Three Comrades

by Erich Maria Remarque

  "Yes, you're right there." I contemplated the gigantic old bushes. "They will take care of the next couple of weeks, Gottfried."

  "Longer than that. You're really in luck here. This is a very lasting, long-flowering sort of rose. You'll reach well into September. And then there are asters here, and chrysanthemums. Come, I'll show you."

  We walked through the garden. The smell of the roses was intoxicating. Swarms of bees like a buzzing cloud flew from flower to flower.

  "Just look at that," said I and stood still. "Where ever can they come from here, in the middle of the city. There aren't any beehives around here. Unless you think the parsons keep a few up on their roofs."

  "No, brother," replied Lenz. "They come dead straight from a farm somewhere. Only they happen to know their way." He winked an eye. "We don't, eh?"

  I gave a shrug. "Perhaps we do, though. Anyway, a small part. So far as one can. You know?"

  "No. And don't want to know. Purposes make life bourgeois."

  I glanced up at the cathedral spire. Silky green it stood out against the blue sky, endlessly old and still, with swallows flying round.

  "How quiet it is here," said I.

  Lenz nodded. "Yes, my son, here one recognises it is only for want of time one is not a good man, eh?"

  "Time and quiet," I replied. "Quiet, too."

  He laughed. " 'Too late.' said the old Captain, weeping bitterly. Now it's reached a pitch where we can't endure quiet. . . . So out we go. Back into the rumpus."

  I put Gottfried down and drove back to the stand. On the way I passed the cemetery. I knew that Pat would be lying in her lounge chair on the balcony, and hooted a few times. But nothing showed up and I drove on. To compensate I did see, a bit farther on, Frau Hasse in a sort of taffeta silk wrap sailing along the street and disappearing round a corner. I drove after her to ask if I might take her anywhere. But as I reached the crossing I saw her get into a car that had been waiting behind the corner. It was a rather dilapidated Mercedes limousine, from 1923, that rattled off immediately. A chap with a nose like a duck's bill and a loud checked suit was sitting at the wheel. I gazed after the car for some time. That comes of a woman sitting alone in a house all the time. Pensively I drove back to the stand and took my place in the line of waiting taxis.

  The sun beat upon the roof. We moved forward slowly. I sat dully on the box and tried to sleep. But I could not get the picture of Frau Hasse out of my head. It was quite a different matter, but when all was said and done Pat was also alone all day.

  I got out and went forward to Gustav's car. "Here, have a drink," he commanded, offering me a thermos flask. "Wonderfully cool. My own invention. Iced coffee. Stays like that in the heat for hours. Yes, Gustav is practical."

  I took a cup and drank it out. "If you're so practical," said I, "then tell me what can a man get to amuse a woman who is alone a lot?"

  "As simple as that?" Gustav looked at me with a lofty expression. "Robert, man—why, a child or a dog. Ask me something harder."

  "A dog!" said I in surprise. "Damn it, of course, a dogl You've hit it. With a dog one is never lonely."

  I offered him a cigarette. "Listen, you don't happen to know about them? A mongrel must be fairly cheap to buy."

  Gustav shook his head reproachfully. "Ah Robert, you little know what a treasure you have in me. My future father-in-law is assistant secretary of the Dobermann Terrier Club. You can have a pup, of course; first class pedigree, too. We've a litter there: four-two, grandmother the champion Hertha von Toggenburg."

  Gustav was a fortunate man. Not only was his fiancee's father a breeder of Dobermanns, but he was a pub-keeper as well, proprietor of the Neuerklaus; and his fiancee herself had a laundry. Gustav did himself proud. He had his eats and drinks off his "father-in-law" and his fiancee washed and ironed his shirts. He was in no hurry to marry. Then it would be his turn to worry.

  I explained to Gustav that a Dobermann was not quite the right idea. It was too big for me and not reliable.

  Gustav reflected a moment. As an old soldier he was accustomed to act on the spur of the moment.

  "Just come with me," said he. "We'll do a bit of speculating. I know something. Only don't you put your spoke in."

  "Right."

  He led me to a little shop. In the window were aquariums full of algae. In a box were squatting some wretched guinea pigs. On the sides hung, cages with restlessly hopping, forever turning bullfinches, goldfinches, and canaries.

  A bandy-legged little chap with a brown embroidered waistcoat came toward us. Watery eyes, sallow skin, a nose like a fire ball—a beer and schnapps drinker.

  "Say, Anton," said Gustav, "how did Asta do?"

  "Second prize and honourable mention at Cologne," replied Anton.

  "Lousy," declared Gustav. "Why not first?"

  "Gave the first to Udo Blankenfels," growled Anton. "But I don't complain."

  In the rear of the shop there was barking and whimpering. Gustav went over. He turned, carrying by the scruff of the neck two little terriers, in the left a black and white, in the right a reddish brown. Imperceptibly the hand with the reddish brown twitched. I looked at him: yes.

  It was a lovely, playful little thing. Straight legs, square body, oblong head, intelligent and cheeky. Gustav let them both go.

