He stood in the street'outside and looked at his watch. It was a little before six. The evening once more lay long and dark before him. "Don't forget that you're on furlough," Reuter, had said. He had not forgotten; but that by itself did not help much.
He went to the Karlsplatz and sat down on a bench in the square. The air raid shelter crouched there massively like a monstrous toad. Cautious people were slipping into it like shadows. Darkness welled up out of the bushes and drowned the last light.
Graeber sat quietly on the bench. An hour earlier he had not thought of seeing Elisabeth again. If he had found her at home he would probably have given her the vodka and gone away, he thought. But now that he had not found her he was waiting impatiently for seven o'clock.
Elisabeth opened the door herself. "I wasn't prepared for you," he said in surprise. "I was expecting the dragon that guards your gate."
"Frau Lieser isn't here. She went to a meeting of the National Socialist Women's Auxiliary."
"The flat-foot brigade. Of course! That's where she belongs." Graeber looked around. "The minute she leaves it looks different here."
"It looks different because now the light is on in the vestibule," Elisabeth replied. "I turn it on wherever she leaves."
"And when she's here?"
"When she's here we're thrifty. That's patriotic. We sit in the dark."
"That checks," Graeber said. "That's where they like us to be." He pulled the bottle out of his pocket. "Here's some vodka I brought you. It comes from the cellar of an S.A. commander. A present from a schoolmate."
Elisabeth looked at him. "Have you that sort of schoolmate?"
"Yes. Just as you have a boarder you didn't choose."
She smiled and took the bottle. "I must see whether there's a corkscrew anywhere."
She walked ahead of him into the kitchen. He saw that she was wearing a black sweater and a tight black skirt. Her hair was tied together at the nape of her neck with a thick, lustrous band of red wool. She had straight, strong shoulders and narrow hips.
"I can't find a corkscrew," she said, closing the drawers. "Apparently Frau Lieser doesn't drink."
"She looks as though she did nothing else. But we don't need a corkscrew."
Graeber took the bottle, knocked the varnish off its neck and struck it twice sharply against his thigh. The cork popped out. "That's the way we do it in the army," he explained. "Have you glasses? Or shall we drink out of the bottle?"
"I have glasses in my room. Come."
Graeber followed her. He was suddenly glad that he had come. He had been afraid he would have to spend another evening sitting around by himself.
Elisabeth took two thin wine glasses from a break-front with books in it that stood against the wall. Graeber glanced around. The room looked different today. It contained a bed, a couple of armchairs covered in green, the books, and a Biedermeier desk; their effect was old-fashioned and peaceful. In his memory it had been more disorderly and wild. It must have been the noise of the sirens, he thought. Noise confused everything. Elisabeth, too, looked different today from the way she had then. Different, but not old-fashioned and not peaceful.
She turned around. "How long is it really since we saw each other?"
"A hundred years. At that time we were children and there was no war."
"And now?"
"Now we're old without the experience of age. Old and cynical and-without faith and sometimes sad. Not often sad."
She looked at him. "Is that true?"
"No. But what is? Do you know?"
Elisabeth shook her head. "Does something always have to be true?"
"Probably not. Why?"
"I don't know. But perhaps we'd have fewer wars if everyone wasn't so eager to convince someone else of his own particular truth."
Graeber smiled. The way she said it sounded odd. "Tolerance," he said. "That's what's lacking, isn't it?"
Elisabeth nodded. He took the glasses and filled them. "We'll drink to that. The commander who gave me this bottle certainly didn't have anything like that in mind. But we'll do it for that very reason."
He emptied his glass. "Will you have another?" he asked.
Elisabeth shook herself briefly. "Yes," she said then.
He poured and placed the bottle on the table. The vodka was sharp and clear and clean. Elisabeth put her glass down. "Come," she said. "I'll show you an example of tolerance."
She led him through the vestibule and pushed open a door. "In her hurry Frau Lieser forgot to lock up. Take a look at her room. It's no betrayal of confidence. She searches mine all the time when I'm out."
Part of the room was furnished in the ordinary way. But on the wall opposite the window, in a massive frame, hung a large colored portrait of Hitler decked with wreaths of evergreen and oak leaves. On a table under it a deluxe edition of Mein Kampf, bound in black leather and stamped with a gold swastika, lay on top of a huge swastika flag. On either side stood silver candlesticks with photographs of the Fuehrer beside them—one with his sheep dog in Berchtesgaden and another that showed a little girl in a white dress handing him flowers. Honor-daggers and Party badges completed the exhibit.
Graeber was not especially surprised. He had often seen similar things. The cult of a dictator easily turned into a religion.
"Does she write her denunciations here?" he asked.
"No, she writes them over there, at my father's desk." Graeber looked at the desk. It was old-fashioned, with a high back and a roll top. "It's always locked," Elisabeth said. "You can't get into it. I've tried several times." "Did she denounce your father?"
