Three Comrades

by Erich Maria Remarque

  "Better, but not so carefully perhaps," I replied.

  She looked at me over the top of her little mirror.

  "Let's hope it will be all right," I said. I was overdoing it a bit, for Binding was standing quite tolerably on his pins. But I wanted to do something so that she would not just vanish entirely.

  "Can I ring you in the morning perhaps, and hear how it went?" I asked.

  She did not reply at once.

  "I feel we are partly to blame with all our drinking," I persisted. "Me particularly, with my birthday rum."

  She laughed. "All right, if you like. Western 2796."

  I made a note of the number immediately we were outside. We watched Binding drive off and had a last glass. Then we let Karl off the leash. He swept along through the light March mist, the wind was strong and our breathing quick; the city came toward us, looming fiery in the darkness, and at last there rose out of the gloom, like a brilliantly lighted gay liner, "The Bar." We brought Karl alongside and dropped anchor. Golden flowed the cognac, the gin gleamed like aquamarine and the rum was life itself. Upright we sat on the high bar stools; the music chattered, the pulse of life was clear and strong; it beat bravely in our hearts; the cheerlessness of the beastly furnished rooms that awaited us, the hopelessness of existence, was forgotten; the counter of "The Bar" was the Captain's bridge of the Ship of Life, and we were set once more for the open sea.

  Chapter II

  The next day was a Sunday. I slept late and wakened only when the sun shone on my bed. I sprang out quickly and threw up the window. Outside it was fresh and clear. I set the spirit stove in the window seat and got out the coffee container. Frau Zalewski, my landlady, had given me permission to make my own coffee in my room. Hers was too thin—especially if one had been drinking the night before.

  I had already been two years in her boarding establish ment. The locality pleased me. There was always some thing doing, for the Trades Hall, the Café International and the Salvation Army Barracks were all there cheek by jowl. And immediately fronting the house was an old grave yard, now in disuse. There were large trees as in a park, arid on still nights.one could think one was in the country. On the other hand, it was usually late before there was quiet; for next to the graveyard was an amusement park with roundabouts and swing-boats.

  To Frau Zalewski the graveyard was a great asset. When letting a room she would comment on the excellence of the air and the openness of the outlook, and proceed to charge a higher rent in consequence. "But, sir, think of the situation!" was her invariable formula.

  I dressed slowly. That gave me the feeling of Sunday. I washed; I strolled about the room, read the paper, brewed the coffee; I stood at the window and saw where the street had been taken up; I listened to the birds singing in the high trees in the graveyard opposite—little silvern pipes of God, they sang to the accompaniment of the melancholy, sweet drone of the barrel-organs at the Fair. I chose among my half-dozen shirts and socks with as much deliberation as if there had been twenty times the number; whistling, I turned out my pockets—small change, a. pocketknife, keys, cigarettes—and there, the slip of paper with the girl's name and the telephone number. Patricia Hollmann— an unusual Christian name, Patricia. I put it down on the table. Was that really only yesterday? How far off it seemed—forgotten almost in the pearl-grey fumes of alcohol. That is a remarkable thing about drinking: it brings people together so quickly, but between night and morning it sets an interval again of years.

  I stuck the slip of paper under a pile of books. Should I ring? Maybe—maybe not. These things always look different next morning. I was quite glad, as a matter of fact, to have a little peace. There had been enough trouble the last few years. Keep things at arm's length, Köster used to say. If you let anything come too near you want to hold on to it. And there is nothing a man can hold on to.

  At that moment the usual Sunday morning hate started in the room next door. I looked about for my hat that I must have put away somewhere too carefully the night before, amToverheard what they were saying. It was Hasse and his wife slanging each other. For five years the two had been living here in one little room. They weren't bad folk. If they had had a three-roomed flat with a kitchen for the wife and a child thrown in, their marriage would probably have gone on quite well. But a flat costs money and a child in these insecure times—how could it be done! So there they sat on top of one another, the woman grown hysterical and the man in constant dread of losing his little job. If that happened he would be done for. He was already forty-five. No one would take him on again if he once got out of work. Such is the modern misery—formerly one went under slowly and there was always a chance still of coming up again—but in these days on the farther side of every dismissal yawns the abyss of permanent unemployment.

  I tried to steal out quietly, but already there was a knock on the door and Hasse stumbled in. He dropped into a chair. He was a mild inoffensive chap with drooping shoulders and a little moustache. A modest, conscientious clerk. But they are just the ones who fare worst to-day. They have probably always fared worst. Modesty and conscientiousness receive their reward only in novels. In life they are exploited and then shoved aside.

  Hasse raised his hands. "Think of it, two more dismissals at the office. I'll be next, you see if I'm not."

  From one pay day to the next he lived in this fear. I poured him out a schnapps. His whole body was trembling. One day he would collapse, you could see that. He had not much resistance left.

  "And always these reproaches," he whispered.

  His wife had been blaming him, apparently, for the life she had to lead. She was forty-two, a bit spongy and faded, but of course not quite so used-up as the husband. She was suffering from eleventh-hour panic.

