Three Comrades

by Erich Maria Remarque

  "Then you ought to," replied Pat.

  The maid came with the tray. The flounders had skins like yellow topazes and smelt wonderfully of the sea and smoke. There were fresh prawns as well.

  "I begin to forget," said I enthusiastically. "I observe besides that I have an enormous hunger."

  "So have I. But first give me, quickly, some hot tea. It is queer, but I am freezing. Yet it is quite warm still outside."

  I looked at her. She was pale, although she smiled.

  "I don't say one word, mark you, about too long bathing," said I, and asked the maid: "Have you any rum?"

  "What?"

  "Rum. A drink out of a bottle."

  "Rum?"

  "Yes."

  "Eh?"

  She gaped with her doughy, full moon face.

  "Eh?" said she, once again.

  "Good" I replied. "Never mind. Good-bye. God bless you."

  She vanished. "What a mercy, Pat, we have far-sighted friends," said I. "Lenz hastily stowed a pretty heavy parcel into the car this morning as we were leaving. Let's have a look what's in it."

  I fetched the parcel from the car. It was a small case with two bottles of rum, one bottle of cognac and one of port. I held them up. "St. James rum, too! You can trust the boys."

  I uncorked the bottles and poured Pat a good dose into the tea. As I did so I saw that her hands were trembling. "Are you really as cold as all that?" I asked.

  "It's only momentary. It's better already. The rum is good. But I'll go to bed soon."

  "Go at once, Pat," said I. "Then we can push up the table and eat that way."

  She let herself be persuaded. I brought her an extra blanket from my bed and pushed the table into position. "Perhaps you would like a real grog, Pat? That is better still. I can make one quite quickly."

  She shook her head. "I feel well again already."

  I glanced at her. She actually did look better. Her eyes had their shine again, her lips were very red and her skin glowed softly.

  "Incredible how quick it goes," said I. "That's the rum, sure."

  She smiled. "It is the bed, too, Robby. I recover much better in bed. That is my refuge."

  "Extraordinary. I would go mad if I had to go to bed as early. Alone, I mean."

  She laughed. "For a woman it is different."

  "Don't say for a woman. You are not a woman."

  "What am I then?"

  "I don't know. But not a woman. If you were a proper, normal woman, I would not be able to love you."

  She looked at me. "Can you love, anyway?"

  "Well," said I, "that's a nice one at suppertime. Have you got any more questions like that?"

  "Perhaps. But what about this one?"

  I poured myself a glass of rum. "Pros't, Pat! Maybe you are right. Perhaps none of us can. Not as they used to, I mean. But it's none the worse for that. Only different. We don't see it that way any more."

  There was a knock. Fräulein Müller came in. She had in her hand a tiny glass jug in which a drop of fluid was swilling here and there. "I have brought you the rum."

  "Thanks," said I deeply touched and contemplating the glass finger-stall. "It is very kind of you, but we have helped ourselves already."

  "Good gracious!" Horrified, she gazed at the four bottles on the table. "Do you drink all that?"

  "Only as medicine," I replied gently avoiding Pat's eye. "On Doctor's orders. I have a too dry liver, Fräulein Müller. But won't you give us the honour?"

  I opened the port bottle. "To your very good health! May the house soon be full of guests."

  "Thank you very much." She sighed, made a little bow and sipped like a bird. "A good holiday!" Then she smiled at me knowingly. "But it is strong. And good."

  My glass almost dropped out of my hand at this transformation. Fräulein Müller's cheeks began to glow, her eyes sparkled and she started telling us all manner of things that did not interest us in the least. Pat had an angel's patience with her. Finally Fräulein turned to me.

  "Herr Köster is doing well then?"

  I nodded.

  "He used to be always so quiet," said she. "Sometimes he would not say a word all day. Does he still do that?"

  "Well, he does talk occasionally now."

  "He was almost a year here. Quite alone—"

  "Yes," said I. "One is apt to talk less then."

  She nodded solemnly and looked across at Pat. "I'm sure you are tired."

  "A little," said Pat.

  "Very," I added.

  "Then of course I will be going," she replied, startled.

  "Good night, then. Sleep well."

  Reluctantly she went.

  "I believe she would like to have stayed longer," said I. "Funny, all of a sudden, what?"

  "The poor thing," replied Pat. "Sits alone in her room every night, I'm sure, worrying."

  "Ach, so, yes—" said I. "But I do think, all in all, I behaved quite nicely to her."

  "You did so." She stroked my hand. "Open the door a bit, Robby."

  I went and opened the door. Outside it had become clearer and a patch of moonlight fell across the path and into the room. It was as if the garden had only been waiting for the door to be opened—so strong was the night perfume of the flowers that immediately pressed in, the sweet smell of wallflower, mignonette and roses. It filled the whole room.

  "Just look," said I, pointing.

