A Time to Love and a Time to Die

by Erich Maria Remarque

  "There's coffee," the non-com said. "Just look!"

  "Not for us," the lance corporal replied. "That's for a transport of recruits who are going out for the first time. I heard about it earlier. There's to be a speech too. They don't do that sort of thing for us any more."

  A crowd of evacuees was led up. They were counted off and stood in two lines, with their cardboard boxes and valises, staring at the coffee urn. A couple of S.S. officers appeared. They were wearing elegant boots and riding breeches and they wandered like storks along the station platform. Three more men returning from leave entered the compartment. One of them opened the window and leaned out. Outside stood a woman with a child. Graeber looked at the child and then looked at the woman. She had a wrinkled neck, thick eyelids, thin, pendulous breasts, and wore a faded summer dress with windmills printed on it. Everything seemed to him clearer than usual—the light and everything he saw. "Well then, Heinrich," the woman said.

  "Yes, take care of yourself, Marie. Regards to all."

  "Yes." They looked at each other in silence. A few men with musical instruments stationed themselves in the middle of the platform. "How noble!" the lance corporal said. 'The young cannon fodder goes off to a musical accompaniment. I thought they'd cut that out long ago."

  "They might at least give us some of the coffee," the non-com replied. "After all we're old fighting men and we're going out, too!"

  "Wait until evening. Then you'll get it as soup."

  There was the sound of marching feet and commands. The recruits came by. Almost all of them were very young. There was only a scattering of husky, older men; they came no doubt from the S.A. or the S.S. "Not many of those fellows need to shave," the lance corporal said. "Just look at the young sprouts! Children! That's what we've got to depend on out there."

  The recruits formed up. Non-coms bawled at them. Then there was silence. Someone began a speech.

  "Shut the window," the lance corporal said to the man whose wife was outside.

  The man made no reply. The orator's voice rattled on' as though it came from tin vocal cords. Graeber leaned back and shut his eyes. Heinrich continued to stand at the window. He had not heard what the lance corporal said. Embarrassed, speechless and sad he stared at Marie. Marie stared back in just the same way. It's good that Elisabeth is not here, Graeber thought.

  The voice finally ceased. The four musicians played Deutschland, Deutschland ueber alles and the Horst Wessel song. They played both songs fast and just one stanza of each. No one in the compartment moved. The lance corporal was picking his nose and staring disinterestedly at the result.

  The recruits got into their car. The coffee urn followed them. After a while it came back empty. "Those whores," the non-com said. "They let us old military men die of thirst."

  The artillery man in the corner stopped eating for a moment. "What?" he asked.

  "Whores, I said. What are you eating anyway? Veal?"

  The artillery man bit into his sandwich. "Pork," he said shortly.

  "Pork—" The non-com looked over the men in the car one after the other. He was searching for sympathy. The artillery man was not interested. Heinrich was still standing at the window. "Regards to Aunt Bertha, too," he said to Marie.

  "Yes."

  They were silent again. "Why don't we leave?" someone asked. "It's after six already."

  "Perhaps we're waiting for a general."

  "Generals fly."

  They had to wait for a half-hour more. "Now go along, Marie," Heinrich said from time to time.

  "I can wait."

  "The little one must have his supper."

  "He has the whole evening to eat it."

  They were silent again for a time. "Regards to Josef, too," Heinrich said finally.

  "Yes, all right. I'll tell him."

  The artillery man let out an enormous fart, sighed deeply, and went to sleep at once. It was as though the train had only been waiting for that. Slowly it began to move. "Well then, regards to all, Marie."

  "To you, too, Heinrich."

  The train moved faster. Marie was running beside the car. "Take good care of the little one, Marie."

  "Yes, Heinrich. And you take care of yourself."

  "Of course, of course."

  Graeber saw the woebegone face of the woman running beneath the window. She ran as though it was a matter of life and death to be able to stare at Heinrich for ten seconds longer. And then suddenly he saw Elisabeth. She was standing behind the station shed. She could not have been seen from the train before. He was in doubt for only a second; then he saw her face clearly. It was so completely at a loss that it seemed lifeless. He leaped up and seized Heinrich by the coat collar. "Let me at the window!" he shouted.

  Suddenly everything was forgotten. He no longer understood why he had come to the station alone. He no longer understood anything. He had to see her. He had to shout. He had failed to say the most important thing.

  He jerked at the back of Heinrich's neck. Heinrich was hanging far out. He had braced his elbows on the outside of the window frame. "Regards to Lisa, too," he shouted above the rattling.

  "Let me by! Get away from the window! My wife's out there!"

  Graeber threw one arm around Heinrich's shoulders and pulled. Heinrich kicked out backward. He caught Graeber in the shin. "And take good care of everything!" he shouted.

