Chapter XXIII
At the beginning of November we sold the Citroën. The money sufficed to carry on the workshop for a while, but week by week our position went from bad to worse. People put up their cars for the winter to save petrol and tax, and repairs became ever less frequent. We helped ourselves out with the taxi but the takings were too slender for three, so that I was quite glad when the proprietor of the International offered to take me on again as pianist every night from December on. He had done pretty well lately; a cattlemen's club had taken one of the back rooms at the International for their weekly meeting, then the horsedealers' club followed suit, and finally the Mutual Benefit Cremation Society. In this way I was able to leave the taxi to Lenz and Köster, and it suited me quite well anyway, for without it I should often have been at a loss to get through the evenings.
Pat wrote to me regularly. I waited eagerly for her letters, but I could not picture to myself how she lived; and sometimes, in the dark, dirty December weeks when it did not get really light even at midday, I could fancy that she had long ago slipped from me and all was over. It seemed to me an endless time since she had gone away, and I could not think that she would ever come back. Then came nights filled with desperate, wild longing, when there was no help but to go and sit with the pros'titutes and cattlemen and drink till morning.
The proprietor had obtained permission to keep the International open on Christmas Eve. There was to be a grand carnival for the bachelors of the various clubs. The president of the cattlemen's club, Stefan Grigoleit, presented two suckling-pigs and a number of trotters. He had been two years a widower and had a soft heart, so he wanted to spend Christmas in company.
The proprietor erected a twelve-foot silver fir tree beside the bar; Rosa, who was an authority in all homely matters, undertook the decoration of the tree. Marian and Kiki, the pansy, who as a result of his defect had considerable feeling for the beautiful, helped her. The three started their work at noon. They used up a vast quantity of coloured balls, candles and tinsel, but there was no denying at the finish that the tree did look magnificent. As a special compliment to Grigoleit, a number of pink little marzipan pigs were hung on it.
I had lain down on the bed in the afternoon to sleep for a few hours. When I waked it was dark. I had to think a moment—whether it was night or morning. I had been dreaming, but had forgotten what it was about. But I was still far away, and imagined I heard a black door slam behind me. Then I realized someone was knocking.
"Who's there?" I called.
"It's me, Herr Lohkamp."
I recognised Frau Zalewski's voice.
"Come in," said I, "the door's open." The latch creaked and I saw Frau Zalewski standing in the doorway against the yellow light of the passage.
"Frau Hasse's here," she whispered. "Come, quick. I can't tell her."
I did not move. I needed to find myself first. "Send her to the police," I then answered.
"Herr Lohkamp!" Frau Zalewski raised her hands.
"There's nobody else here. You must help me. After all you are a Christian."
She stood in the rectangle of the doorway like a black, dancing shadow.
"Cut it out," said I peevishly. "I'm coming."
I put on my things and went out. Frau Zalewski was waiting for me.
"Does she know anything yet?" I asked.
She shook her head and pressed her handkerchief to her lips.
"Where is she then?"
"In her old room."
Frida was standing at the kitchen door sweating with excitement. "She's got a hat on all over egrets, and a diamond brooch," she whispered.
"See to it that blathering kitchen slut doesn't listen," said I to Frau Zalewski and went in.
Frau Hasse was by the window. She swung round as I entered. She had obviously been expecting somebody else.
It was idiotic, but my first glance went to the hat and the brooch though I did not intend it. Frida was right; the hat was blatant, the brooch less so. The whole person was pretty much got-up, like that of one who would show another how well he was doing. On the whole, she didn't look so bad; better anyway than all the years she had been here.
"Hasse's at work still on Christmas Eve, I suppose, eh?" she asked sharply.
"No," said I.
"Where is he then? On holiday?"
She came up to me swaying her hips. I smelt her strong perfume. "What do you want with him then?" I asked.
"Get my things. Settle up. After all, part of it belongs to me."
"You don't have to, any more," said I. "It all belongs to you now."
She stared at me.
"He's dead," said I.
I would rather have said it differently. With more preparation, and gradually. But I didn't know how to begin. Besides my head was still muddled from the afternoon sleep—that sleep that brings a man near to suicide when he wakes.
Frau Hasse was standing in the middle of the room, and in a most extraordinary way I saw quite distinctly, the moment I told her, that if she fell over there was nothing she would hit herself against. It was curious, but I saw nothing else and thought nothing else.
She didn't fall, of course. She stood and looked at me.
