Three Comrades

by Erich Maria Remarque

  For one moment I was in utmost alarm. In the bar was now sitting, for a dead cert., the last of the romantics. I saw his face already . . .

  "Ach," said I swiftly, "that's nothing to write home about. There are lots of better places."

  "I don't know—I thought it very nice recently."

  "Really?" I asked taken aback. "You thought it very, nice recently?"

  "Yes," she replied with a laugh. "Very."

  Indeed, thought I, and that's what I've been blaming myself for!

  "But I think around this time it is very full," I tried once more.

  "We could see anyway," she replied.

  "Yes, we could do that." I considered what I should do.

  As we approached I got out quickly. "I'll just take a quick look. I'll be back in a minute."

  There was nobody there I knew except Valentin. "I say, has Gottfried been here yet?" I asked.

  Valentin nodded. "With Otto. They left half an hour ago."

  "Pity," said I breathing again. "I should like to have seen them."

  I went back to the car. "We might risk it," I explained. "It's not so bad to-day." As a precaution I parked the Cadillac round the next corner in the deepest shadow.

  But we had not been sitting ten minutes when Lenz's straw-blond head appeared at the counter. Damn, thought I, now for it. A few weeks later would have suited me better.

  Gottfried seemed not to want to remain. Already I fancied myself delivered when I saw Valentin drawing his attention to me. So much for my lying.

  Gottfried's expression when he caught sight of us would have been a study for an ambitious film star. His eyes stood in his "head like two poached eggs and I was afraid his bottom jaw would drop off. It was a pity there wasn't a producer sitting in "The Bar" at that moment; I'm sure he would have engaged Lenz on the spot—for roles, for example, where the sea serpent suddenly appears with a bellow in front of the shipwrecked sailor.

  Gottfried soon had himself in hand again. I cast an imploring look at him to vanish. He responded with a villainous grin, settled his coat and came forward.

  I knew what was ahead and attacked immediately.

  "Have you seen Fräulein Bomblatt home already?" I asked to neutralize him at once.

  "Yes," he replied without betraying, by so much as an eyelid, that he had never heard of Fräulein Bomblatt till that second. "She sent you her love and hopes you will call her up first thing in the morning."

  That was quite a good comeback. I nodded. "I'll do so. I hope she will buy the car."

  Lenz opened his mouth once more. I kicked him on the shin and gave him such a look that he stopped short with a smirk.

  We drank a few glasses. I only sidecars, with plenty of lemon. I did not mean to get myself in wrong again.

  Gottfried was in form. "I've just been round to your place," said he. "Wanted to fetch you. Afterwards I went to the amusement park. They've got a magnificent new merry-go-round. What about coming?" He looked at Patricia Hollmann.

  "At once," she replied, delighted. "Then let us start now," said I.

  I was glad to get outside. In the open the business was simpler.

  First the barrel-organs—advance posts of the amusement park. Melancholy sweet droning. On the threadbare velvet covers of the organs occasionally a parrot, or a half-frozen little monkey in a red twill jacket. . . . Then the harsh voices of vendors of crockery ware, glass-cutters, Turkish delight, balloons, suitings. . . . The cold blue light and the smell of the carbide lamps. . . . The fortunetellers, the astrologers, the pepper-cake tents, the swing boats, the sideshows—and lastly, clamourous with music, gay, glittering, lit-up like palaces, the circling turrets of the merry-go-rounds. . . .

  "All aboard, lads," yelled Lenz as with streaming hair he made a wild leap for the scenic railway. It had the loudest orchestra. At every round six trumpeters stepped out of six gilded niches, turned to the east and the west, blew a blast, flourished their instruments and retired. It was glorious.

  We were sitting in a large swan and lurching up and down. The world glittered and glided, it reeled and fell back into a black tunnel through which we hurtled to a beating of drums, immediately to be greeted again with trumpets and splendour.

  "Onward!" Gottfried steered the way to a flying roundabout with airships and aeroplanes. We entered a zeppelin and did three rounds in it.

  Rather out of breath, we got down again. "And now for the devil's wheel," announced Lenz.

  The devil's wheel Was a large, flat disc, slightly raised in the middle, which revolved ever faster and faster and on which one had to keep upright. Gottfried boarded' it with about twenty others. He stepped it like a maniac and received special applause. At the finish he was alone with a cook who had a stern like a Clydesdale. That wily person planted herself, as the business became more difficult, plumb in the centre of the disc, while Gottfried swept prancing around her. The rest were already all under. At last fate claimed the last of the romantics also; he staggered into the arms of the cook, and in close embrace rolled over the edge. When he joined us again he had the cook on his arm.. He dubbed her, without more ado, Lina. Lina smiled embarrassment. He asked her what she would drink with him. Lina replied that beer was said to be good for thirst. The two disappeared into the Bavarian beer garden.

  "And we? Where do we go now?" asked Patricia Hollmann with shining eyes.

  "Into the maze of ghosts," said I, pointing to a large booth.

