I think of Weil and Heel, and nod.
A chaffinch starts to sing just above us. The sun is descending, more golden. Rahe spits out a shred of tobacco. "Yes, and then—then a bit later two of our fellows were suddenly missing. They had some scheme for betraying thewhereabouts of one of our plants of rifles, so it was said. And without any investigation at all their own comrades beat them to death with clubs one night in the forest. Feme, they call it, but lynching is what it is. One of the dead menhad been a corporal under me at the Front. A real gem ofa fellow! So then I chucked it." He looks at me. "And that's what it has turned into, Ernst. Yes, and to think ofthose other days I to think with what a will, what a sally we set out in those other days!" He flings his cigarette away. "Where the hell is it now?" Then after a pause he says quietly, "And how could this other thing ever have come out of that?—that's what I'd like to know——"
We get up and go off down the avenue of plane trees to the exit. The sunlight plays in the leaves and flickers over our faces. It is all so unreal—these things we have been talking of, and this soft, warm wind of late summer, the blackbirds and the cold breath of memory.
"And what are you doing now, Georg?" I ask.
He tops the heads of the thistles with his stick as wewalk. "I've had a look at most things, Ernst—professions,ideals, politics—but I don't fit into this show. What does it amount to?—everywhere profiteering, suspicion, indifference, utter selfishness——"
I feel rather exhausted with walking, so we sit on a seat on the Klosterberg.
The spires of the town below shimmer green, the roofs steam, and smoke rises silver from the chimneys. Georg points down there: "Like spiders they lurk there in their offices, their shops, their professions, each one of them ready to suck the other man dry. And then the rest hanging over each one of them—families, societies, authorities, laws, the State! One spider's web over another! True, one may call that life, if one likes, and a man may even pride himself on crawling about under it his forty years and more; but I learned at the Front that time is not the measure of life. Why should I climb down forty years? I have been putting all my money for years now on one card and the stake has always been life. I can't play now for halfpence, and small advances."
"You weren't in the trenches the last year, Georg," I say. "Things may have been different with the Air Force, but sometimes for months together we would never see a single man of the enemy—we were just so much cannon fodder. There was no play, I assure you, no bidding, and nothing to put into the pool—there was merely waiting, till a man stopped his packet at last."
"I'm not talking of the war at all, Ernst—I am talkingof the youth and the comradeship——"
"Yes, that's all finished," I say.
"We have lived as it were in a hot-house," says Georg meditatively, "and now we are old men. But it's as well to be clear about it. I am not complaining: I'm merely balancing accounts. For me all roads are shut. There is nothing left but to vegetate. And I don't mean to do that. I mean to be free."
"Ach, Georg," I reply, "what you say only means anend of things. But somewhere, somehow, there must be abeginning for us too. I believe I had a first glimpse of it,today. Ludwig knew it, but he was too sick "
Georg puts an arm round my shoulder. "Yes, yes, I know—you mean just be useful, Ernst——"
I lean against him. "When you say it, it sounds unctuous and hateful; but there must be a comradeship in it somewhere, Georg, though we don't understand it as yet."
I should like to tell him something of what I experienced there in the meadow. But I cannot hold it in words.
We sit in silence side by side. "Well, what are you going to do now, Georg?" I ask after a while.
He smiles thoughtfully. "I, Ernst?—It was damned bad luck I wasn't killed—As things are now I am merely rather ridiculous."
I push his hand away and look at him. "I think I'll gooff again for a bit first——" he reassures me.
He toys with his walking-stick and looks idly ahead. "Do you remember what Giesecke said once? In the asylum up there? He wanted to go to Fleury—back, yousee. He thought that might help him——"
I nod. "He's still up there. Karl went to see him the other day——"
A light breeze has risen. We look out over the town to the long row of poplars, where as boys we used to build tents and play at Red Indians. Georg was always the Chief; and I loved him as only boys, who know nothing about it, can love.
Our eyes meet. "Old Shatterhand!" says Georg solemnly, and then he smiles.
"Winnetou!" I reply just as quietly.
2.
The nearer the day comes for the trial, the more often I think of Albert. And suddenly, one day, clear and vivid before me I see a wall of mud, a loop-hole, a rifle with a telescopic sight, and behind it a cold, watching, tense face: Bruno Mückenhaupt, the best sniper in the battalion, who never missed.
I jump up—I must go and see what he is doing—what he makes of it all now.
A high house with many flats. The stairs are running wet It is Saturday, and everywhere there are buckets, scrubbing-brushes and women with their dresses tucked up.
