Chapter XXI
In the middle of October Jaffé sent for me. It was ten in the morning, but the weather was so dull that the light was still burning in the clinic. It mingled with the misty gloom from outside to make a pallid, sickly brightness.
Jaffé was sitting alone in his big consulting room. He raised his bald, shiny head as I entered. He pointed ill-humouredly to the big window against which the rain was beating. "What do you think of this damned weather?"
I gave a shrug. "Let's hope it will stop soon."
"That won't stop."
He looked at me and said nothing. Then he took up a pencil from the desk, contemplated it, tapped with it on the table and put it aside again.
"I can imagine why you sent for me," said I.
Jaffé muttered something.
I waited a moment. Then I said: "Pat must go away soon now, I suppose—"
"Yes."
Jaffé stared moodily ahead. "I had reckoned on the end of October. But with this weather—" He reached again for the silver pencil.
The wind flung a shower of rain rattling against the window. It sounded like distant machine-gun fire. "When do you think she should go?" I asked.
Lifting his eyes he looked at me suddenly full in the face.
"To-morrow," said he.
For a second I felt the ground go from under my feet. The air was like cotton wool and stuck in my lungs. Then it passed, and I asked as calmly as I could—but my voice came from far away as if somebody else spoke: "Has it suddenly become so much worse?"
Jaffé shook his head vigorously and stood up. "If it had changed so quickly, she wouldn't be able to travel at all," he declared unamiably. "It is better, that's all. With this weather every day is a risk. Colds and so on—"
He took some letters from his desk. "I have already made arrangements. You have only to go. I've known the doctorin charge of the sanatorium since my student days. He is very sound. I've given him all details."
He handed me the letters. I took them, but did not put them in my pocket. He looked at me, then he passed in front of me and placed a hand on my arm. It was light as a bird's wing; I hardly felt it at all. "Difficult," said he softly, in a changed tone. "I know it. That's why I have delayed as long as I could."
"It is not difficult—" I replied.
He made a gesture. "Don't tell me—"
"No," said I, "I didn't mean that. I'd only like to know: will she come back?"
Jaffé was silent a moment. His dark, narrow eyes gleamed in the sad, yellow light. "What do you want to know that for now?" he asked after a while.
"Because otherwise it would be better she shouldn't go," said I.
He looked up at me swiftly. "What did you say?"
"Otherwise it would be better she should stay here."
He stared at me. "Do you know what that would almost certainly mean?" he then asked softly and sharply.
"Yes," said I. "It would mean that she would not die alone. And what that means I know too."
Jaffé lifted his shoulders as if his flesh crept. Then he walked slowly to the window and looked out into the rain. When he returned his face was like a mask. He stopped full in front of me. "How old are you?" he asked.
"Thirty," I replied. I did not understand what he was getting at.
"Thirty," he repeated in an emphatic tone as if he were talking to himself and had not understood me at all. "Thirty; my Godl" He walked to his desk and stood there, small and strangely absent, quite forlorn beside the enormous bare desk. "I'll be sixty soon, now," said he, without looking at me; "but I couldn't do that. I would still try everything; still try, and even though I knew perfectly well it was hopeless."
I said nothing. Jaffé stood there as if he had forgotten everything around him. Then he made a movement and his face lost the look. He smiled. "I believe definitely she will get through the winter quite well."
"Only the winter?" I asked.
"I hope, then, that in the spring she will be able to come down again."
"Hope," said I. "What does that mean?"
"Everything," replied Jaffé. "Always everything. I can't tell you more now. The rest is possibility. One must wait and see how things go up there. But I definitely hope she will be able to come back in the spring." '
"Definitely."
"Yes." He walked around the desk and with his foot kicked an open drawer shut so violently that the glasses rattled. "Damn it, man, it goes hard enough with me myself that she must go!" he muttered.
A nurse came in. Jaffé waved her away. But she stood nevertheless, dumpy, four-square, with a bulldog face under grey hair.
"Afterwards," growled. Jaffé. "Come again afterwards."