"I don't know for sure. She was already living here with her child at that time. She had only one room. After my father was taken away she got the two that belonged to him as well."
Graeber turned toward her. "Do you mean she might have done it for that reason?"
"Why not? It often takes even less reason than that." "That's true. But from the altar here it looks as though the woman is one of the crazy fanatics of the flat-foot brigade." "Ernst," Elisabeth said bitterly, "do you really believe that fanaticism can never go hand in hand with personal advantage?"
"No. As a matter of fact it often does. Strange that one keeps forgetting that! There are platitudes you learn somewhere or other and go on using without thinking about them. The world is not divided into compartments with labels. And human beings even less. Very likely this poisonous reptile loves her child, her husband, flowers, and everything noble in existence. Did she know something against your father or did she invent the whole thing?"
"My father was good-natured and careless and had been under suspicion for a long time. Not everyone can keep quiet when he has to listen to Party speeches all day long in his own home."
"Do you know what he might have said?"
Elisabeth shrugged her shoulders. "He didn't believe that Germany would win the war."
"There are many now who do not believe that."
"You, too?"
"I, too. And now let's get out of here. Otherwise that she-devil will catch you and who knows what she'll do then!"
Elisabeth gave a quick smile. "She won't catch us. I bolted the door to the corridor. She can't get in."
She went to the door and pushed back the bolt. Thank God, Graeber thought. Even if she is a martyr at least she plays the part cautiously and without many scruples. "It smells like a cemetery here," he said. "It must be those damn wilted oak leaves. Come, let's have something to drink."
He filled the glasses. "Now I know why we feel old," he said. "It's because we've seen too much filth. Filth stirred up by people who are older than we and ought to be wiser."
"I don't feel old," Elisabeth replied.
He looked at her. She looked anything but old. "Be glad of it," he answered.
"I feel imprisoned," she said. "That's worse than feeling old."
Graeber sat down in one of the Biedermeier chairs. "Who can be sure that woman won't denounce you too?" he said. "Perhaps she wants
the whole apartment for herself. Why do you wait for that to happen? There's no justice for you, you know that."
"Yes, I know that." Elisabeth suddenly appeared headstrong and helpless. "It's like a superstition," she replied hurriedly and tormentedly like someone who has given herself the same answer a hundred times. "As long as I'm here I believe that my father will come back. If I went away it would be like abandoning him. Don't you understand that?"
"One doesn't have to understand it. One acts on it, and that's the end of it. Even if it's unreasonable."
"Good."
She picked up her glass and emptied it. Outside there was the rattling of a key. "There she is," Graeber said. 'That was close. The meeting doesn't seem to have lasted long."
They listened to the steps in the vestibule. Graeber glanced at the gramophone. "Haven't you anything but marches?" he asked.
"Yes. But marches are loud. And sometimes when the silence screams you have to drown it out with the loudest thing you have."
Graeber looked at her. "Nice conversations we have! At school they used to tell us that youth was the romantic time of life."
Elisabeth laughed. In the vestibule something fell to the floor. Frau Lieser swore. Then the door slammed. "I left the light on," Elisabeth whispered. "Come, let's get out of here. Sometimes I just can't stand it. And let's talk about something else."
"Where shall we go?" Graeber asked when they were outside.
"I don't know. Anywhere."
"Isn't there a café in the neighborhood? Or a tavern or a bar?"
"I don't want to go indoors again right away. Let's just walk."
"Good."
The streets were empty and the city was dark and quiet. They walked along Marienstrasse, across Karlsplatz, and then over the river into the old city. After a while it became unreal, as though all life had vanished and they were the last human beings. They walked past houses and apartment buildings but when they peered into the windows in the hope of seeing rooms with chairs, tables, evidences of life, they saw nothing but the reflection of the moonlight in the panes and behind them the black curtains or the paper coverings of blackout screens. It was as though the whole city were in mourning, an endless morgue shrouded in black, with coffined homes, a single wake.
"What's going on?" Graeber asked.. "Where is everyone? Tonight it's even quieter than usual."
"Probably they're sitting in their homes. We haven't had a raid for a.couple of days. So they don't dare come out now. They're waiting for the next one. It's always that way. It's only directly after a raid that there are more people out in the streets."
"There's already a routine even about that, eh?"
"Yes. Isn't it the same with you at the front?"
"Yes."
They walked through a street that lay in ruins. Shreds of cloud drifted across the sky making the light tremulous. In the ruins shadows darted out and withdrew like moon-shy sea monsters. Then they heard the tinkle of china. "Thank God!" Graeber said. "There's someone eating. Or drinking coffee. Anyway alive,"
"Probably they're drinking coffee. They distributed some today. Good, as a matter of fact. Bomb coffee."
"Bomb coffee?"