  It was no use mixing in.

  "Look, Hasse," said I, "you stay quietly here as long as you like. I must be going, there's cognac in the wardrobe if you prefer it. That's rum there. Here are some newspapers. Then this afternoon take your wife out for a walk, anywhere, but out of the building. Go to the movies. It costs no more than a couple of hours at a Café and you have something for it afterwards. Forget is the word to-day, not brood."

  I patted him on the shoulder, but with a poor conscience. Anyhow, the movies are always good. Everyone can dream something there.

  The door of their room stood open. The woman was sobbing. I wandered down the passage. The next door was ajar. Listening. A cloud of scent issued from it. Erna Bönig, private secretary, lived there. Much too elegant for her salary; but then once a week her boss used to dictate letters to her until morning. And next day she would be in a foul temper. To compensate she went dancing every evening. When she couldn't dance any more she wouldn't want to live any more, she explained. She had two friends. One loved her and brought her flowers. The other she loved and gave money.

  Next to her was Count Orlov, the riding master, a Russian emigré, waiter, film extra and gigolo, with grey side-whiskers. A virtuoso on the guitar. Every night he prayed to Our Lady of Kasan that he might get a job as receiving-clerk in a first-class hotel; and he was prone to weep when he got drunk.

  Next door. Frau Bender. Nurse at a foundling hospital. Fifty years of age; husband killed in the war; two children died of underfeeding in 1918. Keeps a tabby cat. The only one on the floor.

  Next—Müller, retired accountant, editor of the magazine of some philatelist society. A walking stamp collection, nothing more. A happy man.

  On the last door I knocked. "Well, Georg," said I, "still nothing?"

  Georg Block shook his head. He was a college student in his fourth semester. To enable himself to complete the course he had worked for two years in a mine. And now the money he had saved was almost gone; he had enough left to live only for two months. He could not take up mining again—there were too many miners out of work. He had tried every way to earn a little money. One whole week he spent delivering bills for a margarine concern, and then the concern went bankrupt. Shortly afterwards he got a job a
s a paper-boy and breathed again. Three days later he was set upon by two licensed vendors who took his papers from him and tore them up and warned him not to let them catch him plying a trade where he had no business. They had enough unemployed of their own. He went out again next morning as before, notwithstanding he had had to pay for the papers that had been destroyed. A motorcyclist ran into him, and the papers were scattered in the mud. That cost another two marks. He tried a third time, only to return with his coat in ribbons and his face battered. Then he gave it up. Now he just sat in his room all day in despair, studying like mad, as if it could serve any useful purpose. He ate but once a day. Yet it was of no possible consequence whether he finished the course or not—even if he did pass, it would be at least ten years before he could reckon on getting a post.

  I passed him a packet of cigarettes. "Why not chuck it, Georgie? I did, you know. One can always take it up again later." '

  He shook his head. "No, unless one sticks at it one loses the knack. I found that out mining. I couldn't do it a second time."

  The pale face, the protruding ears, the short-sighted eyes; the gaunt figure, the flat chest—my God!

  "Well, good luck to you, Georgie."

  And next the kitchen. A stuffed boar's head—souvenir of the late Zalewski. The telephone. Semi-darkness. An odour of gas and rancid fat. The door to the passage, with several visiting cards affixed beside the bell-button. My own among them: Robert Lohkamp, stud, phil., two long rings. The card was dirty and yellow with age. "Stud, phil." That's the stuff! A long time ago, that was. I set off down the stairs, to the Café International.

  The International was a long, dark, smoky hole with several back rooms. Near the door by the bar was the piano. It was sadly out of tune, several of the wires were sprung, and the ivory was missing from some of the keys. But I was fond of it for all that. It was a game old crock, and had shared at least one year of my life with me, for it was here that I had been employed as pianist.

  In the back rooms the cattlemen used to forgather from time to time, as did also the people from the amusement park. The pros'titutes used to sit near the door.

  The barroom itself was empty, except for Alois, the flat-footed waiter, behind the counter. "The usual?" he asked.

  I nodded. He brought me a glass of rum. I sat down at a table and stared vacantly into space. A grey band of light entered obliquely through an upper window, and was reflected in the schnapps bottles on the rack. The cherry brandy glowed like ruby.

  Alois resumed his occupation of rinsing glasses. The cat of the proprietress was purring on top of the piano. I smoked a cigarette slowly. The atmosphere made one drowsy. . . . What a strange voice that girl had, yesterday! Husky a bit, perhaps, but sweet, too.

  "Bring us some newspapers, Alois," said I.

  The door creaked. Rosa entered. Rosa, the graveyard pros'titute, otherwise known as "the Iron Steed"—a nickname in honour of her indomitableness. She had come, as was her custom on Sunday mornings, for a cup of chocolate. Afterwards she would be going out to Burgdorf to visit her child.

  "Good day, Robert."

  "Hello, Rosa. How's the youngster?"