The nurse turned away irritably. As she went she switched off the electric light. Grey and milky the day suddenly stood in the room. Jaffé's face was pale all at once. "Old witch," said he. "Twenty years now I've been meaning to get rid of her. But she's too good." Then he turned to me. "Well?"
"We go to-night," said I.
"To-night?"
"Yes. If it has to be, then to-day is better than to-morrow. I'll take her. I can get away for a few days."
He nodded and shook hands.
I went. The way to the door seemed very far.
Outside I stopped and stood. I noticed I had the letters still in my hand. The rain was beating on the paper. I wiped the letters and put them in my breast pocket. Then I looked around. An omnibus pulled up just in front of the house. It was chock-full and a swarm of people crowded out. Some girls in black shining mackintoshes were laughing with the guard. He was young and the white teeth flashed in his tanned face. It can't be, thought I, that can't all be. So much life, and Pat must go!
Ringing, the bus drove off. Its wheels spurted a swathe of water over the footpath. I walked on to tell Köster and to get the tickets.
At noon I came home. I had fixed everything and already wired the sanatorium. "Pat," said I, still in the doorway, "can you have everything packed by this evening?"
"Must I go?" ,
"Yes," said I. "Yes, Pat."
"By myself?"
"No. We're going together. I'm taking you."
Her face regained colour. "When must I be ready then?" she asked.
"The train leaves to-night at ten."
"And are you going out again now?"
"No. I'm staying here till we leave."
She took a deep breath. "Then it's quite simple, Robby," said she. "Should we begin at once?"
"We've time still."
"I'd rather begin at once. Then it will be done."
"Right."
I quickly stowed in the few things I wanted to take with me and was finished in half an hour. Then I went across to Frau Zalewski and told her we were leaving in the evening. I paid her for the room up to the first of November, unless she were able to let it earlier. She wanted to start a long discussion, but I went back again quickly.
Pat was kneeling in front of her wardrobe trunk. Around it hung her dresses, on the bed lay linen, and she was now packing in her shoes. I recalled that she had knelt just so when she moved into this room and unpacked, and it seemed to me as if that was an endless long time ago, and yet only yesterday . . .
She looked up.
"Are you taking your silver dress too?" I asked.
She nodded. "What shall we do with the rest of the things, Robby? With the furniture?"
"I've already spoken to Frau Zalewski. As much as I can I'm taking into my room. The rest we'll give to a removal firm to store. Then we'll take it out again when you come back."
"When I come back," said she.
"Yes," I replied, "in the spring, when you come back all brown from the sun."
I helped her to pack, and by afternoon, when it was already turning dark outside, we had done. It was queer— the furniture was still all in the same place, only the cupboards and drawers were empty, and yet the room appeared suddenly bare and depressing.
Pat sat on her bed. She looked tired. "Should I make a light?" I asked.
She shook her head. "Leave it so awhile."
I sat beside her. "Would you like a cigarette?" I asked.
"No, Robby. Only to sit a bit like this."
I stood up and went to the window. Outside the street lamps were burning unsteadily in the rain. The trees were tossing in the wind. Below, Rosa walked slowly by. Her high boots gleamed. She had a parcel under her arm and was on her way to the International. She had her knitting with her apparently, to do some woollen things for her youngster. Fritzi and Marian followed her, both in new, white, close-fitting raincoats, and presently Mimi trailed after them, bedraggled and tired.
I turned round. It had now become so dark that I could not see Pat any more. I only heard her breathing. Slowly and dismally behind the trees of the graveyard the electric signs started to climb upward. The red lettering of the cigarette advertisement lay like some gay ceremonial decoration across the roofs of the houses, the blue and emerald circles of the wine merchants started spraying, and the bright contours of the laundry sign lit up. Their light shed a soft, confused glow through the window on to the wall and the bedcover. It wandered to and fro, and the room suddenly seemed like a lost little diving-bell on the floor of the ocean, around which the rain waves washed, and down to which penetrated, out of the far distance, a feeble glimmer of the gay world.
It was eight o'clock. Outside a klaxon sounded. "That's Gottfried with the taxi," said I. "He's come to get us for supper."
