Three Comrades

by Erich Maria Remarque

  "Fernet-Branca even," I acknowledged, at last beginning to get everything straight. "Damn my eyes, but you are a marvellous girl, Pat, and I am a terrible idiot."

  I picked her up quickly, opened the door and carried her along the corridor. She lay in my arms, a silver heron, a tired bird; I turned my head aside that she should not smell my schnapps breath, and I felt that she trembled, though she smiled.

  I put her in an armchair, turned on the light and brought a rug. "If only I had had any idea, Pat—instead of lounging around I might have—Ach, miserable bonehead. I did ring up from Alfons', and whistled outside your place. I thought you weren't having any, as you didn't answer—"

  "Why didn't you come back, then, after you brought me home?"

  "Yes, I might have known—"

  "It would be better next time if you gave me your room key as well," said she; "then I won't have to wait outside." She smiled, but her lips quivered, and I suddenly realized what it had meant for her—this coming back, this waiting, and this plucky, jollying tone now.

  "Pat," said I hastily, completely bewildered. "You're frozen, surely. You must have something to drink; I saw a light in Orlow's room when I was outside; I'll go at once, these Russians always have tea, I'll be back in a moment"—I felt myself go hot all over—"I'll never forget in all my life, Pat," said I from the doorway and went swiftly down the passage.

  Orlow was still up. He was sitting in front of his icon in the corner of the room, before which a lamp was burning; his eyes were red, and on the table a little samovar was steaming.

  "Excuse me," said I, "but an unforeseen accident—could you give me some hot tea?"

  Russians are accustomed to accidents. He gave me two glasses, some sugar, and filled a plate with little cakes.

  "I'm delighted to be of service," said he. "May I also— I've often been in similar . . . A few coffee beans—to chew—"

  "Thank you," said I, "really, I thank you. I'd be glad to take them."

  "If you need anything else," said he with utmost gra-ciousness, "I shall be up for some time yet; it would be a pleasure to me—"

  As I walked back along the corridor I munched the coffee beans. They took away the smell of the schnapps. Pat was sitting beside the lamp powdering herself. I stood a moment in the doorway. It quite touched me to see her sitting here looking so attentively into her little looking-glass and dabbing her cheeks with the powder puff.

  "Drink a bit of tea," said I. "It is quite hot."

  She took the glass, I watched while she drank.

  "The devil only knows what was the matter to-night, Pat."

  "Oh, I know," she replied.

  "So? I don't."

  "And you don't have to, Robby. You know a bit too much already, if you ask me, to be really happy."

  "Maybe," said I. "But it doesn't do that I get only more and more childish the longer I know you."

  "Oh, yes, it does. Better than if you got always more and more sensible."

  "That's one way of looking at it," said I. "You have a good way of helping one out of a jam. But everything seemed to come all of a heap."

  She put the glass on the table. I leaned against the bed. I had the feeling of having come home at last after a long, difficult journey.

  The birds began twittering. Outside a door banged. That was Frau Bender, the orphanage nurse. I looked at my watch. In half an hour Frida would be in the kitchen; then we would no longer be able to escape unseen. Pat was still sleeping. She breathed deep and regularly. It was a shame to wake her. But it had to be.

  "Pat—"

  She murmured something in her sleep. "Pat—" I cursed all furnished rooms. "Pat, it's time. We must get you dressed."

  She opened her eyes and smiled, still warm from sleep, like a child. I never ceased to be astonished at this cheerfulness on waking, and liked it in her very much. I am never cheerful when I wake.

  "Pat—Frau Zalewski is cleaning her teeth."

  "I'm staying with you to-day—"

  "Her?"

  "Yes."

  I sat up. "Splendid idea—but your things—these shoes and dress are for evening."

  "Then I'll stay here till evening."

  "And what about home?"

  "We'll telephone that I've stayed somewhere for the night."

  "We'll do it now. Are you hungry?"

  "Not yet."

  "In any case I'll dash out and grab a few fresh rolls. They're hanging outside on the passage door. Now's just about the time."

  When I came back Pat was standing at the window. She had on only her silver shoes. The soft of early morning fell like a shawl over her shoulders.

  "We've forgotten about yesterday, eh, Pat?" said I.

  She nodded without turning round.

  "We simply won't go any more together with other people. True love can't abide people. Then we won't have any more rows and attacks of jealousy. This Breuer and the whole set can go to the devil, eh?"

  "Yes," said she, "and Markowitz too."

  "Markowitz? Who's that then?"

  "The one you sat with in the bar at 'The Cascade.'"

  "Aha," said I, suddenly rather pleased. "Aha, that one."

  I turned out my pockets. "Look at that now. It did serve some useful purpose anyway. I won a heap of money at poker. Now we'll go out again, to-night, eh? But properly, without other people. We have forgotten them, eh?"

  She nodded.

  The sun rose behind the roofs of the Trades Hall. Windows began to glitter. Pat's hair was full of light and her shoulders were golden.