"So," she said, "so—" Only the feathers of her egret hat trembled. Then suddenly, before I could realise what was happening, I saw the scented, made-up woman grow old before my eyes. It was as if time beat down on her like rain in a thunderstorm, every second a year—the strain broke, the triumph was extinguished, the face decayed. Wrinkles crept into it like worms; and then, as with a groping, uncertain movement she reached toward the back of a chair and sat down as if she were afraid of breaking something, it might have been no longer the same woman—so weary, dilapidated and old did she look.
"What did he have?" she asked without moving her lips.
"It happened suddenly," said I. "Quite suddenly."
She was not listening. She was looking at her hands.
"What shall I do?" she murmured. "Whatever shall I do now?"
I waited some time; I felt disgusting. "But surely you have somebody you can go to," said I at last. "It would be as well not to stay here. You wouldn't want to stay here anyway—"
"That's all different now, though," she replied, without looking up. "Whatever shall I do—"
"But surely you've somebody waiting for you. Go to him and talk it over with him. Then after Christmas go to the District Police. The things are there, the bank balance as well. You have to report there to draw the money."
"Money, money," she murmured dully. "What money?"
"Quite a bit. Twelve hundred marks more or less."
She lifted her head. Her eyes suddenly had a mad lo"ok. "No," she shrieked; "it isn't true!"
I made no reply. "Say it isn't true," she whispered.
"Perhaps it isn't," said I. "On the other hand he may have been quietly keeping back the odd penny in case of need."
She stood up. She was suddenly completely changed. Her movements had something jerky and mechanical about them. She brought her face up quite close to mine.
"Yes, it is true," she hissed. "I feel it's true! The wretch! Oh, the wretch! To let me go through all that, and then it's like this. But I will take it and I'll chuck it away all in one night, chuck it out on the street I will, so that nothing is left of it. Nothing. Nothing."
I kept silent. I had done enough. She was over the start, she knew Hasse was dead, the rest she must now settle herself. She would probably be bowled over again when she heard that he had hanged himself, but that was her own affair. Hasse couldn't be brought to life again on her account.
She was crying now. Tears simply welled out of her. She cried in a high, plaintive way like a child. It lasted some time. I would have given anything to be able to smoke a cigarette. I can't bear seeing people cry.
At last she did stop. She dried her face, mechanically took out her powder box and powdered herself without looking in the glass. Then she put the box away again but forgot to close her handbag. "I don't know anything any more," said she in a broken voice. "I don't know anything. He was probably a good husband."
"He was that."
I gave her the address of the District Police and told her it would be closed to-day. I thought it better she should not go there at once. She had had enough for to-day.
When she had gone Frau Zalewski came out of her sitting room. "Is there no one here but me, then?" I asked, furious with myself.
"Only Herr Georg. What did she say?"
"Nothing."
"So much the better."
"All depends. Sometimes it isn't better."
"I've no pity for her," declared Frau Zalewski energetically. "Not the least."
"Pity is the most useless article in the world," said I irritably. "It's the reverse side of gloating, you ought to know that. What's the time now?"
"Quarter to seven."
"I want to telephone Fräulein Hollmann at seven o'clock. But so that nobody hears. Is that possible?"
"There's nobody in, except Herr Georg. I've sent Frida off already. If you like you could sit in the kitchen. The cord reaches just that far."
"Good."
I knocked on Georg's door. It was a long time since I had been to see him. He was sitting at his desk and looked damned bad. About him lay a pile of torn-up paper.
"Day, Georg," said I, "what are you doing?"
"Stocktaking," he replied with a faint smile. "Good occupation for Christmas."
I stooped to look at one of the bits of paper. It was a college notebook with chemical formulae.
"Why this?" I asked.
"There's no object any more, Bob."
He looked pretty transparent. His ears were like wax. "What have "you had to eat to-day?" I asked.
"What does it matter? It's not that, anyway. Not food. But I simply can't go on any more. I must give up."
"Is that very bad?"
"Yes," said he.
"Georg," I replied calmly, "look at me now. Do you suppose I didn't once want to be something more than pianist in a whore shop, in the Café International?"
He kneaded his hands about. "I know, Bob. But that doesn't help me. For me it was everything. And now I see there's no object in it. There's no object in anything. What do we live for, I'd like to know."
I could not help laughing, he sat there so miserable and took it all in such grim earnest. "You silly ass," said I. "Why, now you've found out something. Do you suppose you're alone in your wonderful wisdom? Of course there's no object. One doesn't live for a purpose, anyway. It's not so simple as that these days. Come, you get dressed. You're coming along to the International with me. We're going to celebrate your coming of age. You've been a schoolboy up to now. I'm collecting you in half an hour."