I stood up, went to the window and called down that we were coming. Then I switched on the little pocket lamp and went into my room. It was damned strange to me. I took the rum bottle and drank a quick glass. Then I sat in the armchair and stared at the carpet. After a while I stood up again and went to the washstand to brush my hair. I forgot what I was doing, for I suddenly saw my face in the glass. Cold and curious, I contemplated it. I contracted my lips and grinned at it. It grinned back, tense and pale. "You," said I, soundlessly. Then I went back to Pat.
"Shall we go, old man?" I asked.
"Yes," said she; "but I want to go into your room once more."
"Why?" I replied. "The old shack—"
"You stay here," said she. "I'll be back in a minute."
I waited for some time, then I went across. She was standing in the middle of the room and started when she caught sight of me. I had never seen her like that before. She was utterly extinguished. It was only a second; then she was smiling again.
"Come," said she. "Now let us go."
At the kitchen Frau Zalewski was awaiting us. Her grey locks were waved and she was wearing the brooch with the late Zalewski of blessed memory, on the black silk dress. "Look out," I whispered to Pat, "she'll hug you."
The next moment Pat had already disappeared into the capacious bosom. The big face above her was twitching. It was only a matter of seconds and Pat must be overwhelmed. When Frau Zalewski wept her eyes were like syphon bottles under pressure.
"Pardon me," said I, "we must go quickly. It's high time."
"High time?" Frau Zalewski surveyed me with an annihilating glance. "The train doesn't leave for two hours. In the meantime I suppose you will make the poor child drunk!"
Pat had to laugh. "No, Frau Zalewski. We only want to say good-bye to the others."
Mother Zalewski shook her head incredulously. "You see in this young man a golden bowl, Fräulein Hollmann. At the best he is a golden schnapps bottle." • "A very nice picture," said I.
"My child—" Frau Zalewski was again seized with emotion. "Come back again soon. Your room is always there for you. And if the Kaiser himself is in it, he will have to go out, when you come."
"Thank you, Frau Zalewski," said Pat. "Many thanks for everything. For the card-telling too. I will remember it all."
"That's right. And take care of yourself and get quite well again."
"Yes," said Pat. "I'll try. Au revoir, Frau Zalewski. Au revoir, Frida."
We went. The passage door banged to, behind us. On the staircase it was half-dark; some of the electric lights were burnt out. Pat was silent as she descended the stairs softly and lightly. I felt as if a leave were over and we were now going in the grey dawn to the railway station, to go to the front.
Lenz opened the door of the taxi. "Mind," said he.
The car was full of roses. Two enormous sprays of white and red roses were lying on the back seats. I recognised at once where they came from—the cathedral garden. "The last," announced Gottfried, well pleased with himself. "Cost a certain amount of trouble, too. Had to have a longish argument with a priest about it."
"Was it one with clear, blue, childlike eyes?" I asked.
"Aha, you too, brother!" replied Gottfried. "It was you he told me about then. The old boy was mighty disappointed when he realized what the doing the Stations was all about. He was beginning to think the piety of the male population was on the increase."
"Did he let you get away with the flowers then?" I asked.
"He allowed himself to be persuaded. In the end he even helped me pick them." Gottfried's nose wrinkled.
Pat laughed. "Is that true?"
Gottfried grinned. "Of course. It was marvellous to see the holy gentleman jumping in the twilight for the highest branches. He developed a real sporting spirit. Told me that he had been a good footballer at the University. Inside right, I think."
"You have led a priest to steal," said I. "That'll cost you a few hundred years' purgatory. But where's Otto?"
"He's at Alfons' already. We are having supper at Alfons', I suppose?"
"Yes, of course," said Pat.
"Right, off we go then."
Alfons was awaiting us in striped trousers, morning coat and silver-grey tie.
"Going to a wedding?" asked Lenz.
"No, but I know what is fitting," announced Alfons, kissing Pat's hand. The seams of his too-tight coat creaked, his mountain of muscles swelled so.
"Quick, have you got anything stiff to drink?" Lenz wiped his hand across his eyes as if he had seen an apparition.
