Albert studies the silhouette of the cathedral attentively.
"I don't mean that way," says he. "I mean a human being to whom one really belongs. Sometimes I think—well, a wife——"
"Good Lord!" I exclaim, and cannot help thinking of Bethke.
"Oh, don't be funny now!" he fires at me suddenly. "A man has to have something he can put faith in. Can't you see that? What I want is someone that will love me; she would have me and I her. Otherwise a man may just as well go hang himself!"
"But, Albert," I say soothingly, "you've got us, haven't you?"
"Yes, yes, but this is different——" and after a while he whispers, almost as if he were in tears: "Children, that'swhat a man needs—children, who know nothing about it——"
I do not quite follow his meaning; but I cannot ask him more questions.
PART IV
1.
We had pictured it all otherwise. We thought that with one accord a rich, intense existence must now set in, one full of the joy of life regained—and so we had meant to begin. But the days and the weeks fly away under our hands, we squander them on inconsiderable and vain things, and when we look round nothing is done. We were accustomed to think swiftly, to act on the instant—another minute and all might be out for ever. So life now is too slow for us; we jump at it, shake it, and before it can speak or resound we have already let go again. We had Death too long for companion; he was a swift player, and every second the stakes touched the limit. It is this that has made us so fickle, so impatient, so bent upon the things of the moment; this that now leaves us so empty, because here it has no place. And this emptiness makes us restless; we feel that people do not understand us, that mere love cannot help us. For there is an unbridged gulf fixed between soldiers and non-soldiers. We must fend for ourselves.
But occasionally into our restless days there intrudes something, a strangely growling, muttering something, like the distant menace of gun-fire, some indistinct warning from beyond the horizon which we do not know how to interpret; which we do not wish to hear; from which we turn away always in a curious fear lest we may miss something—as if something were trying to escape us. Too much has escaped us already—and for not a few it was no less than life itself.
Karl Bröger's lodgings are in a terrible mess. The bookcases are all empty and piles of books are strewn over the tables and floor.
Karl was a bibliomaniac before the war; he collected books as we did butterflies and postage stamps. Eichendorff was his special weakness. He had three separate editions of his works, and knew most of his poetry by heart. But now he means to sell up his library, to get enough capital to set up in the schnapps business. According to him there is a lot of money to be made in such things. So far he has merely been agent for Ledderhose, but now he proposes to start on his own account.
I turn the pages of the first volume of one of the editionsof Eichendorff that is bound in a beautiful, soft, blueleather. Sunset, Woods and Dreams—Summer Nights, Desire, Exile——What a time that was!
Willy has the second volume. He looks at it appraisingly. "You ought to offer them to a shoemaker," he suggests.
"How so?" asks Ludwig smiling.
"The leather!" answers Willy. "The shoemakers haven't a square inch of decent leather these days. Here"—he takes up the Works of Goethe—"Twenty volumes! They would make at least six pairs of topping leather shoes. A shoemaker would give a sight more for them than a bookseller, believe me. They're absolutely crazy for real leather!"
"Would any of you like some yourselves, perhaps?" says Karl. "I'll let you have them at reduced prices." But nobody wants them.
"Think it over though, Karl," says Ludwig. "It won't be so easy to buy them back again later."
"What's it matter?" laughs Karl. "Live first, that's more important than reading. As for the exam., well, to hell with it! It's all bunk, anyway. Tomorrow I start in with the schnapps samples. Ten bob on a bottle of smuggled brandy —not much wrong with that, eh, my lads? Money's what you want, then you can get everything else."
He ropes up the books in great bundles. There was a time, I remember, when he would have gone without food rather than sell one of them. "What are you pulling such a face about?" he says scornfully. "One must be practical! Dump all the old stuff and start in afresh."
"Yes, that's right," agrees Willy. "I'd sell mine too—if I had any."
Karl pats him on the shoulder: "Half an inch of business is better than a mile of culture, Willy. I sat in the muck out there long enough—I mean to see a bit of life now."
"He's right, you know," I say. "What are we going to doabout it, lads? a little bit of schooling—what does it amount to, anyway? Damn all "
"Yes, you pull out too, boys," advises Karl. "What do you want with pen-pushing?"
"God knows; it is a lot of tripe," replies Willy. "But at least we are all together still. And then, its only a couple of months now to the examination, it would be a pity not to go through with it. One can always have a look round afterwards."
Karl shears off some brown paper from a roll.
"Get away with you!—you'll always have some coupleof months or other about which it would be a pity—and inthe end you will wake up and find yourself an old man "
Willy grins. "Yes, and won't you have a cup of tea while you're waiting, Mr. Homeyer, eh?"—Ludwig stands up.
"What does your father say about it?"
Karl laughs. "What all the frightened old people say. But one can't take that seriously. Parents always overlook the fact that one has been a soldier...."
"What would you have been if you hadn't been a soldier?" I ask.
"Bookseller probably, poor fool," answers Karl.