A shrill bell, far too noisy for the door. Hesitatingly someone opens. I ask for Bruno. The woman admits me. Mückenhaupt is in his shirt sleeves on the floor playing with his daughter, a little girl of five or thereabouts, with straw-coloured hair and a big blue bow. With silver paper he has laid down a river over the carpet and set little paper boats on it. Some have tiny tufts of wadding fixed on them —these are the steamers, with little celluloid dolls for passengers. Bruno is contentedly smoking a long, curly pipe. On the porcelain bowl is a picture of a solider kneeling and taking aim, with the legend: Use Eye and Hand for the Fatherland!
"Hullo, Ernst," says Bruno, giving the little girl a pat and leaving her to go on with her play. We go to the sitting-room—a sofa and chairs of red plush, crochetted antimacassars spread over the backs, the floor so polished that I slip on it. Everything is neatly in its place; big conch shells, knick-knacks and photographs on the sideboard, and among them, in the middle, on red velvet under a glass dome, Bruno's medals.
We talk about the old times.—"Have you still got your marksman's card?" I ask.
"But what do you think, man!" protests Bruno reproachfully. "That has an honoured place!"
He brings it out from the drawer and turns over the pages with evident enjoyment. "Of course, summer was always my best time—you could see then till so late into the evening. Here—no, wait a minute—yes—June 18th, four head shots; 19th, three; 20th, one; 21st, two; 22nd, one; 23rd, none—wash out!—The sons of bitches got wise to it and were more careful—but here, look you, the 26th —a new lot came up who hadn't heard tell of Bruno— nine heads! What do you say to that now?"
He beams at me. "And all in two hours! It was comical —I don't know how it was, perhaps I was catching them under the chin and blowing them out, but anyway they shot up one after the other breast high above the trench like so many billy-goats—But see here now—29th June, 10.2 p.m., head shot—no joking mind you, Ernst—I had witnesses— see there it is: Confirmed. Company Sergeant-Major Schlie! Ten o'clock at night! almost in the dark! that's shooting for you, what? Man, but those were the times!"
"Yes, Bruno," I say, "the shooting was marvellous, no doubt about it,—all the same—what I mean to say is, don't you feel a bit sorry for the poor blighters sometimes?"
"What?" he says in amazement.
I repeat what I have said. "Of course, Bruno, one was right in the thick of it then—but today, it all looks rather different somehow."
He pushes back his chair. "Man! Why, you're a Bolshevik, I declare!—It was our duty! Orders! What——" Thoroughly offended he wraps up his scoring book in its tissue paper and puts it back in the drawer again.
I pacify him with a good cigar. He takes a few puffs and is reconciled. Then begins to tell me about his rifle club that meets every Saturday. "We had a ball there just a while back. Classy, I tell
you! And next time it's to be skittles, with prizes. You must come along sometimes, Ernst; you can get a beer at the bar, the like as I've rarely tasted, so smooth—And a penny a pint cheaper, too, than elsewhere. Mounts up, that does—every night, you know—It's smart and yet its cosy like, if you understand me. Here"——he points to a gilt collar-chain—"Champion shot. Bruno 1st. Pretty good, what?"
The child comes in. One of the boats has come unfolded. Bruno carefully sets it right again and strokes the little girl's hair. The blue ribbon crackles.
Then he takes me to a sideboard laden with every conceivable sort of object—He won them in the shooting-gallery at the annual fair. Three shots a penny, and whoever shot a certain number of rings could select his own prize. Bruno was not to be dragged from the gallery the whole day. He shot down whole heaps of teddy bears, cut-glass dishes, cups, beer mugs, coffee pots, ash trays, balls, and even two wicker armchairs.
"At the finish they wouldn't let me in anywhere," he laughs happily. "I'd have bankrupted the whole works before I'd done. Once bitten twice shy, eh?"
I go down the dark street. Light and swilling water is flooding from the doorways—Bruno will be playing again with his little girl. His wife will be bringing in the evening meal. And afterwards he will go for his beer. On Sunday he will take the family for an outing. He is an affectionate husband, a good father, a respected citizen. There is nothing to be said against him. Nothing to be said against him.
And Albert? And us?
Already an hour before the beginning of Albert's trial we are standing in the corridor of the court-house. At last the witnesses are called. With thudding heart we go in. Albert, very pale, is leaning back in his chair, gazing at the floor in front of him. We try to speak to him with our eyes: Courage, Albert! We won't leave you in the lurch. But he does not look up.
After our names have been read over we have to leave the court-room again. As we go out we discover Tjaden and Valentin sitting in the front row of the audience. They wink at us.
One after another the witnesses are called. With Willy it lasts a particularly long time. Then comes my turn. A quick glance at Valentin—an imperceptible shake of the head. So—Albert has refused to make any statement. I expected as much. He sits there vacantly beside his counsel. But Willy is red about the gills. Watchful as a wolfhound, he is eyeing the Prosecutor. The two have had a dust-up apparently.