Alfons straightened and majestically signalled Hans, the waiter, who brought a tray with glasses. "Say what you like, Gottfried, kümmel is the best appetizer."
"The best is a real vodka," retorted Lenz.
"Madam," Alfons turned to Pat, "we have been arguing about that ever sincje 1916. It started at Verdun, and the boy still won't hear reason. However: Welcome and good health!"
We drank.
"The kümmel is excellent," said Pat. "Like cool mountain milk."
"I'm glad you noticed that. Kümmel experts are rare." Alfons took the bottle from the counter. "Another?"
"Yes," said Pat, "one more."
Alfons filled her glass. "That's the stuff, that's the stuff." He winked benignly.
Pat emptied the glass and looked at me. I took it out of her hand and offered it to Alfons. "Give me another too."
"We'll all have one," declared Alfons. "And then the jugged hare with red cabbage and apple sauce."
"Pros't, Pat," said I. "Pros't, old comrade."
As a finale Alfons played the chords of the Don Cossacks on his gramophone. It was a very soft song where the choir merely hummed like a distant organ while a solitary, clear voice floated above it. To me it was as if the door opened without a sound and an old and tired man came in, sat down in silenceat one of the tables, and was listening to the song of his youth.
"Well, lads," said Alfons as the choir hummed ever softer and softer until at last it died away like a sigh, "do you know what I always think of when I hear that? Ypres, 1917, Gottfried; March, you remember, that night when Bertelsmann—"
"Yes," said Lenz, "I remember. The night when the cherry trees—"
Alfons nodded.
Köster stood up. "I think it's time." He looked at his watch. "Yes, we must be off."
"Just one cognac," said Alfons. "The real Napoleon. I brought it up specially for you."
We drank the cognac and got ready to go.
"Au revoir, Alfons," said Pat. "I'm so glad to have been here." She gave him her hand.
Alfons turned red. He held her hand tight between his great paws. "Well, if there's anything to be done—just say the word." He looked at her with utmost embarrassment. "You belong all right. I never would have believed a woman could belong, you know."
"Thank you," said Pat, "thank you, Alfons. You couldn't have said anything nicer to me. Au revoir and all the best."
"Au revoir! Soon!" Alfons blew his nose.
Köster and Lenz took us to the station. We stopped a moment at our house and I fetched the dog. Jupp had already taken the luggage.
We arrived just in time. We were hardly aboard when the train pulled out. As the engine gathered way, Lenz hauled out of his pocket a bottle, wrapped up, and held it out to me. "Here, Bob, take it. You can always do with a drop on a journey."
"Thanks," said I, "drink it yourselves to-night. I've got some."
"Take it," replied Lenz; "you can never have too much." He ran along beside the train and threw the bottle to me. "Au revoir, Pat!" he called. "When we go broke here, we'll all come up and join you. Otto as skier, me as dancing master, Bob as pianist. Then with you we'll form a troupe and go from hotel to hotel."
The train began to go faster and Gottfried was left behind. Pat hung out the window and waved until the station disappeared behind the curve. Then she turned round. She was very pale and her eyes were shining wet. I took her in my arms. "Come," said I, "now we'll have a drink. You've done splendidly."
"I don't feel splendid, though," she replied with an effort at a smile.
"Me neither," said I. "That's why we're going to have a drink."
I opened the bottle and gave her a little cup of cognac. "Good?" I asked.
She nodded and leaned against my shoulder. "Oh, darling, what is the good?"
"You mustn't cry," said I. "I've been so proud that you haven't cried all day."
"I'm not crying," she replied, shaking her head, and the tears ran down her thin face.
"Come, drink something," said I and held her tight. "It i is always the first moment, then it's all right again."
She nodded. "Yes, Robby. But you mustn't let it worry i you. It will be over soon; don't look, that's the best. Just let me sit by myself here a few minutes, then I'll soon get over it."
"But why not? You've been so brave all day, you can cry now as much as you like."
"I wasn't brave. You didn't notice, that was all."