  "What was it you said, what does this Breuer do actually? As a profession, I mean?"

  "Architect."

  "Architect," said I, rather winged—I would sooner have heard he was nothing at all—"Well, after all—architect; what's that anyway, eh, Pat?"

  "Yes, darling."

  "Nothing special, is it?"

  "Nothing at all," said Pat with conviction, turning round and laughing. "It's nothing at all, absolute nothing. Just mud it is."

  "And this shack, it's not so bad, eh, Pat? Other people have better, of course—"

  "It is wonderful, this shack," she interrupted me; "it's a perfectly lovely shack, I really don't know any nicer, darling."

  "And I, Pat, I have my failings, of course, and I'm only a taxi driver, but—"

  "You are a perfect darling—a bread-snatcher, a rum drinker—a darling you are."

  With a swing she threw her arms about my neck. "Ach, you chump I How good it is to be alive!"

  "Only with you, Pat. Truly."

  The morning rose up wonderful and bright. A thin mist still lay over the gravestones below and drifted to and fro. The treetops were already full of light. Out of the chimneys of the houses smoke was curling up. The first newspapers were being called through the streets. We lay down to a morning sleep, a waking sleep, dreaming on the borders of sleep, each in the arms of the other—wonderful hovering, breath in breath. Then about nine o'clock, as "Geheimrat Burkhard" first I telephoned Lieutenant Colonel Egbert von Hake, personally; and then I telephoned to Lenz, asking him to take over my morning cruise with the taxi.

  He interrupted me. "Leave it to me, child; not for nothing is your Gottfried a connoisseur in the vagaries of the human heart. I had counted on it already. Lots of fun, Goldbaby."

  "You shut up," said I happily and then explained in the kitchen that I was not well and would stay in bed till midday. Three times I had to beat off the assault of Frau Zalewski, offering me camomile tea, aspirin, and cold packs. Then I could smuggle Pat into the bathroom, and we had peace.

  Chapter XIV

  A week later the baker turned up unexpectedly in the yard.

  "You go out, Bob," said Lenz with a poisonous look through the window, "old Pastry-Casanova's sure to be wanting something for nothing."

  The baker did look down-in-the-mouth. "Something wrong with the car?" I asked.

  He shook his head. "No, no. Running splendidly. As good as new now."

&nb
sp; "Don't I know it," I affirmed, eyeing him with more interest.

  "Well, you see—" said he. "It's this way—I rather want another car—a bigger one—"

  He glanced round the yard. "Didn't I see a Cadillac last time I was here?"

  I saw at once what the trouble was. The dark person he lived with had been busy kneading him a bit.

  "The Cadillac? Oh, yes," said I with enthusiasm; "you ought to have got in on that when you had the chance. An absolute bargain. Went for seven thousand marks. A gift, you might say—"

  "Well, hardly a gift."

  "A gift," I repeated emphatically, considering what should be the next move, "I can enquire, if you like," said I then; "perhaps the chap who bought it is needing money. These things go quickly nowadays. Half a mo'."

  I went into the shop and quickly told what had happened. Gottfried leapt up. "Where can we lay hands on an old Cadillac, boys? Come on, get busy!"

  "You leave that to me," said I; "you watch the baker doesn't escape in the meantime."

  "Done." Gottfried vanished.

  I rang up Blumenthal. I hadn't much hope, but one could only try. He was in his office. "Do you want to sell your Cadillac?" I asked at once.

  Blumenthal laughed.

  "I've got somebody for it," I went on, "cash down."

  "Cash down," replied Blumenthal after a moment's reflection. "That's a word of purest poetry these days—"

  "That's my idea, too," said I, brightening suddenly. "Then how is it, can we talk it over?"

  "One can always talk," observed Blumenthal.

  "Good. When can I see you?"

  "This afternoon after lunch I have time. Let's say around two, in the office here."

  "Right."

  I hung up. "Otto," said I rather excitedly to Köster, "I never expected it, but I believe our old Cadillac is coming back."

  Köster laid aside all his papers. "Really? Does he want to sell?"

  I nodded and looked through the window to where Lenz was talking hard to the baker. "He's making a mess of it," said I uncomfortably; "he's talking too much. That baker's a tower of suspicion; you could only persuade him by saying nothing. I must go out and relieve Gottfried at once."

  Köster laughed. "Right—neck or nothing, Bob."

  I winked at him and went. But I could hardly believe my ears: so far from singing premature hymns to the Cadillac, Gottfried was entirely engrossed in explaining to the baker how the South American Indians make their maize bread.

  I gave him an approving glance and then turned to the baker: "Unfortunately the chap doesn't want to sell—"

  "What did I tell you?" said Lenz promptly, as if we had already discussed it.

  I gave a shrug. "It's a pity—but I can understand—"

  The baker stood there irresolute. I looked at Lenz.