Karl's decision has made a profound impression on Willy. He is in favour of our giving up all this useless grind and taking joy where it is to be had.
But man easiest tastes the joys of life eating. So we settle on a scrounging expedition. The ration-cards allow only half a pound of meat, three-quarters of an ounce of butter, an ounce and a half of margarine, three ounces of pearl-barley and some bread each week per person.—No man can get a square feed off that.
The foragers begin to assemble at the station in the evening and during the night, in readiness to go out into the villages first thing in the morning, so we must set off by the first train if they are not to be there before us.
Grey misery sits sullen in the compartment as we move off. We fix on an outlying spot and there leave the train, separating, always in pairs, to scrounge systematically over the countryside. We have sufficiently studied this art of patrolling.
Albert and I are together. We come on a large farmstead; the dung-heap is steaming in the yard and cows stand in long rows in the stalls. A warm odour of cattle and of milk comes out to greet us. There are hens cackling too. We look at them covetously, but restrain ourselves as there are people in the barn. "Good day," we say. No one takes any notice. We continue to stand about. At last a woman shrieks at us: "Get out of the yard, you damned gypsies!"
The next place. The farmer is standing outside. He has a long military greatcoat and is lightly flicking a whip. "Like to know how many have been here already?" says he. "Just a dozen!" We are surprised, after all we came out with the first train. They must have come last evening and passed the night in barns or out in the open. "A hundred come in a day sometimes," the fanner persists. "What can a man do? I ask you."
We see his point. Then his eye suddenly fastens on Albert's uniform. "Flanders?" he" asks. "Flanders," replies Albert. "Me too," says he, and goes within. He comes back with two eggs apiece for us. We fumble with our pocket-books. He shakes his head. "You can keep that. We'll call it a bargain, eh?"
"Well, thanks, mate."
"Not at all——But don't spread it about, or half Germany will be here tomorrow."
The next house. A notice plastered with cow-dung on the hedge. "No scroungers. Beware of the dog." That is practical.
We push on. A spacious field and a larg
e farmhouse. We go into the kitchen. In the middle is a cooking-range of the latest model that would more than serve an hotel. On the right a piano, on the left a piano. Facing the cooking-range is a superb bookcase with flutted columns and books with gilt bindings. And in front the same old table and three-legged wooden stools. It looks comical. Especially the two pianos.
The farmer's wife appears. "Have you got any yarn? But it must be real."
We look at each other. "Yarn? No!"
"Silk then? Silk stockings?"
I look at the woman's massive calves. Slowly it dawns on us—she, wants to exchange, not to sell.
"No, we haven't any silk," I said. "But we will gladly pay you for anything."
She dismisses the idea. "Money! Pooh! It's not good even to wipe the floor with! It's worth less every day." She ambles off. Two buttons are missing from the back of her flaming red, silk blouse.
"May we have a drink of water, anyway?" Albert calls after her. She turns round ungraciously and pours us out one glass.
"Now, be off! I haven't time to waste standing about," she snaps. "You ought to be at work instead of stealing other people's time."
Albert takes the glass from her and smashes it down oa the floor. He is speechless with rage. So I speak for him. "May you get cancer, you old slut!" I roar. But now the woman turns on us and lets fly, hammer and tongs, like a tinsmith in full swing. We take to our heels. The strongest man could not stand up to that.
We trudge on. As we go we meet whole hordes of scroungers. They circle about the farmsteads like hungry wasps round a piece of plum-tart. We begin to see now how the farmers must be driven almost mad by it, and why they become so abusive. But we persist all the same, get fired out here, perhaps score something there, are cursed by other foragers and curse again in return.
During the afternoon we all foregather at the pub. Our booty is not much—a few pounds of potatoes, some meal, a few eggs, apples, a couple of head of cabbage and some meat. Only Willy is sweating. He comes in last of all with half a pig's head under his arm. Other packages are bulging from his pockets. But as against that, he no longer has any greatcoat. He has exchanged it, because he has another at home that Karl gave him, and then, he thinks that after all Spring must come again sometime.
We have still two hours before the train leaves, and they bring me luck. In the bar-room is a piano of sorts, on which I give a performance of The Maiden's Prayer, all pedals down. This brings out the landlady, who listens a while and then beckons me to go outside with her. I elbow my way into the lobby, where she explains to me that she is very fond of music, but unfortunately no one who can play ever comes there. Then she asks me if I would not be willing to come again, and passes me half a pound of butter, saying that there is more where that came from. I fall in with the proposal of course, and undertake to play two hours each time for as much. I return to the piano and as the next item do my best with the Heidegrab and Stolzenfels am Rhein.
Then we set off for the station. On the way we meet a lot more foragers, all intending to return by the same train as ourselves. But they are frightened of the gendarmes. At last a whole troop has collected and they stand outside in the windy darkness, hiding in a corner some little distance from the station so as to escape observation before the train shall arrive. Once aboard there is less risk of being caught.