  In the increasing moonlight one could see the entire length of the garden path. The flowers stood with drooping heads along the edge, the leaves were the colour of oxidized silver, and the blossoms that had shone so bravely in the daylight, now shimmered, ghostly and tender, in soft pastel shades. Night and the moonlight had stolen the strength from their colours—but to compensate their perfume was fuller and sweeter than ever by day.

  I looked across at Pat. Tender and fine and frail her head lay with its dark hair on the white pillow. She had not much strength—but she too had the mystery of frailness, the mystery of flowers in the twilight and in the hovering light of the moon.

  She sat up a little. "I am really very tired, Robby. Is that bad?"

  I sat down on the bed beside her. "Not at all. You will sleep well."

  "But you don't want to sleep yet?"

  "I'll take a turn first along the beach."

  She nodded and lay back again. I continued to sit awhile.

  "Leave the door open overnight," said she, drunk with sleep. "Then it will be like sleeping in the garden."

  Her breathing became deeper and I got up softly and went out into the garden. I stood by the wooden fence and smoked a cigarette. From here I could see into the room. Pat's bathing gown was hanging over a chair, her dress and some underclothes were flung across it, and on the floor in front of the chair, stood her shoes. One was tipped over. I had an extraordinary sense of home as I saw that, and thought that now at last someone was there and would be there, that I only had to take a few steps to see her and be with her, to-day, to-morrow, and for a long time to come, perhaps—

  Perhaps, thought I, perhaps—always that word, one never could escape it. It was certainty we lacked, certainty that everyone and everything lacked.

  I went down to the beach, to the sea and the wind, to the hollow booming that echoed like a distant bombardment.

  Chapter XVI

  I was sitting on the beach, watching the sun go down. Pat had not come. She had not been well all day.

  It grew darker and I rose to go home. As I did I saw through the trees the maid coming towards me. She was signalling and shouting something. I did not understand; the wind and the sea were too loud. I waved back that she should stay where she was; I would be there in a minute. But she continued to run, her hands to her mouth.

  "Wife . . ." I heard. "Quick . . ."

  I ran. "What's the matter?"

  She was panting for breath. "Quick . . . wife . . . accident . . ."

  I tore along the sandy track through the wood to the house. The wooden gate into the garden was
jammed; I sprang over it and burst into the room. There lay Pat, blood all over her chest, fists clenched, blood running from her mouth. Beside her stood Fräulein Müller with cloths and a basin of water.

  "What is it?" I cried, pushing her aside.

  She said something. "Bring some bandages!" I cried. "Where's the wound?"

  She looked at me with trembling lips. "There is no wound . . ."

  I straightened. "A haemorrhage," said she.

  I felt as if I had been struck with a hammer. "A haemorrhage!" I got up and took the basin of water from her hand. "Bring some ice, quickly, some ice."

  I dipped the towel in the basin, and laid it on Pat's chest.

  "We haven't any ice in the house," said Fräulein Müller.

  I swung round. She stepped back. "Ice, damn you! Send to the nearest pub. And telephone at once for a doctor."

  "But we have no telephone . . ."

  "Hell! Where is the nearest telephone?"

  "At Massmann's."

  "Go. Quick! Run! Telephone the nearest doctor. What is his name? Where does he live?"

  Before she could answer I had pushed her out. "Quick, quick, run, as quick as you can. How far is it?"

  "Three minutes," said the woman and hurried out.

  "Bring some ice with you," I called after her.

  She nodded and ran.

  I fetched more water and dipped the towel again. I did not dare to disturb Pat. I did not know whether she was lying properly or not; I was desperate because I did not know the one thing I ought to have known—whether to put pillows under her head, or lie her flat.

  She choked, then lifted herself and a shot of blood welled from her mouth. Her breath came high and wailing, her eyes were filled with terror, she swallowed and choked and coughed, and again the blood spouted. I held her tight, passing an arm under her shoulders. I felt the quaking of her poor, tortured back—it seemed to last endlessly. Then she fell back limp . . .

  Fräulein Müller came in. She looked at me like a ghost.

  "What must we do?" I shouted.

  "The doctor's coming at once," she whispered. "Ice . . . on her chest—and in her mouth, if you can . . ."

  "Sit her up or lie her down? My God, can't you talk a bit quicker?"

  "As she is, let her lie—he's coming at once."

  I packed pieces of ice on Pat's chest, relieved at last to have something to do. I broke the ice up small for compresses and put them on, and all the time saw only the sweet, dear, tortured lips, the lips, the bleeding lips . . .

  There, the rattle of a motor-bike. I jumped up. The doctor.

  "Can I help?" I asked. He shook his head and unpacked his case. I stood at the bed beside him, gripping the posts. He looked up. I stepped back, strll keeping my eye upon him. He looked at Pat's ribs. Pat groaned.

  "Is it dangerous?" I asked.

  "Where was your wife being treated?" he replied.