  "Well, couldn't you try him again perhaps?" he asked immediately.

  "I'm doing that in any case," I replied. "I've arranged anyway to see him this afternoon. Where could I get hold of you afterwards?" I asked the baker.

  "I'll be in the neighbourhood here around four. I could look in again then."

  "Good—I'll be sure to know definitely by then. I hope we do pull it off."

  The baker nodded. Then he got into his Ford and steamed off.

  "Are you quite God-forsaken?" burst out Lenz the moment he was round the corner.

  "No sooner do I get a good grip on the boy than you let him go, just like that."

  "Logic and psychology, my dear Gottfried," I replied clapping him on the shoulder. "You don't understand that sort of thing yet."

  He shook off my hand. "Psychology—" said he contemptuously. "The best psychology is' a good opportunity. And that was one. The fellow will never come back."

  "He'll be back at four o'clock—."

  Gottfried looked at me pityingly. "Will you bet?" he asked.

  "Sure," I replied, "but you'll fall in. I know the chap better than you. You must bring him several times to the fire. Besides, I can't sell him something we haven't got."

  "Ach, du lieber Gott, if that's all you understand," said Gottfried, shaking his head, "then you'll never get any where, baby. That's the very first law of good business. Come now, I'll give you a free course in modern business methods."

  After lunch I went to Blumenthal. On the way I had the feeling of a young billy-goat going to call on an old wolf. The sun was burning on the asphalt, and with every step I felt less desire to be turned on the spit by Blumenthal. It would be best to make short work of it.

  "Herr Blumenthal," said I quickly as I entered, before he could begin, "a fair proposition from the start. Five thousand five hundred marks you paid for the Cadillac— I'm offering you six—on condition I do actually dispose of it. That will be settled this evening."

  Blumenthal was sitting enthroned behind his desk in the act of eating an apple. He stopped eating and looked at me a moment.

  "Good," said he then, and went on eating.

  I waited till he threw the core into the wastepaper basket.

  "Then you are agreeable?" I asked.

  "Moment." He produced a fresh apple from the drawer of his desk. "Won't you have one too?"

  "Thanks, not just now."

  He bit into it. "Eat lots of apples. Herr Lohkamp. Apples prolong life. Every day a few apples, and you never need a doctor.''

  "Not even if you break an arm?"

  He grinned, threw away the second core and stood up. "Then you wouldn't break an arm."

  "Sounds practical," said I and waited for what would come next. This apple talk was suspicious to me.

  Blumenthal took a box of cigars from a little cupboard and offered them to me. They were the Coronas I knew of old. "Do they prolong life too?" I asked.

  "No, they shorten it. That balances the apples." He blew out a cloud of smoke and looked at me with his head to one side like a meditative fowl, from below upward. "Balance, Herr Lohkamp, always balance—that's the whole secret of life."

  "If you can."

  He winked. "Quite; to be able, that's the secret, of course. We know too much, and can do too little. Because we know too much." He laughed. "Forgive me—after lunch I'm always a bit philosophical."

  "The best time, too," said I. "Now, abo.ut the Cadillac; we balance there, too, no?"

  He raised a hand. "One second."

  I lowered my head resignedly. Blumenthal saw it and laughed. "Not as you think. I only meant to pay you a compliment. Overtrumping from the start, with open cards. That was well calculated for old Blumenthal. Do you know what I was expecting?"

  "That I would begin by offering four thousand five hundred—"

  "Exactly. But you would have fared badly. You're gding to sell for seven, aren't you?"

  I shrugged my shoulders in a noncommittal way. "Why seven exactly?"

  "Because that was your first price to me."

  "You have a splendid memory," said I.

  "For figures. Only for figures. Unfortunately. Well, to come to a conclusion—you can have the car for the price."

  He held out his hand and I seized it. "Thank God for that," said I with relief, "the first stroke of business for long enough. The Cadillac seems to bring us luck."

  "Me too," said Blumenthal. "I've made five hundred on it, too, don't forget."

  "That's so. But tell me, why do you want to sell it again so soon actually? Don't you like it?"

  "Pure superstition," explained Blumenthal. "I never miss a deal by which I stand to make."

  "Fine superstition," I replied.

  He wagged his shining pate. "You don't believe-it—well, it's right. So that nothing shall go amiss with me—in other things. To neglect a deal to-day is to tempt Providence. And there's none of us can afford that."

  At half-past four Gottfried Lenz, with a significant expression, placed an empty gin bottle on the table in front of me. "I'd like you to fill it, baby. Free of charge. You remember our bet?"

  "I remember," said I. "But you come too soon."


  Without a word Gottfried held his watch before my nose.

  "Half-past four," said I. "Astronomical time, apparently. After all anyone can be late. I'll double the bet, two to one—"

  "Accepted," announced Gottfried cheerfully. "Makes four bottles of gin gratis for me. That's what is called heroism in a lost cause. Honourable, baby, but mistaken."