I gave my Vogt's head a farewell bump on the road and then let him go. Lenz was already standing by Köster. His coat was torn, he was bleeding from the corner of his mouth. The battle had apparently been a draw, for his 'Vogt, though bleeding also, was standing. The surrender of the eldest brother had settled the lot. None of them ventured a word. They helped the eldest up and went to their car. The uninjured one returned and collected the starting handle. He looked at Köster as if he were the devil. Then the Mercedes rattled off.
Suddenly the blacksmith was there again. "They've had enough," said he. "Nothing like it has happened to them in a long time. The eldest has done time already for manslaughter."
Nobody answered. Köster suddenly shook himself. "Dirty business," said he. Then he turned round. "Come on, get busy."
"I've started," answered Jupp, already trundling up the breakdown trolley.
"Here a minute," said I. "From to-day on you are a Lance Corporal and can start cigarette smoking."
We heaved the car up and made it fast with the wire rope behind Karl.
"Do you think it won't damage him?" I asked Köster.
"After all he's a race horse, not a pack-mule."
He shook his head. "It's not so far. And level going."
Lenz sat in the Stutz and we drove slowly off. I held my handkerchief to my nose and looked out over the evening fields and into the sinking sun. There was an immense, un-shakeable peace in it, and one felt how utterly indifferent nature was to anything that this evil-tempered ant-heap called humanity might choose to do in the world. Far more important was it that the clouds now turned gradually to a range of golden mountains, that the purple shadows of twilight drifted in noiselessly from the horizon, that the larks turned home from the boundless space of the sky to their place in the furrow, and that it slowly became night.
We drove into our courtyard. Lenz climbed out of the Stutz and festively took off his hat to it. "Greetings, well beloved! You come to us by a sad mischance, but with any luck you should bring us in, at a superficial estimate, between three thousand and three thousand five hundred marks. And now give me a large cherry brandy and a cake of soap—I must get rid of the Vogt family."
We all had a glass and then set to work at once taking the Stutz apart as far as possible. It was not always enough that the owner alone should give one a repair job—often the insurance company would come along afterwards to place the car elsewhere, with one of its subsidiary shops. So the further we could get the better for us. The costs of reassembling would then be so high that it would be cheaper to leave the car with us.
It was dark when we stopped.
"Are you taking the taxi out to-night?" I asked Lenz.
"Certainly not," replied Gottfried. "One shouldn't overdo this money-making business. The Stutz is enough for me for one day."
"Not for me," said I. "If you're not driving, then I'll graze the night clubs from eleven to two."
"You let it be." grinned Gottfried. "Look in the glass instead. You've been having bad luck with your nose lately. Nobody would ride with you with a beetroot like that. Go home quietly and put it in a cold compress."
He was right. It really was impossible, with my nose. So I shortly took my leave and went home. On the way I met Hasse and walked the last bit with him. He looked dusty and miserable.
"You've got thinner," said I.
He nodded, and told me that he never got proper meals at night now. Almost every day his wife spent with friends she had found, and didn't come home till late. He was glad for her to have the entertainment, but he had no inclination to cook for himself alone when he got in at night. And anyway he wasn't very hungry; he was too tired for that.
I looked at him as he walked beside me with drooping shoulders. Perhaps he really believed what he said, but it was pitiful to listen to. It was only for the want of a little bit of security, a little bit of money, that this marriage, this humble, inoffensive life, had foundered. I thought of the millions there were like him, and that it was always only for the little bit of security and the little bit of money. In a revolting way, life had shrunk to a miserable battle for bare existence. I thought of the fight that afternoon, I thought of what I had seen these last weeks; I thought of all the things I had tried already; and then I thought of Pat and suddenly had the feeling that the gulf could never be bridged. The leap was too wide, life had become too dirty for happiness, it couldn't last, one didn't believe in it any more; this was only a breathing space, not a harbour.
We climbed up the stairs and opened the door. On the landing Hasse stopped. "Well, au revoir—"
"You eat something to-night," said I.
He shook his head with a feeble smile, as if to ask pardon for himself, and went into his empty, dark room. I looked after him. Then I went on along the tube of the corridor. Suddenly I heard soft singing. I stopped and listened. It was not, as I first thought, Erna Bönig's gramophone; it was Pat's voice. She was alone in her room singing. I looked across toward the door behind which Hasse had vanished, I bent down and listened, and then suddenly I pressed my hands together. Damn it all, breathing space or no breathing space, harbour or no harbour, be they sundered so far that they will never be bridged, never be believed—for that very reason, because one could not believe it, for that reason was if always so bewilderingly new and overwhelming—happiness.