  The maze was a way beset with surprises. After a few steps the ground wobbled, hands groped for one out of the dark, masked figures sprang out of corners, spirits howled —we laughed, but once the girl started swiftly back at the appearance of a green-lighted death's-head. For an instant she lay in my arms, her breath touched my cheek, I felt her hair on my lips—then immediately she was laughing again and I let her go.

  I let her go—but something in me did not let her go. Long after we had come out I still felt her shoulder in my arm, the soft hair, the faint peach smell of her skin.

  I avoided looking at her. She had suddenly become something different for me.

  Lenz was already awaiting us. He was alone.

  "Where's Lina?" I asked.

  "Getting tight," he replied, with his head indicating the beer garden, "with a blacksmith."

  "My sympathy," said I.

  "Not at all," replied Gottfried. "Now let us pass on to serious man's work."

  We went to a booth where one had to throw hard rubber rings on to hooks and could win all manner of things.

  "So," said Lenz to Patricia Hollmann, shoving his hat on to the back of his head, "now we'll collect your trousseau."

  He threw first and won an alarm clock. I followed and bagged a teddy bear. The booth proprietor passed them over and made a great spiel to attract other customers. "You'll soon change your tune," smirked Gottfried, and won a frying pan; I, a second teddy bear. "Bit of a cow, eh?" said the booth proprietor, handing us the things.

  The chap did not know what he was in for. Lenz had been the best bomb thrower in the company; and in winter when there wasn't much doing we practised for months on end, throwing our hats on to all possible hooks. By comparison the rings here were child's play. Without any difficulty Gottfried next collected a cut-glass vase, I half a dozen gramophone records. The proprietor shoved them over to us in silence and then examined his hooks.

  Lenz aimed, threw and won a coffeepot, the second prize. We now had a host of spectators. I threw three rings in rapid succession on to the same hook. Forfeit: the penitent Saint Magdalene in a gold frame.

  The proprietor made a face as if he were at the dentist's, and refused to let us go on. We intended to stop, but the spectators kicked up a row. They insisted that the fellow should let us carry on. They wanted to see him cleaned out. When the rumpus was at its height Lina suddenly turned up with her blacksmith. "People should only miss, eh?" she crowed, "never hit, eh?" The blacksmith boomed support.

  "All right," suggested Lenz, "one more throw each." />
  I threw first. A washbasin with jug and soap dish. Then came Lenz. He took five rings. He threw four in quick succession on to the same hook. Before the fifth he made an artistic pause and took out a cigarette. Three people offered him a light. The blacksmith slapped him on the shoulder. Lina was chewing her handkerchief with excitement. Then Gottfried took aim and threw the last ring, very gently so that it should not bounce off, clean on to the other four. It hung there. Thunderous applause. We had captured the first prize-—a pram with a pink cover and lace pillows.

  The proprietor, cursing, wheeled it out. We packed the rest into it and moved off to the next stand. Lina pushed the pram. The blacksmith made such jokes about it that I thought better to drop behind a bit with Patricia Holl-mann.

  At the next stall one had to throw rings over wine bottles. If the ring landed clean one won the bottle. We got away with six bottles. Lenz, regardful of etiquette, presented them to the blacksmith.

  There was one more booth of a similar kind. But the proprietor had smelt a rat and was just declaring it closed as we came up. The blacksmith was making trouble; he had observed that here beer bottles were to be contended for. But we declined. The chap at this booth had only one arm.

  With a large following we arrived at the Cadillac.

  "Now what?" asked Lenz, scratching his head. "We'd better tie the pram on behind."

  "Sure," said I, "but you'll have to get in and steer so that it doesn't tip over."

  Patricia Hollmann protested. She was afraid Lenz would actually do it.

  "All right," said Lenz, "then we had better divide up. The two teddy bears go to you. The gramophone records too. Now what about the frying pan?"

  The girl shook her head. "Passes to the workshop, then," announced Gottfried. "Take it, Bob, you're master of the order of the poached egg. The coffeepot?"

  The girl nodded toward Lina. The cook blushed. Gottfried presented her with the thing as at a prize-giving. Then he hauled out the crockery basin. "The washing gear here? To our old friend, no? He'll have use for it in his job. The alarm clock likewise. Blacksmiths are heavy sleepers."

  I handed Gottfried the flower vase. He passed it to Lina. Stammering, she tried to decline. Her eyes were glued on the penitent Magdalene. She feared, if she took the vase, the smith would get the picture.

  "I'm very fond of art," she burst out.

  "Fräulein," asked Lenz, with a grand gesture turning round, "what do you say to that?"

  Patricia Hollmann took the picture and gave it to the cook.

  "It is a very beautiful picture, Lina," said she, smiling.

  "Hang it up over your bed and take it to heart," added Lenz.

  Lina seized it. She gave a great gulp of gratitude.

  "And now you," said Lenz pensively, to the pram.

  Despite her joy over the Magdalene, Lina's eyes were again covetous. The smith observed that one could never be sure when one might not need such a thing, and laughed so at the idea that he dropped one of the wine bottles.