  "What? Treated?" I stammered.

  "What doctor?" he asked impatiently.

  "I don't know . . ." I answered. "No, I know nothing . . . I don't believe . . ."

  He looked at me. "But you must know."

  "But I don't know. She never said anything about it to me."

  He bent over Pat and asked. She tried to answer. But again the red coughing broke through. The doctor lifted her. She bit the air and drew a long piping breath.

  "Jaffé," she gasped, gurgling.

  "Felix Jaffé? Professor Felix Jaffé?" asked the doctor. She nodded with her eyes. He turned to me. "Could you telephone him? It would be as well to ask him."

  "Yes, yes," I replied. "At once. Then I'll fetch you . . . Jaffé?"

  "Felix Jaffé," said the doctor. "Ask the exchange the number."

  "Will she come through?" I still asked.

  "She must stop bleeding," said the doctor.

  I found the maid and set off down the path. She pointed out the house with the telephone. I ran on and knocked at the door. A small company of people was sitting over coffee and beer. I took them in with one swift glance and could not understand that people could drink beer while Pat was bleeding. I put through an urgent call and waited by the instrument. As I listened into the humming darkness, I saw with strange vividness over the glass top of the door part of the other room. I saw a bald head bobbing to and fro, yellow under the light; I saw a brooch on the black taffeta of a tight-laced dress, a double chin with a pair of pince-nez and a towering bun of hair—a bony old hand with thick veins drumming on the table . . . I wanted not to see, but I could not help it; it bored into my eyes like a too strong light.

  At last the number answered. I asked for the professor. "I'm sorry," said, the nurse. "Professor Jaffé is out."

  My heart stopped, then pounded again like a sledge-hammer. "Where is he? I must speak to him at once."

  "I don't know. He may have gone to the clinic."

  "Please telephone the clinic. I'll wait. You have a second telephone, of course?"

  "One moment." The roar began again, the bottomless darkness, over it the thin swinging metal thread. I gave a startled jump. In a covered cage beside me a canary chirped. The sister's voice came again. "Professor Jaffé has already left the clinic."

  "Where for?"

  "I really can't say, sir."

  Beaten. I leaned against the wall.

  "Hello!" said the sister. "Are you there?"

  "Yes. Listen, nurse—you don't know when he will be back?"

  "That is quite uncertain."

  "Surely he says before he goes out? He must surely! In case anything should happen, surely it must be possible to get in touch with him?"

  "There is a doctor at the clinic."

  "Would you . . . no, that wouldn't help, he wouldn't know. . . . All right, nurse," said I, dead-tired. "When Professor Jaffé does come in, ask him to ring here at once, urgently." I told her the number. "But most urgently, nurse, please. A matter of life and death."

  "You can rely on that, sir." She repeated the number and rang off.

  I stood there, alone. The swaying heads, the bald pate, the brooch, the other room, all so much shiny rubber, very far away. I looked about. There was nothing more I could do here. Only tell the people to fetch me if a call should come. But I could not make up my mind to leave the telephone. It was like letting go of a life belt. Then all at once I had it. I took up the receiver again and asked for Köster's number. He must be there. It was simply not possible that he was not there.

  And there it came, out of the tumult of the night, Köster's quiet voice. And I myself became calm at once, and told him everything. I was aware of his making notes.

  "Right," said he. "I'll go at once and find him. I'll ring again. Don't worry, I'll find him."

  Pat? The world stood still. The spell was broken. I ran back.

  "Well?" asked the doctor, "did you get him?"

  "No," said I, "but I got Köster."

  "Köster? Never heard of him. What did he say? What's his treatment?"

  "Treatment? He isn't treating her. He's looking for him."

  "For whom?"

  "Jaffé."

  "God in heaven—who is this Köster, then?"

  "Ach, so—pardon! Köster is my friend. He is looking for Professor Jaffé. I couldn't get hold of him."

  "That's a pity," said the doctor, turning again to Pat.

  "He'll find him," said I. "If he isn't dead, he'll find him."

  The doctor looked at me as if I were crazed, then gave a shrug.

  The light of the lamp brooded in the room. I asked if I could help. The doctor shook his head. I stared out of the window. Pat choked. I shut the window and took up my stand in the doorway. I kept an eye on the path.

  All at once I heard a shout. "Telephone!"

  I swung round. "Telephone! Shall I go?"

  The doctor jumped up. "No, I'll go. I'll be better able to ask him. You stay here. Don't do anything. I'll be back in a minute."

  I sat on the bed beside Pat. "Pat," said I softly, "we are here.
We will see to it! No harm will come to you. No harm dare come to you. The professor is talking now. He'll tell us what to do. He's coming to-morrow himself, we've fixed that. He will help you. You will soon be better. Why did you never tell me that you were ill? A little bit of blood doesn't count, Pat. We will give it to you again. Köster has found the professor, Pat. Now we'll be all right."