Pat did not hear me come in. She was sitting on the floor in front of the looking-glass trying on a hat, a little black cap. Beside her on the carpet stood the lamp. The room was filled with a warm, golden brown twilight, and only her face was brightly lit from the lamp. She had drawn up a-chair, from which hung down a bit of silk. On the seat lay a pair of scissors gleaming.
I remained quietly standing in the door and watched her gravely working at the cap. She was fond of sitting on the floor and I had often before found her fallen asleep in some corner on the floor, a book beside her, and the dog.
The dog was beside her now and started to growl. Pat looked up and saw me in the mirror. She smiled, and it seemed to me that the whole world became brighter by it. I crossed "the room, knelt down behind her, and, after all the filth of the day, put my lips on the warm, smooth skin of the neck before me.
She held up the black cap. "I've altered it, darling. Do you like it?"
"It is a perfectly lovely hat," said I.
"But you're not even looking. I've cut the brim away behind and turned up the front."
"I can see that quite clearly," said I, with my face in her hair, "it is a hat to make a Paris milliner green with envy if she could see it."
"But Robby!" Laughing, she pushed me back. "You haven't any idea about it at all. I wonder sometimes if you ever see what I have on."
"I see every little detail," I declared sitting close beside her on the floor, though a bit in the shadow on account of my nose.
"So? Then what did I have on last night?"
"Last night?" I meditated. I actually did not know!
"Just what I expected, darling. You don't know anything at all about me."
"True," said I; "but that is what makes it so nice. The more we know one another, the more we misunderstand one another. And the nearer we know one another, the more estranged we become. Look at the Hasses, for instance— they know everything about each other and yet are more distasteful to one another than total strangers."
She put on the little black cap and examined it in the mirror. "What you said then is only half-true, Robby."
"That's the way with all truths," I replied. "We never get further than that. That's what makes us human. And
God knows we make trouble with our half-truths. With the whole truth we couldn't live at all."
She took off the hat and put it away. Then she turned round, and, as she did so, caught sight of my nose. "What's this?" she asked, alarmed.
"Nothing serious. It only looks so. When I was working under the car something dropped on me."
She eyed me incredulously. "Goodness knows where you've
been. You never tell me anything, do you? I know as little of you as you do of me."
"And that's the best way," said I.
She fetched a basin of water and a cloth and made me a compress. Then she contemplated me once more.
"It looks like a punch. And your neck is scratched too. You've had some adventure or other, darling."
"My biggest adventure to-day is still to come," said I.
She looked at me surprised. "So late, Robby? Are you going out, then?"
"I'm staying here," I replied, throwing the compress away and taking her in my arms. "I'm staying here with you the whole evening."
Chapter XX
August was warm and clear, and in September too the weather was still almost summery—but then, toward the end of September, it started to rain. Clouds hung low all day over the city, the eaves dripped, then the storms began and, one Sunday when I waked early and went to the window, I saw in the trees of the graveyard sulphur-yellow flecks and the first bare branches.
I remained some time standing at the window. It had been curious, these months since we had come back from the sea; I had always, every hour, been conscious that Pat must go away in the autumn, but I had known it as one knows so many things—that the years are passing, that one is getting older, that one cannot live forever. The present had been stronger; it had always thrust aside every other thought, and as long as Pat was there, and the trees still green, words such as "autumn" and "going away" and "parting" had been no more than pale shadows on the horizon, making one feel only the more intensely the joy of being near, of being still together.
I looked out on the damp, rain-drenched graveyard, at the gravestones covered with dirty, brown leaves.
Like some bloodless beast the mist overnight had sucked the green sap from the leaves of the trees; feeble and limp they hung from the twigs; each new gust of wind that passed through them tore off fresh ones, and drove them before it—and like a sharp, cutting pain I was suddenly aware for the first time that the parting would soon be there, soon become a reality, even as the autumn that had crept through the tree tops outside and left behind its yellow traces had become a reality.
I listened into the next room. Pat was still asleep. I went to the door and stood there awhile. She was sleeping quietly, not coughing. For an instant a sudden hope rose up: I pictured to myself that to-day, or to-morrow, or in the next few days, Jaffé would ring up to tell me she need not go away. Then I remembered the nights when I had heard the rustle of her breathing, the regular, muffled, grating noise that came and went like the sound of a very distant, thin saw—and the hope was extinguished again as swiftly as it had flickered up.
I went back to the window and again looked out into the rain. Then I sat down at the writing-table and began counting my money. I reckoned how long it would last for Pat, but that made me miserable and I shut it away again.
I looked at the clock. It was shortly before seven. It wanted at least two hours before Pat would wake. So I hastily dressed to go out and do a bit more driving. That was better than sitting about in the room with one's thoughts.