  But Lenz was against it. "Just a moment. I saw something a while back," said he and disappeared. A few minutes later he collected the cart and pushed off with it. "That's settled," said he when he came back alone.

  We climbed into the Cadillac. "Like Christmas," said Lina happily amid all her junk, giving us a red hand in farewell.

  The smith took us aside a moment. "Look here," said he, "if you ever have anyone you want socked—I live in Leibnitzstrasse sixteen, rear court, second staircase on the left. If it's more, then I'll come with my gang."

  "That's agreed," we replied and drove off.

  As we turned the corner of the amusement park, Gottfried pointed out the window. There was our pram—a real child in it, and a pale, still rather agitated woman beside it, examining it.

  "Good, eh?" observed Gottfried.

  "Take her the teddy bears!" cried Patricia Hollmann. "They belong with it."

  "One perhaps," said Lenz. "You must keep one."

  "No, both."

  "All right." Lenz sprang out of the car, threw the plush things into the woman's arms, and, before she could say a word, dashed off as if he were pursued.

  "So," said he, out of breath, "now I begin to feel quite sick at my own nobility. Put me down at the International. I must absolutely have a brandy."

  He got out and I took the girl home. It was different from last time. She stood in the doorway and the light from the lamps flickered over her face. She looked lovely. I should have liked to go in with her.

  "Good night," said I, "sleep well."

  "Good night."

  She gave me her hand and went up the steps. I watched her until the light went out. Then I drove off in the Cadillac. I felt extraordinary. It was not like other nights when one had been crazy about some girl. There was tenderness in it. Tenderness, and the desire to be able for once to let go.

  I went to Lenz at the International. It was almost empty. In one corner sat Fritzi with her friend Alois, the waiter. They were quarrelling. Gottfried was sitting on the sofa by the bar with Mimi and Wally. He was charming with them both, especially Mimi, poor old creature.

  The girls left soon. They must be about their business; now was the best time. Mimi groaned and sighed for her varicose veins. I sat down beside Gottfried.

  "Now fire away," said I.

  "What for, Bob?" he replied to my amazement. "It's quite right, what you're doing."

  I was relieved that he took it so quietly. "I used to sing a different tune," said I.

  He waved his hand. "Nonsense."

  I ordered a rum.

  "You know," said I then; "I haven't the least idea who she is or anything. Nor how she stands with Binding. Did he say anything to you?"

  He looked at me. "Does that worry you?"

  "No."

  "Thought not. The mantle fits you pretty well, anyway."

  I reddened.

  "You don't need to blush. You're quite right. I wish I could."

  I was silent awhile.

  "How's that, Gottfried?" said I at last.

  He looked at me. "Because anything else is dirt, Bob. Because nothing pays these days. Remember what Ferdinand told you yesterday. He's not far wrong, the old corpse painter. . . . Well, anyway, sit up to the old tin can there and play us a few of the old army songs."

  I played the "Three Lilies" and the "Argonnermald!" They sounded ghostly in the empty room, when one remembered where we used to sing them.

  Chapter VII

  Two days later Köster came swiftly out of the office. "Bob, your Blumenthal has just rung up. You're to go with the Cadillac at eleven. He wants to make a trial run."

  I flung down the screwdriver and spanner. "Otto, if only we could do it!"

  "What did I tell you," came up from Lenz in the pit under the Ford. "I told you he'd come back. Always listen to Gottfried."

  "You hold your tongue, this situation is serious," I shouted down to him. "Otto, what's the outside I can drop the price?"

  "Two thousand at the outside. At the absolute outside two thousand, two hundred. Then, if there's nothing for it, two five. If you see you're dealing with a complete maniac, two six. But tell him in that case we will curse him to all eternity."

  "Good."

  We polished the car till it shone. I got in. Köster laid a hand on my shoulder. "Bob, remember your duty as a soldier. Defend the honour of the workshop with your blood if need be. Die standing, your hand on Blumenthal's wallet."

  "Right," I grinned.

  Lenz hauled a medallion from his pocket and held it before my face. "Hold the amulet, Bob!"

  "All right." I took it.

  "Abracadabra, great Siva," prayed Gottfried, "endue this poor mutt with strength and courage! Wait—here, better still, take it with you. There, now spit three times."

  "Done," said I; spat at his feet and drove off, past Jupp who saluted excitedly with the petrol pipe.

  En route I bought some pinks arranged them artistically in the cut-glass vases of
the car—a speculation on Frau Blumenthal.

  Unfortunately Blumenthal received me in his office, not at his house. I had to wait a quarter of an hour. Dearest, I thought, I know that trick; you won't wear me out that way. I pumped a pretty typist in the anteroom, to whom I gave the pink in my buttonhole, about the business. Woollens, turnover good, nine in the office, one sleeping partner, keenest rival Meyer and Son, young Meyer drove a red, two-seater Essex—so far I got when Blumenthal called me.

  He shot at sight with both barrels.