  "Just going to find out. Here—look what I'm taking her." From a bundle of paper she produced a doll with hectic red cheeks and proceeded to prod it in the stomach. "Mama," bleated the doll. Rosa beamed.

  "Fine," said I.

  "You wait though." She tilted the doll backwards. The eyes shut with a snap.

  "Well, I never!"

  Rosa was delighted and set about wrapping up the doll again. "You understand these things, Robert, I can see. You'll make a grand father some day."

  "Think so?" said I dubiously.

  Rosa lived for her child. Until three months ago, when it started to walk, Rosa had kept it in her room. She had contrived this in spite of her profession, by making use of a small closet adjoining her own room. When she came in at night with a lover, on some pretext or other she would leave him waiting outside, while she went in and hastily pushed the pram into the closet, and shut the door; then she would return and admit her cavalier. But during the month of December the child had to be turned out of the warm room into" the unheated closet too often, with the result that it would get chilled and begin to cry at precisely those times when she was entertaining a visitor.

  Hard as it was, Rosa was obliged to part with her. She had placed the child in an expensive children's home, where she had given herself out for a respectable widow—had the authorities known the truth they would not have accepted the child.

  Rosa stood up. "You are coming on Friday, of course?"

  I nodded.

  She looked at me. "You know what it is for?"

  "Of course."

  I had not the faintest idea; nor did I ask questions. I had made that a rule during my year here as pianist. It was much the best. By the same principle I used to treat all the girls with the same friendliness. My position would have been impossible otherwise.

  "Au revoir, Robert."

  "Cheerio, Rosa."

  I stayed on a little longer. The International had become a sort of Sabbath rest to me, but to-day for some reason, I was unable to arrive at the peaceful somnolence that belonged to the place on Sundays. I had another glass of rum, stroked the cat and then left.

  I traipsed about the city all day. I could not make out what was wrong with me. I was fidgety and could remain nowhere for long. Late in the afternoon I looked in at the workshop. Köster was there at work on the Cadillac. We had bought it dirt cheap at a sale a short time ago. It had been thoroughly overhauled and Köster was just giving the final touches. It was a speculation. We hoped to make some money with it, but I was doubtful about our finding a purchaser. In bad times people want small cars, not omnibuses like this one.

  "I'm afraid well be landed with it, Otto," said I.

  But Köster was hopeful. "It is the medium-sized car one gets left with, Bob," he explained. "There is a market for cheap cars, and for quite expensive ones. There are still plenty of people with money; or who like to look as if they have it."

  "Where is Gottfried? "I asked.

  "At some political meeting or other."

  "The man's mad. What does he want there?"

  Köster laughed. "Doesn't know that himself, I imagine.

  Got a touch of spring in the blood like as not. And he must be always haring after some new thing." "Maybe," said I. "Anything I can do?" We tinkered around until it was too dark to see. "I think we'll call that a go," said Köster. We washed off the grime.

  "Guess what I have here," he said, patting a wallet in his pocket.

  "No idea."

  "Tickets for the fight to-night. Two. Coming?"

  I hesitated. He looked at me in surprise.

  "Stilling is boxing," said he, "against Walker. Be a good fight."

  "Take Gottfried," I suggested, feeling a fool not to be going. But I had no wish to go, I didn't know why.

  "Got something on?"

  "No."

  He looked at me.

  "I think I'll go home," said I. "Letters to write and so on. One has to sometimes. . . ."

  "Not ill, are you?" he asked anxiously.

  "Not in the least. A touch of spring in the blood, too, perhaps."

  "All right. As you like."

  I strode along home. Seated once again in my room, I could think of nothing I wanted to do. I got up and roamed about. I was completely at a loss to know why I had wanted to come. Finally I set off down the passage to visit Georg. On the way I ran into Frau Zalewski.

  "Gracious me!" she exclaimed, taken aback. "You here?"

  "That would be difficult to deny," said I rather irritably.

  "Not out!" She wagged her head of grey curls. "Wonder of wonders!"

  I did not stay long with Georg. In a quarter of an hour I was back again. I discussed with myself whether or not to have a drink. I did not feel like it. I sat in the window and surveyed the street.

  Dusk flitted on bat's wings
over the graveyard. The sky behind the Trades Hall was green as unripe apples. The street lamps were already lighted, though it was hardly dark yet—they looked as if they were freezing. I rummaged under my books for the slip of paper with the telephone number. At last. . . . It could do no harm to ring up. After all, I did more or less promise to. Probably the girl wouldn't be at home anyway.

  I went into the passage where the telephone was, took up the receiver and asked for a number. While I awaited an answer I felt a pleasant expectancy welling up out of the black earpiece. The girl was in. Then when the deep, slightly husky voice spoke out suddenly like a ghost into the smell of fat and clatter of dishes from Frau Zalewski's parlour—a soft voice speaking slowly, as if it pondered each word—all my discontent vanished. I hung up the receiver after making an appointment for the day after to-morrow. Life suddenly seemed no longer pointless. "Crazy," thought I and shook my head.