I went to the garage, took out the cab, and drove slowly through the streets. There were few people about. In the working-class districts the long rows of apartment houses stood bald and desolate, like sad old pros'titutes, in the rain. The fronts were decayed and dirty, the murky windows stared cheerlessly in the morning light, and the peeling plaster of the walls showed in many places deep, yellow-grey holes, as if they had the pox.
I made my way across the Old Town to the cathedral. I pulled the car up outside the little entry and got out. Through the heavy oak door I heard the subdued peal of the organ. It was the hour of morning Mass, and I listened to the organ which had just begun the offertory—that meant it would be twenty minutes at least before the Mass ended and the people came out.
I went into the cloister garden. It lay in grey light. The rosebushes were dripping with rain, but most were still loaded with blooms. My raincoat was fairly big and I could hide under it the sprays I cut off. Though it was Sunday nobody came, and I took out the first armful of roses to the car unhindered. Then I went back for another. Just as I had got them safely stowed under my coat, I heard somebody coming through the cloister. I clamped the bunch tightly against me with my arm and remained standing before one of the Stations of the Cross, as if lost in prayer.
The footsteps came nearer; they did not pass, they stopped. I began to feel a bit hot. I gazed at the stone picture with an air of deep reverence, made the sign of the Cross, and walked slowly toward the next Station, which was nearer the exit. The footsteps followed me and stopped again. I didn't know what to do. I could not move on immediately; I should have to stick it long enough to say at least ten Ave Marias and a paternoster—else I should give myself away at once. So I continued to stand there and looked up cautiously to see what was up, with a disapproving expression as if I had been interrupted in my devotions.
I looked into the friendly, round face of a priest and breathed again. I knew he would not interrupt me while I was praying and was already counting myself saved when I noticed that unfortunately I had picked on the last Station. No matter how slowly I might pray, I would have to be through in a few minutes, and that was what he was waiting for, obviously. There was no point prolonging the business. So I walked off slowly and unperturbed toward the exit.
"Good morning," said the priest. "Jesus Christ be praised."
"Forever, amen," I responded. That was the Catholic greeting.
"It is unusual to see anyone here at this time," said he amiably, looking at me out of bright, blue, childlike eyes.
I mumbled something.
"Very unusual, unfortunately," he went on, rather troubled. "Men especially one hardly ever sees doing the Stations. For that reason I rejoice over you, and have ventured to speak to you. You have some special request I am sure, that brings you so early and in this weather."
Yes, that you go away, thought I, and nodded, relieved. So far he seemed not to have noticed the flowers. The thing now was to get shot of him quickly so that he might not notice them.
He smiled at me again. "I am just about to read my Mass. I will include your request in my prayers."
"Thanks," said I, surprised and embarrassed.
"Is it for the soul of someone departed?" he asked.
I stared at him a moment and my flowers began to slip. "No," said I then quickly, pressing my arm firmly against my coat.
He looked into my face innocently searching with his clear eyes. He was waiting apparently for me to tell him what it was about. But nothing suitable occurred to me on the spur of the moment, and besides I had something against telling him any more lies than were necessary. So I said nothing.
"Then I will pray for help in trouble for someone unknown," said he at last.
"Yes," I replied, "if you would do that. And I thank you very much."
He smiled. "You don't need to thank me. We are every one of us in God's hands." He looked at me a moment, his head bowed a little to one side, and it seemed as if something passed over his face. "Only trust," said he. "The Heavenly Father helps. He always helps, even when sometimes we do not understand." Then he nodded to me and went.
I followed him with my eyes until I heard the door shut behind him. Yes, thought I, if it were so simple. He helps, He always helps—but did He help Bernhard Wiese when he lay wounded in the .stomach, yelling in Houthoulst Wood? Did He help Katczinsky, who fell at Handzaeme, leaving a sick wife and a child he had never seen? Did He help Müller and Leer and Kemmerich? Did He help little Friedmann and Jurgens and Berger, and millions more? No, damn it, too much blood had flowed in the world for that sort of belief in the Heavenly Father.
I took the flowers home, then I drove the car to the workshop and walked back. From the kitchen was now issuing the smell of freshly brewed coffee and I heard Frida rumbling about. It was curious, but the smell of coffee made me more cheerful. I knew that from the war; it was never the bi
g things that consoled one—it was always the unimportant, the little things.
I had hardly closed the passage door when Hasse shot out of his room. His face was yellow and puffy, his eyes red and stained, and he looked as if he had slept in his clothes. When he caught sight of me an immense disappointment passed over his face.
"Ach, so, it's you," he murmured.
I looked at him in surprise. "Were you expecting somebody at this time?"
"Yes," said he softly, "my wife. She hasn't come home yet. Haven't you seen her?"
I shopk my head. "I've only been out an hour."
He nodded. "I just thought—you might have happened to see her."
I gave a shrug. "She'll probably be in later. Didn't she telephone?"