  "Funny little bastard," said he and pointed to the reddish brown. "Where did you get him?"

  Anton had him, so he said, from a lady who had gone to South America. Gustav burst into incredulous laughter. Offended, Anton produced a pedigree that went back to Noah's Ark. Gustav made a gesture of refusal and interested himself in the black and white. Anton asked a hundred marks for the red-brown one. Gustav offered five. He didn't like his great-grandfather. There was something wrong with his tail. And his ears weren't right, either. The black and white though—he was tip-top.

  I stood in the corner and listened. Suddenly something reached for my hat. Surprised, I turned round. A little monkey was sitting in the corner on his perch, slightly huddled, with a yellow skin and melancholy face.^He had black, round eyes and the troubled lips of an old woman. Around his belly he had a leather girdle to which was fixed a chain. The hands were small, black, and shockingly human.

  I stayed where I was and kept perfectly still. Slowly the monkey edged nearer along his perch. As he did so he watched me steadily, not distrustfully, but with an extraordinarily wary gaze. Cautiously he at last stretched out his hand. I offered him a finger. He drew back, then took it. It was queer to feel the cool, childish hand—how it gripped my finger. It was as if some poor, dumb human being, pent up in the crooked body, were trying to free and save itself. One could not look long into those deathly sad eyes.

  Snorting Gustav emerged again from a forest of genealogical trees. "Agreed then, Anton; you get one of Hertha's Dobermann pups in exchange. The best deal you ever did." Then he turned to me. "Do you want to take him with you now?"

  "What does he cost, then?"

  "Nothing. Exchanged for the Dobermann I gave you before. Yes, you must let Gustav have his way. Gustav is the boy."

  We arranged that I should fetch the dog later when I was through with the taxi.

  "Do you know what you've got there?" Gustav asked me when we were outside. "Something really rare: an Irish terrier. Primissima. Without a blemish. And a pedigree to him, my hat, that you had better not look at or you will have to bow every time you want to speak to the little blighter."

  "Gustav," said I, "you have done me a great favour. Come, let's have a drink together of the oldest cognac we can dig up."

  "Not to-day," declared Gustav. "I must have a steady hand to-day. I'm playing skittles at my club to-night. Promise me you'll come along sometime. There are all sorts of big guns there, a postmaster even."

  "I'll come," said I. "Even if the postmaster isn't there."

  Shortly before six I drove back to the workshop. Köster was awaiting me. "Jaffé telephoned this afternoon. You are to ring him."

  For an ins
tant I could not get my breath.

  "Did he say anything, Otto?"

  "No, nothing in particular. Only that he would be in his consulting room until five. After that at the Dorothee Hospital. So you will have to phone there."

  "Right."

  I went into the office. It was warm and sticky, but I was freezing and the receiver shook in my hand. "Nonsense," said I and supported my arm firmly on the table.

  It was a long while before I got on to Jaffé.

  "Are you free?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "Then come out here at once. I'll be here for another hour."

  I wanted to ask him if something had happened to Pat. But I could not do it. "Good. I'll be there in ten minutes."

  I put down the receiver and immediately rang home. The maid came to the instrument. I asked for Pat. "I don't know if she's in," said Frida uncivilly. "I'll have a look."

  I waited. My head was thick and hot. It seemed endless. Then I heard a crackling and Pat's voice. "Robby?"

  I closed my eyes for a moment. "How are you, Pat?"

  "All right. I have been sitting on the balcony reading until just now. An exciting book."

  "So, an exciting book," said I. "That's fine. I only wanted to say that I'll be home a bit later this evening. Have you finished the book?"

  "No, I'm in the middle of it. It will last a couple of hours yet."

  "I'll be there long before that. So now read away quickly."

  I remained sitting a moment. Then I stood up. "Otto," said I, "may I have Karl for a bit?"

  "Of course. I'll drive you if you like. I've nothing to do here."

  "It's not necessary. Nothing's happened. I've just rung home."

  What a light, thought I as Karl shot out on to the street, what a marvellous evening light over the roofs! How full of good life is!

  I had to wait for Jaffé a few minutes. A nurse showed me into a small room in which old numbers of magazines lay about. On the window ledge stood some flowerpots with creepers. It was always the same magazines in brown wrappers, and always the same dismal creepers; they are only to be found in doctors' waiting rooms and hospitals.

  Jaffé came in. He was wearing a snow-white overall that still showed the creases from the ironing. But as he sat down facing me I saw on the inside of his right sleeve a little spurt of bright red blood. I had seen a lot of blood in my time—but this tiny spot suddenly affected me more sickeningly than any number of blood-soaked bandages. My mood of hopefulness vanished.

  "I promised to tell you how things stand with Fräulein Hollmann," said Jaffé.

  I nodded and looked at the tablecloth. It had a bright, plush pattern. I stared at the interlacing hexagons and had the crazy feeling that everything would go all right if only I could hold out and not have to blink before Jaffé resumed speaking.

  "She was six months in the sanatorium two years ago. Did you know that?"