"Perhaps," said I; "but that is just it."
She tried to smile. "Why is that it, Robby?"
"Because you didn't give in." I stroked her hair. "So long as a man doesn't give in, he is still more than his fate. That's an old Army rule."
"It's not courage with me, darling," she murmured. "With me it is simply fear—miserable fear of the great last fear."
"That is all there is to courage, Pat."
She leaned against me. "Ach, Robby, you don't know what fear is."
"I do," I replied.
The door opened. The collector asked for the tickets. I handed them to him. "Is the sleeper for the lady?" he asked.
I nodded.
"Then you must go to the sleeping car," said he to Pat. "The ticket is not good for the other compartments."
"Very well."
"And the dog must go into the luggage van," he declared. "The dog box is in the luggage van."
"Good," said I. "Where is the sleeping car, then?"
"Behind, the third car. The luggage van is away forra'd."
He left. At his breast a little lantern dangled. It looked as if he were going along the shaft of a mine.
"Then we'll pull up our. stakes, Pat," said I. "I'll smuggle Billy in to you later. There's nothing for him in the luggage Van."
I had not taken a sleeper for myself. It was nothing to me to spend the night in a corner. Besides, it was cheaper.
Jupp had already put Pat's luggage in the sleeping car. The compartment was a pleasant little room panelled with mahogany. Pat had the lower berth. I asked the attendant if the upper one was booked.
"Yes," said he, "from Frankfurt."
"What time are we in Frankfurt?" I asked.
"Half-past two."
I gave him a tip and he went back to his corner. "In half an hour I'll be back here with the dog."
"But you can't do that; the attendant stays in the car."
"Can't I? Only don't lock your door."
I went back past the attendant, who looked at me. At the next station I got out with the dog and walked along the platform past the sleeper to the next carriage. There I waited until the attendant got out to have a chat with the guard. Then I got in again, walked back along the corridor to the sleeping car, and came to Pat without being seen by anyone.
She had on a soft white cloak and looked lovely. Her eyes were shining. "I'm quite over it now, Robby," said she.
"That's good. But won't you lie down? It's mighty narrow here. Then I'll sit beside you."
"Yes, but—" She hesitated and pointed to the upper bunk. "What if the President of the League for Fallen Girls suddenly appears in the doorway?"
"It's a long time to Frankfurt yet," said I. "I'll watch out. I won't fall asleep."
Shortly before Frankfurt I went back to my compartment. I sat in the corner by the window and tried to sleep. But at Frankfurt a chap with a walrus moustache got in, immediately unpacked a parcel, and began eating. He ate so intensively that I couldn't get to sleep. The meal lasted almost an hour. Then the walrus wiped his whiskers, stretched out, and started a concert the like of which I had never heard before. It was not a simple snore; it was a howling sigh punctuated with groans and long-drawn blubberings. I could discover no system in it, it was so varied. Fortunately about half-past five he got out.
When I waked, everywhere outside was white. It was snowing in great flakes and the compartment was bathed in a strange unearthly twilight. We were already passing through the mountains. It was almost nine o'clock. I stretched and then went to wash and shave. When I returned Pat was standing in the compartment. She looked fresh.
"Did you sleep well?" I asked.
She nodded.
"And what sort of old witch did you have in the top bunk?"
"Young and pretty. She's called Helga Guttmann, and she's going to the same sanatorium as I am."
"Really?"
"Yes, Robby. But you've slept badly, that's evident. You must have a good breakfast."
"Coffee," said I. "Coffee with a dash of cherry."
We went to the dining car. I was suddenly quite cheerful again. Things didn't seem so bad as last night.
Helga Guttmann was already there. She was a slim, lively girl of southern type. "Extraordinary," said I, "that you should meet like that, going to the same sanatorium."
"Not so extraordinary at all," she replied.
I looked at her. She laughed. "All the birds migrating gather about this time. Over there—" she pointed to the corner of the dining car—"the whole table is going too."
"How do you know that?" I asked.
"I know everyone from last time. Everybody knows everybody else up there."
