he did not know what he ought to do. The meeting had come too unexpectedly. With unsteady hands he pulled out his cigarettes and lit one. For a while he stared at the glowing tip of the cigarette, until he heard suppressed sobs at his side.
‘Tears, Anne?’ he said. ‘Why? More to the point if you’d done your crying last time.’
She turned toward him and spoke with unbending fury: ‘You brute!’
He laughed, liking her courage. ‘Is that what I am?’
‘Yes,’ she said violently. ‘You always were a brute. You don’t know how to treat a woman.’
‘When a woman forces her way into a man’s bed,’ he said coldly, ‘she must expect something of the sort. Sooner or later she’ll find herself lying alone in it, or be thrown out the other side. That’s the fate of all whores,’ he added brutally.
She quivered. He noticed it and grinned. ‘You didn’t used to be so sensitive about words,’ he said. ‘You’re slipping, Anne.’
As she made a move to spring to her feet, he gripped her arm hard. ‘Stay here; we haven’t finished with one another yet.’ He tossed the cigarette away. ‘You know how that little romance started. I didn’t want it. I grant you that I learned something from you. But all there was to learn I found out the first night, and I knew there wasn’t any more.’ He laughed cynically. ‘A man can’t forgive himself for his clumsiness with his first woman, especially when she’s as experienced as you. I told you what I thought of you that third night. Two nights were enough to bring me to my senses again.’
Suddenly his fury returned. He would never forget the expression on the face of the staff doctor, Major Dietrich, who had searched the room, assisted by several nurses and medicos, and had found the watch among his things. The rest had been an ugly dream. The court-martial, the sentence, the countless humiliations that he had undergone up to and all through the period in the penal battalion. At the recollection he clenched his fists, faint with hatred. It had not been a chain of unfortunate accidents; he knew that. It had been rigged from start to finish. He wanted to hear the confirmation from her own lips.
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what you’r
e talking about.’ She tried to make it sound genuine, but he heard the waver in her voice and smiled malignantly.
‘So you don’t know,’ he replied softly. ‘Of course you don’t know. You weren’t present that morning—at least not while the comedy was going on. But we have plenty of time now. You’ll remember before this evening is over. In the next room a wristwatch was stolen from a patient. Next morning it was found among my clothes, wasn’t it? There was only one person who could have put it there, Anne, and that was you.’
In spite of the darkness he could see the unnatural wanness of her face. She tried to laugh, but produced so strange and forced a sound that she stopped abruptly. ‘You’re crazy,’ she said at last. ‘Why should I have done a thing like that?’
‘Why?’ He laughed wildly. ‘Because on that third night I told you I was a human being, not a stud horse. That’s why.’
She did not answer. It was gradually growing lighter. The moon had risen above the mountains and seemed to be hesitating before taking the leap over the sea. Steiner took his pay-book out of his pocket, turned through it until he found a piece of paper which he placed on his knee. Then he switched on his flashlight. Anne was watching his movements nervously. As he bent over the paper and began writing with a stubby pencil, she asked: ‘Are you writing me a letter now?’
Her light tone sounded false. He said nothing until he was finished. Then he read through what he had written and nodded with satisfaction. ‘That will do,’ he said quietly, placing the pencil and paper on her lap. ‘Now sign this.’
‘What is it?’
‘Your confession. I want it in writing.’
Suddenly she jumped to her feet and tried to run. But he was prepared. He caught up with her in two strides. She kicked him and pummelled him with her fists. Her blows prompted him to harsher measures than he had intended. He dragged her down to the water, waded in knee deep, and thrust her head under water. Then he pulled her up by the hair and asked: ‘Will you sign now?’
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