  "No," said I, and continued to look at the tablecloth.

  "It improved after that. I have examined her thoroughly now. She must absolutely go in again this winter. She can't remain here in the city."

  I still gazed at the hexagons. They swam into one another and started to dance.

  "When must she go?" I asked.

  "In the autumn. By the end of October, at the latest."

  "It wasn't a passing haemorrhage then?"

  "No."

  I raised my eyes.

  "I don't need to tell you, probably," Jaffé went on, "that it is a quite unpredictable disease. A year ago it seemed to have stopped, the patch had healed, and it was to be assumed would remain so. Just as they have now broken out again, so they may unexpectedly come to a halt again. I'm not merely saying that—it really is so. I have myself seen many remarkable cures."

  "And worsenings, too?"

  He looked at me. "That too, of course."

  He started to explain the details. Both lungs were affected, the right less, the left more so. Then he broke off and rang for the nurse. "Bring me my portfolio, please."

  The nurse brought it. Jaffé took out two large photographs. He drew off the crackling envelopes and held them to the window. "You will see better this way. These are the two X rays."

  I saw the vertebrae of a backbone on the transparent, grey plate, the shoulder blades, the collar bones, the sockets of the upper arm and the flat arch of the ribs. But I saw more than that—I saw a skeleton. Dark and ghostly it rose up out of the pale, confused shadows of the photograph. I saw Pat's skeleton. Pat's skeleton.

  With the forceps Jaffé traced out the various lines and colourings on the plate and explained them. He did not notice that I was no longer looking. The thoroughness of the scientist had absorbed him. At last he turned to me. "Have you understood?"

  "Yes," said I.

  "What's the matter, then?" he asked.

  "Nothing," I replied. "Only I can't look at that too well."

  "Ach, so." He put on his glasses. Then he put back the photographs into their covers and looked at me searchingly. "Don't you indulge any unhelpful ideas."

  "I don't," said I. "But it's a god-damned miserable business. There are millions of healthy human beings. Then why not this one?"

  Jaffé' was silent awhile.

  "Nobody has an answer to that," said he then.

  "Yes," I replied, suddenly embittered and numb with anger: "no one can answer that. Of course not. Nobody has an answer to misery and death. No, damn it; and what's more one can't do anything against it."

  Jaffé looked at me a long time.

  "Forgive me," said I. "But there's nothing I can do. That's what is so damnable."

  He continued to look at me. "Have you time to spare?" he asked.

  "Yes," said I. "Enough."

  He stood up. "I must make my evening round now. I'd like you to come with me. Nurse will give you a white overall. Then you'll pass with the patients for my assistant."

  I did not know what he intended, but I took the overall which the nurse was offering to me.

  We went down the long corridor. Through the wide windows came the rosy glow of evening—a soft, subdued, quite unreal, hovering light. Some windows stood open, and the scent of lime flowers wafted in.

  Jaffé opened a door. A sticky, foul smell came out to meet us. A woman with wonderful hair, the colour of old gold, in which the light shimmered in bright reflections, lifted her hand feebly. Her forehead was aristocratic and narrow at the temples, but below the eyes a bandage began. It extended right to the mouth. Jaffé loosed it carefully. I saw that the woman had no nose—in its place an encrusted, slimy, red wound with two holes in it. Jaffé replaced the bandage.

  "Good," said he in a friendly voice and turned to go.

  He closed the door behind him. I stood a moment outside and looked into the soft evening light.

  "Come on," said Jaffé and walked ahead of me into the next room.

  "The hot gurgling and coughing of delirium greeted us. It was a chap with a leaden-coloured face in which stood bright red patches. His mouth was open, his eyes bulging and his hands travelled restlessly hither and thither over the counterpane. He was quite unconscious. The temperature chart shewed a steady hundred and four degrees. A nurse was sitting by the bed reading. She put the book aside and stood up as Jaffé entered. He glanced at the chart and shook his head. "Double pneumonia and pleurisy. Been fighting like a steer for a fortnight. Relapse. Was almost well. Went to work too soon. Wife and four kids. Hopeless." He listened to his chest and felt his pulse. The nurse helped him. As she did so, her book fell on the floor. I picked it up and saw it was a cookery book. The man in the bed scratched unceasingly with spiderlike hands over the bedcovers. That was the only sound in the room. "You stay the night, here, nurse," said Jaffé.

  We went out. The rosy twilight outside had become more colourful. It now filled the corridor like a cloud. "Damned light," said I.

  "Why?" asked Jaffé.

  "They don't go together. This and that."

  "Oh yes," sa
id Jaffé, "they go all right."

  In the next room lay a woman breathing heavily. She had been brought in during the afternoon with severe veronal poisoning. Her husband had had an accident the day before, and had been carried in to his wife in the house, with his back broken, shrieking, fully conscious. He had died there during the night.

  "Will she get over it?" I asked.

  "Probably."

  "What's the point?"

  "I've had five similar cases the last few years," said Jaffé. "Only one tried a second time. With gas. She died. Of the others two married again."