The waiter came with the coffee. "And bring me a large cherry brandy as well," said I. I had to have something to drink. It was suddenly all so simple. There were people sitting there who were going to the sanatorium for the second time, even, and they seemed to make no more of it than if they were going for a walk. It was stupid to be so frightened. Pat would come back, just as all these people had come back. I didn't stay to think that all these people were now going up again—it was enough to know that you did come back and have another whole year before you. In a year a lot can happen. The past had taught us to work on short credits.
We arrived late in the afternoon. The weather had cleared, the sun shone golden on the fields of snow, and the sky was bluer than we had seen it for weeks. At the station a crowd of people were waiting. They shouted greetings and waved and the new arrivals waved back from the train. Helga Guttmann was carried off by a laughing, fair-headed woman and two fellows in bright plus-fours. She was quite excited and giddy, as if she had come home again after a long absence. "Au revoir, afterwards, up top," she called to us, getting into a sleigh with her friends.
The people dispersed rapidly and a few minutes later we were alone on the platform. A porter came up to us. "What hotel?" he asked.
"Sanatorium Waldfrieden," I replied.
He nodded and signalled a driver. The two stowed our luggage into a bright blue sleigh, harnessed to a pair of white horses. The horses had gay tufts of feathers on their heads and the vapour of their breath drifted round their snouts like a cloud of mother-of-pearl.
We got in. "Do you want to go to the funicular, or up by sleigh?" asked the driver.
"How far is it with the sleigh?"
"Half an hour."
"Then by sleigh."
The driver clucked with his tongue and we set off. The road led out of the village and then zigzagged upwards. The sanatorium lay on a height above the village. It was an elongated, white structure with long series of windows. In front of each window was a balcony. On the roof a flag waved in the wind. I had expected it to be fitted up like a hospital, but on the ground floor at least it was more like a hotel. In the hall was a big open fire and a number of small tables spread with tea things.
We reported ourselves at the office. A manservant fetched in our luggage and an elderly woman explained that Pat had room Number 79. I enquired if I could also have a room, for a few days.
She shook her head. "Not in the sanatorium. But in the annex, perhaps."
"Where's the annex?"
"Right alongside."
"Good," said I; "then give me a room there and have my luggage sent over."
We travelled in a perfectly silent lift up to the second floor.
Up there it did look rather more like a hospital—a very comfortable hospital, it'is true, but nevertheless a hospital. White passages, white doors, everywhere sparkling with glass, nickel, and cleanliness. A sister in charge received us. "Fräulein Hollmann?"
"Yes," said Pat. "Room Seventy-nine, isn't it?"
The sister nodded, went ahead and opened a door. "Here is your room."
It was a bright, middle-sized room into which the evening sun was shining through a wide window. On the table was a vase of blue and red asters, and outside lay the brilliant snow fields in which the village nestled as under a great white blanket.
"Do you like it?" I asked Pat.
She looked at me a moment. "Yes," she then said.
The manservant brought the trunks. "When must I be examined?" Pat asked the sister.
"To-morrow morning. You had better go to sleep early to-night so that you'll be rested."
Pat took off her coat and laid it on the white bed, above, which a new temperature chart had been placed.
"Must I do anything now?" asked Pat.
The sister shook her head. "Not to-day. Not till after the examination to-morrow will anything be settled. The examination's at ten. I'll fetch you."
"Thank you, sister," said Pat.
The nurse went. The manservant still waited at the door. I gave him a tip and he also went. It suddenly was very still in the room. Pat was standing at the window looking out. Her head was quite dark against the glow outside.
"Are you tired?" I asked.
She turned round. "No."
"You look it," said I.
"I'm tired another way, Robby. But I've plenty of time for that."
"Do you want to change?" I asked. "Or should we go down for an hour first? I think it would be better if we went down first."
"Yes," said she, "it would be better."
We went down again in the soundless lift and sat at one of the little tables in the hall. After a while Helga Guttmann arrived with her friends. They joined us. Helga Guttmann was excited and of a rather overheated gaiety, but I was glad she was there and that Pat already had some acquaintances. It is always hard going the first days.