I am sworn in. Then the President of the Court starts to interrogate. He wants to know whether Albert had not previously spoken of his intention of getting square with Bartscher. When I say No, he states that several witnesses were struck by the fact that Albert had been so cool and deliberate.
"He always is," I reply.
"Deliberate?" interjects the Prosecutor.
"Cool," I retort.
The President leans forward. "Even in such circumstances?"
"Of course," I say. "He was cool in far worse situations than that."
"In what worse situations?" asks the Prosecutor pointing a quick finger.
"In a bombardment."
He withdraws the finger. Willy grunts contentedly. The Prosecutor gives him an angry look.
"So he was cool then?" asks the President once again.
"As cool as now," I answer sourly. "Can't you see how coolly he sits there, though everything within him is boiling and raging!—He was a soldier! He learned there not to go hopping about and flinging up his arms to heaven in despair, merely because a situation was critical. Else he wouldn't have any now!"
The Counsel for the Defence makes some notes. The President looks at me a moment. "If that is so why did he shoot?" he asks. "Surely it was not so grievous a matter that the girl should go to the cafe with another man for once."
"It was more grievous to him than a bullet in the guts," I reply.
"How so?"
"Because the girl was the only thing he had in the world."
"He had his mother," interjects the Prosecutor.
"He could not marry his mother," I retort.
"And why was it so important he should marry?" asks the President. "Is he not much too young still?"
"He was not too young to be a soldier," I oppose. "And he wanted to marry because after the war he was lost, because he went always in fear of himself and of his memories and looked for something whereby to steady himself. And this girl was that to him."
The President turns to Albert: "Prisoner at the bar, are you now willing to answer? Is it true, what this witness has said?"
Albert delays a while. Willy and I fix him with our eyes. "Yes," he then answers reluctantly.
"And would you now tell us, why you had a revolver with you?"
Albert is silent.
"He always had it with him," I interpose.
"Always?" asks the President.
"Of course," I reply, "just the same as his handkerchief and his watch."
The President looks at me in astonishment. "But a revolver is a rather different thing from a pocket handkerchief!"
"True," I say, "he found the handkerchief less necessary. He was often without one."
"And the revolver——"
"It saved his life more than once. He has carried it for three years, and he brought the habit back with him."
"But he does not need it now! You see, it is peace time."
I shrug my shoulders. "We have not yet found it so."
The President turns to Albert. "Prisoner at the bar, do you not wish to unburden your conscience? Do you not repent what you have done?"
"No," says Albert apathetically.
All is hushed. The jury listens. The Prosecutor leans forward, Willy looks as if he would throw himself on Albert. I look at him desperately.
"But you have killed a man," says the President impressively.
"I have killed many men," answers Albert indifferently.
The Prosecutor jumps up. The juryman by the door stops biting his nails. "What have you done?" asks the President breathlessly.
"In the war," I interrupt hastily.
"That is quite another matter," declares the Prosecutor, disappointed.
Then Albert lifts his head. "How is that a different matter?"
The Prosecutor rises. "Do you mean to compare what you did here with fighting in defence of the Fatherland?"
"No," retorts Albert. "The people I shot then had doneme no injury——"
"Monstrous!" says the Prosecutor in disgust and turnsto the President. "I must implore——"
But the President is calmer. "Where should we be, if every soldier thought as you do?" says he.
"True enough," I say. "But that is not our responsibility. Had this man"—I point to Albert—"had this man not been trained to shoot men, he would not have shot one now."
The Prosecutor is as red as a turkey. "It is unheard ofthat witnesses, unasked, should——"
The President overrides him.—"I think we may venture to depart for once from the usual procedure."
In the meantime I am set aside and the girl is called.
Albert huddles together and presses his lips tight. The girl is wearing a black silk dress and has had her hair newly waved. She advances self-consciously. It is apparent that she feels herself an important personage.
The judge inquires into her relationships with Albert and with Bartscher. She describes Albert as quarrelsome, Bart-scher on the other hand was an amiable man. She had never contemplated marriage with Albert; on the contrary, she was as good as engaged to Bartscher. "Herr Trosske is much too young," she explains and swings on her hips.
The sweat pours down Albert's forehead, but he does not stir. Willy is kneading his hands. We can hardly contain ourselves.
The President asks what was her relation with Albert.
"Quite harmless," she says, "we were merely acquainted."
"Was the accused excited at the time?"
"Of course," she replies enthusiastically. That appears to flatter her.
"How do you account for that?"
"
Well, you see"—she smiles and turns coyly aside—"he was very much in love with me."
Willy groans aloud, hollowly. The Prosecutor fixes him through his spectacles.