But we are out of luck. Two gendarmes with bicycles suddenly appear before us. They have ridden up silently from behind.
"Halt! All remain where you are!"
There is a terrible commotion. Everyone begging and praying. "Let us go, quick! We have to catch the train!"
"The train won't be here for a good quarter of an hour yet," says the fatter of the two, unperturbed. "This way, all of you." He indicates a street lamp. They will be able to see better there. One stands guard to see that nobody sneaks off, while the other conducts the examination. Nearly all are women, children or old folk; most of them stand silent and resigned——They are used to being treated so, and never dared really to hope they might have the luck to get home with a half-pound of butter.
I take a good look at the gendarmes—yes, there they are, just the same, just as notty and superior in their green uniforms, their red faces, their swords and their revolvers as they used to be up the line——Might! I I say to myself, Might, always Might—and be it no more than an inch it is merciless.
One woman has some eggs taken from her. Just as she is about to make off, the fat fellow calls her back. "Hey! what have you got there?" He points to her skirt. "Out with it!" She is obstinate and squats on the ground. "Quick, out with it!" From under her skirt she produces a piece of bacon. He puts it with the rest. "Thought you'd get away with it, did you?" She can hardly believe what has happened and keeps on making grabs to get it again. "But I paid for it!—every bit of my money it cost me!"
He shoves her hand away, at the same time hauling out a length of sausage from inside a woman's blouse. "Scrounging's forbidden, you know that yourself."
The woman is quite willing to forgo the eggs, but she pleads to have back the bacon, "Well, give, me the bacon, at least. Whatever shall I say when I get home? It's for my children!" She kneels in the mud.
"Go to the Food Office and see about getting extra ration-cards!" snarls the gendarme. "That's none of our business. Next!" The woman staggers away, vomits and shrieks: "Is that what my man was killed for!—that my children should starve!"
A young girl who is next, crams, gulps, chokes down her butter; her face is smothered in grease, her eyes goggle, she wolfs and gorges, so as to have at least a little before it is taken away from her. But it is small comfort—she will only be sick after and probably get diarrhoea as well.
"Next!" No one moves. The gendarme, who is stooping down, calls again: "Next!" He straightens up wrathfully and meets Willy's eyes. Perceptibly calmer, "Are you next?" he asks.
"Am I hell?" answers Willy unamiably.
"What have you got in that parcel?"
"Half a pig's head," explains Willy frankly.
"Well, hand it over."
Willy does not move. The gendarme hesitates, and then gives a glance at his colleague who promptly takes up a station beside him—That is a bad mistake. Neither of them seems to have had much experience in these things, nor to be used to any resistance. The second fellow ought to have seen long ago that we are together, even though we have not spoken a word to one another. He should have stood off to one side and covered us with his gun. Not that that would have troubled us much—what's a revolver, after all? But instead of that, he goes and plants himself right alongside his colleague, lest Willy should cut up rough.
The consequence becomes clear immediately. Like a lamb Willy passes up his half, a pig's head. The astonished gendarme takes it from him, and so becomes as good as unarmed, "both hands being full. At the same instant Willy calmly lands him one on the mouth, and knocks him over. Before the second can collect himself Kosole butts him upward under the chin with his bony skull, and Valentin is already behind him, squeezing so hard on his wind-pipe that his mouth comes wide open. Kosole swiftly rams a newspaper into it. Both the gendarmes are now gurgling and gulping and spitting, but it is no good; there is paper in their throats, and their arms are being twisted behind them and made fast with their own cross-straps. It was quick business. Now, where to put them?
Albert has the idea—fifty yards off he has found a lonely little house, in the door of which a heart has been cut—the station privy. We set off at a trot. We shove the two in. The door is oak, and the bolts thick and strong. It will be a good hour before they are out again. Kosole is most considerate—he has even piled their bicycles in front of the door.
The other foragers have watched us apprehensively.
"Grab your things!" says Ferdinand grinning. Already the train is whistling in the distance. They look at us timidly, but do not need telling twice. One old woman is quite panic-stricken.
"Oh, God," she wails, "you have assaulted the gendarmes—t
hat's terrible—terrible!"
Apparently she thinks it is a capital offence. The others, too, are rather worried about it—Fear of uniforms and policemen is in their very bones.
Willy grins. "Don't carry on, mother—even though the whole government were here, we wouldn't let them take anything from us! Old soldiers and their mess-mates hand over their grub?—A nice state of affairs that would be!"
It is fortunate that village railway stations so often lie far from the houses, for no one has seen anything of what we have done. The station-master now comes out of his office, yawning and scratching his head. We march up to the barrier, Willy with his half a pig's head again under his arm. "Me give you up?" he murmurs, stroking it fondly.
The trains starts. We wave from the window. The astonished station-master thinks it is intended for him and waves back. But we mean the privy. Willy leans far out, watching the red cap of the station-master.