"Yes, bomb coffee or ruins coffee. That's what they call it. It's an extra ration that's issued after heavy bombings. Sometimes there's sugar, too, or chocolate, or a package of cigarettes."
"That's the way it is in the field. There you get schnapps or tobacco before an offensive. Rather ridiculous, isn't it? Two hundred grams of coffee for one hour's fear of death." "One hundred grams."
They walked on. After a while Graeber stopped. "Elisabeth, this is even grimmer than sitting at home. Let's go somewhere and have a" drink. I should have brought along the vodka. I need a schnapps. You too. Where's a place around here?"
"I don't want to go to a bar. You feel as shut in there as though you were in a cellar. Everything's blacked out and all the windows are covered."
"Then let's walk up to the barracks. I still have a bottle there. I'll fetch it and we can have a drink in the open."
"Good."
Through the stillness they heard the rattling of a wagon. Almost immediately they saw a horse galloping toward them. Restive, shying at the shadows, its wild eyes and distended nostrils gave it a ghostly look in the pale light. The driver was pulling on the reins. The horse reared. Foam flew from its mouth. They had to climb onto the ruins at the side of the street to let it by. With a swift movement Elisabeth sprang just high enough to let the horse pass without touching her; she bent over and for a moment it looked as though she were about to swing herself onto the snorting animal and gallop away. Then she was once more standing alone against the empty expanse of the disordered sky.
"You looked as though you were going to jump on his back and ride away." Graeber said.
"If one only could! But where to? The war is everywhere."
"That's true! Everywhere. Even in the countries of perpetual peace—in the South Seas, and in the Indies. We couldn't escape it anywhere."
They came to the barracks. "Wait here, Elisabeth. I'll get the schnapps. It won't take long."
Graeber walked across the barracks courtyard and up the echoing steps to Room Forty-eight. The place was shaking with the snores of half its inmates. Above the table a shaded light was burning. The card players were still up. Reuter was sitting beside them reading.
"Where's Boettcher?" Graeber asked.
Reuter closed his book with a bang. "He left word for you that he had found nothing. He ran his bicycle into a wall and broke it. It's the old story—misfortune breeds misfortune. Tomorrow he's got to go off on foot again. And so tonight he's sitting in a tavern consoling himself. What's happened to you? You look a little pale around the gills."
"Nothing. I'm going out again right away. Just wanted to get something."
Graeber felt around in his knapsack. He had brought a bottle of Geneva and a bottle of cognac from Russia. In addition he still had Binding's armagnac. "Take the cognac or the armagnac," Reuter said. 'The vodka isn't there any more."
"How come?"
"We drank it. You might have donated it voluntarily. Anyone who comes from Russia had no business acting like a capitalist. He ought to have some consideration for his comrades. It was good vodka."
Graeber got out the two bottles that were still there. He put the armagnac in his pocket and gave the Geneva to Reuter. "You're right. Here, take this as medicine for your gout. And don't act like a capitalist yourself. Give the others some."
"Merci!" Reuter hobbled to his locker and got out a corkscrew. "I assume you're planning the most primitive form of seduction," he said. "Seduction with the aid of intoxicating beverages. In such cases one usually forgets to draw the cork beforehand. With a broken-necked bottle it's awfully easy to slash your mug to ribbons in the excitement. Here, be a man of foresight."
"Go to hell! The bottle's open."
Reuter opened the Geneva. "How did you come to get Holland gin in Russia?"
"I bought it. Any more questions?"
Reuter grinned. "None. Run along with your armagnac, you primitive Casanova. And don't be ashamed. There are mitigating circumstances. Lack of time. Leave is short and war is long."
Feldmann sat up in bed. "Do you need anything, Graeber? There are some things in my wallet. I don't need them. He who sleeps doesn't get syphilis."
"That's not so certain," Reuter remarked. "There's said to be a kind of simon-pure infection. But our Graeber here is a nature boy. An Aryan stud with twelve thoroughbred ancestors. In a case like his prophylactics are a crime against the fatherland."
Graeber opened the armagnac, took a swallow and put it back in his pocket. "You're all damned romantics," he said. "Why don't, you worry about your own affairs?"
Reuter dismissed him with a wave of his hand. "Go in peace, my son. Forget the manual of arms and try to be a human being! It's easier to die than to live. Especially for one of you—the heroic youth and flower of the nation!"
&nbs
p; Graeber put a package of cigarettes and a tumbler in his pocket. On his way out he saw that Rummel was still winning at the card players' table. A pile of money lay in front of him. His face was expressionless; but now he was sweating in bright drops.
The barracks stairs were deserted; it was after taps. The corridors re-echoed to Graeber's steps. He walked across the wide square. Elisabeth was no longer at the gate. She's gone away, he thought. He had almost expected it. Why should she wait for him anyway?
"The lady's standing over there," the sentry said. "How does a doughfoot like you come to have a girl like that? That is something for officers."
A Time to Love and a Time to Die Page 14