  The woman could no longer be heard. Graeber kicked Heinrich in the knee and pulled at his shoulders. Heinrich did not let go. He waved with one hand; with the other hand and elbow he maintained himself in the window. The train swung around a curve. Over Heinrich's head Graeber saw Elisabeth. She was already far away and very small standing alone in front of the shed. Graeber waved over the strawlike bristles of Heinrich's head. Perhaps she could still see the hand; but she could not see who was waving. A cluster of houses came by and the station was no longer there.

  Heinrich slowly detached himself from the window. "You damn—" Graeber began furiously and stopped. Heinrich turned around. Big tears were running down his face. Graeber let his hands fall. "Oh, shit!"

  "Man, what language!" the lance corporal said.

  CHAPTER XXV

  TWO days later he found his regiment and reported at the company office. There was no sign of the seregant major. Only a cleric was sitting there, idle, at the desk. The village lay a hundred and twenty kilometers west of the last position Graeber had seen. "How are things here?" he asked.

  "Shitty. How was your furlough?"

  "Half and half. Has much happened?"

  "Plenty. You can see for yourself where we are."

  "What's become of the men?"

  "One platoon is digging trenches. Another is burying the dead. They'll be back at noon."

  "Have there been many changes?"

  "You'll see. I don't know who was still here when you left. We've had a lot of replacements. Children. They die like flies in winter. Not the slightest idea what war's about. We have a new sarge. The old one is dead. Fat Meinert."

  "Do you mean he went up front?"

  "No. He got his in the latrine. Flew into the air along with all the muck." The clerk yawned. "You'll see what's up. Why didn't you arrange to get a nice little bomb splinter in your ass while you were home?"

  "Yes," Graeber said. "Why not? You just don't get any good ideas until it's too late."

  "I'd have arranged to be a couple more days late, too. No one here would have missed you."

  "That's something else that doesn't occur to you until you're back."

  Graeber walked through the village. It was like the one he had been in last. All these villages were alike. They were all devastated in the same way. The only difference was that now there was hardly any snow. Everything was wet and muddy; your boots sank in deep and the earth held them fast as though it wanted to drag them off. Along the main street boards had been laid end to end so that you could walk on them. They squelched in the water, and when you stepped on one end the other rose up dripping.


  The sun was shining and it was fairly warm. It seemed to Graeber much warmer than in Germany. He listened to the front. Heavy artillery fire rolled and swelled and ebbed away. He located the cellar to which the clerk had assigned him and stowed his things in a vacant spot. He was tremendously irritated that he had not stayed on furlough a day or two longer. Actually no one here seemed to need him. He set out again. Trenches had been dug in front of the village; now they were full of water and the walls were beginning to cave in. In a few places small concrete bunkers had been built. They stood like gravestones in the sodden landscape.

  Graeber walked back. On the main street he saw Rahe, the company commander. He was balancing on the boards like a stork with horn-rimmed glasses. Graeber reported to him. "You were in luck," Rahe said. "Just after you left all leaves were canceled." He looked at Graeber with his bright eyes. "Was it worth while?"

  "Yes," Graeber replied.

  "That's good. We're in a pretty dirty spot here. This is only a temporary position. We'll probably fall back on the reserve position that has just been reinforced. Did you see it? You must have come right through there."

  "No. I did not see it."

  "No?"

  "No, sir," Graeber said. "It's about forty kilometers from here."

  "It must have been night when we came through. I slept a good deal."

  "That's it, no doubt." Rahe looked searchingly at Graeber again as though he wanted to ask something more. Then he said, "Your platoon leader was killed. Lieutenant Mueller. Now you have Lieutenant Mass."

  "Yes, sir."

  Rahe poked with his walking stick in the wet clay. "As long as the mud hangs on this way it's hard for the Russians to move up artillery and tanks. That gives us time to regroup. Everything has its good and bad side, eh? Glad you're back, Graeber. We need old hands to train the young recruits." He went on poking in the mud. "How was it back there?"

  "Just about the way it is here. Lots of air raids."

  "Really? As bad as that?"

  "I don't know how bad it was in comparison with the other cities. But every couple of days there was at least one raid."

  Rahe loked at him as though he expected him to say more. But Graeber kept quiet.

  The others came back at noon. "The furlough boy!" Immermann said. "Man alive, what made you come back into this crap? Why didn't you desert?"

  "Where to?" Graeber asked.

  Immermann scratched his head. "Switzerland," he said then.

  "I didn't think of that, wise guy. Despite the fact that special luxury trains for deserters leave daily for Switzerland. They have red crosses painted on the roofs so they won't be bombed. And all along the Swiss border stand triumphal arches with the inscription: Welcome! Know anything else, you joker? And since when have you dared to talk this way?"

  "I've always dared. You've just forgotten that back in the whispering homeland. Besides, we're in retreat. We are almost in flight. With every hundred kilometers we retire the tone gets a bit freer."

  Immermann began to clean the dirt off his uniform. "Mueller is dead," he said. "Meinecke and Schroeder are in the hospital. Muecke got shot in the stomach. They say he kicked off in Warsaw. Which of the old crowd were still here? That's right, Berning—lost his right leg. Bled to death."

  "Hirschland," Graeber said.

  "Hirschland? What's the matter with him?"

  "He's dead, too."

  "Nonsense. He's sitting right over there."

  Graeber looked over. It was true. Hirschland was sitting on an old barrel cleaning his mess kit. Damn it. he thought, what does this mean? "His mother got a report that he'd been killed. I've got ask him."

  He walked over to Hirschland. "I went to see your mother," he said.

  "Did you really? You didn't forget? I never thought you'd do it."

  "Why not?"

  "I'm not used to having people do things for me."

  Graeber recalled that he had almost forgotten. "How is she? How is she getting along?" Hirschland asked. "Did you tell her that I was fine?"

  "Hirschland, your mother thinks you are dead. She got a report from the company."

  "What? That's impossible." "She told me so herself."

  Hirschland stared at Graeber. "But I'write to her almost every day."

  "She thinks they're letters you wrote before. Have you any idea of how it could have happened? After all, there aren't two Hirschlands."

  "No. Someone must have done it on purpose."

  "No one would do something like that on purpose."

  "No? Not even Steinbrenner?"

  "Is he still alive?"

  "Of course. And he was assigned to the office for two days after the sergeant major was killed. The clerk was sick at the time."

  "But that would be a stinking forgery."

  "Yes."

  "Rahe is supposed to sign those letters."

  "My mother doesn't know that. One signature is as good as another to her."

  The thing suddenly appeared more probable to Graeber than it had at first. "What a swinish trick!" he growled. "It's hard to believe. Just why would the bastard want to do it?"

  "For fun. To educate me. After all, I have Jewish blood. What did my mother say?"

  "She was calm. You must write her right away. Tell her what I have said. She will remember that I was there."

  "It will be a long time before she gets it."

  Graeber saw that Hirschland's lips were trembling. "We'll go to the office," he announced. "We'll have the correction made from there. They'll have to send a telegram. Otherwise we'll go to Rahe."

  "We can't do that."

  "Why not? We can do even more. We can report Stein-brenner."

  "Not I. I can't do that. I can't prove a thing. And even if—No, I can't make a complaint. Not I. Don't you understand that?"

  "Yes, Hirschland," Graeber said grimly. "But all that won't last forever."

  He met Steinbrenner after supper. Steinbrenner was brown and cheerful. He looked like a sunburned Gothic angel.

  "How's morale at home?" he asked.

  Graeber put down his mess kit. "When we got to the border," he said, "we were called together by an S.S. captain and told that no one of us was to say a word about the situation at home under penalty of the severest punishment."

  Steinbrenner laughed. "I'm in the S.S. myself. You can tell me safely."

  "Then I'd be a pretty ass. 'The severest punishment' means being shot as a saboteur of the Army's plans."

  Steinbrenner stopped laughing. "You say that as though there were something to tell. As though there had been catastrophes!"

  "I say nothing at all. I am simply repeating what the S.S. captain told us."

  Steinbrenner regarded Graeber calculatingly. "You got married, eh?"

  "How did you know?"

  "I know everything."

  "You found it out in the office. Don't give yourself airs. You're in the office a good deal, aren't you?"

  "I'm there as much as I need to be. When I get my leave I'm going to get married too."

  "Really? Do you know to whom?"

  "The daughter of the S.S. commandant in my home town."

  "Naturally."

  Steinbrenner missed the irony. "The combination of blood lines is first rate." he declared, completely absorbed in his subject. "Nordic-Friesian on my side, Rhenish-Saxon on hers. We'll get every parenthood assistance and racial stipend. The children will naturally have special educational advantages—everything that the Party has to give. In five years my wife will be eligible for an important post in the Reich's Women's Auxiliary as a model mother. If, in the meantime, we have twins or triplets the Fuehrer himself will be their godfather, perhaps in just two or three years. For the fifth child he will be in any case. Then my career will be splendidly assured. Picture that!"

  "I am picturing it."

  "Selective breeding of the race! We've not only got to root out the Jews, we've also got to replace them with pure-blooded Germans. A new race of leaders."

/>   "Have you rooted out many Jews?"

  Steinbrenner grinned. "If you could see my conduct records you wouldn't have to ask. Those were the times!" He bent over confidentially toward Graeber. "I've put in for a transfer. Back to an S.S. division. There's more going on there. And you've got better chances. Everything's on a bigger scale. No boring court-martials for every lousy Russian. They get rid of them in batches. Not long ago three hundred Polish and Russian traitors in one afternoon. Six men got the Distinguished Service Cross for that. Here all that turns up is a few measly guerrillas—you don't get any decorations for that. We haven't had more than half a dozen since you left. In the clean-up battalions and in the S.S. Security Service they get hundreds and hundreds. A man can get ahead there!"