"No," said he. He was damned far gone.
"Oh, yes you are," said I. "You're going to do me the favour. I don't want to be by myself to-night."
He looked at me doubtfully. "If you like," he replied then despondently. "After all what does it matter."
"There, you see," said I, "already that's quite a good election slogan for a beginner."
At seven o'clock I put through the call to Pat. After seven the fee was half, so I could talk twice as long. I sat on the table in the hall and waited. I didn't want to go into the kitchen. It smelt too much there of haricot beans, and I didn't want to associate Pat with that.
A quarter of an hour later the call came through. Pat was at the instrument immediately. As I heard her warm, deep, slightly hesitant voice so close beside me, I became so excited I could hardly speak. It was a sort of tremour, a boiling of the blood, against which no effort of the will availed anything. . . .
"My God, Pat," said I, "are you really there?"
She laughed. "Where are you then, Robby? At the office?"
"No, I'm sitting on the table at Frau Zalewski's. How are you?"
"Well, darling."
"Are you up?"
"Yes. I'm sitting on the window seat in my room and have my white bathing dress on. It's snowing outside."
I suddenly saw her clearly before me. I saw the snowflakes whirling, I saw the fine, dark head, the straight shoulders, inclined slightly forward, the bronzed skin.
"My word, Pat," said I, "this damned money. If it weren't for that I'd be sitting in an aeroplane now and arrive there before the night's out."
"Ach, darling—"
She was silent. I listened in to the light scratching and humming of the wire. "Are you there still, Pat?"
"Yes, Robby. But you mustn't say things like that. It made me quite giddy."
"I feel damned giddy, too," said I. "Tell me everything you do up there."
She began to speak, but soon I no longer heard what she was saying. I heard only her voice, and as I sat there on the table in the dark hall, between the boar's head and the kitchen with the haricot beans, a door seemed to open and a wave of warmth and light came in, soothing and bright, full of dreams and desire and youth. I propped my feet against the table, I rested my head in my hand, I looked at the boar's head and the repulsive kitchen door, but I could not help myself—summer was all at once there; wind, sunset over the fields of corn, and the green light of the woodland path.
The voice ceased. I breathed deep. "It is lovely to talk to you, Pat. And to-night what are you doing there?"
"To-night there's a little party. It starts at eight o'clock. I'm just getting dressed for it."
"What are you going to wear? The silver dress?"
"Yes, Robby. The silver dress you carried me along the passage in."
"And whom are you going with?"
"Nobody. It's here in the sanatorium. Below in the hall. We all know each other, you see."
"It must be difficult for you in the silver dress not to be false to me."
She laughed. "Not in that at all. I have memories there."
"So have I. I've seen its effect. But I'm not asking for details, that's all. You can be false if you like, I only want not to know it. Afterwards, when you come back, it will only be like a dream to you and past and forgotten."
"Ach, Robby," said she slowly and her voice sounded deeper than before, "I can't be false to you. I think too much of you for that. You don't know what it is like being up here. A beautiful sunshiny imprisonment. One amuses oneself as well as one can, that's all. When I think of your room, sometimes I don't know what to do; then I go to the station and watch the trains come up from below, and think I am nearer to you if I get into a compartment, or pretend I have come to meet someone."
I bit my lip. I had never heard her talk like that before. She had always been shy, and couched her liking in a gesture, a glance, rather than in words.
"I'll see to it that I come and visit you sometime, Pat," said I.
"Really, Robby?"
"Yes, at the end of January, perhaps."
I knew it was hardly likely, for from February on we would have to rake up the money for the sanatorium. But I said it, so that she should have something she could think about. Then later it wouldn't be so difficult to postpone it until the day came when she would return.
"Good-bye, Pat," said I. "Look after yourself. Be happy, then I shall be happy too. Be happy to-night."
"Yes, Robby, I am happy, now."
I collected Georg and went with him to the Café" International. The smoky old shack was hardly recognisable. The Christmas tree was burning and its warm light reflected in all the bottles and glasses and in the nickel and copper of the bar. The pros'titutes in evening dresses decked with false jewellery were seated expectantly around the table.
Sharply at eight o'clock the glee-party of the cattlemen's club marched in. They formed up by the door, according to parts, first tenor on the right down to second bass away on the left. Stefan Grigoleit, widower and pig dealer, produced a tuning fork, gave out the notes and then they started in four voices:
O Holy Night, fill thou our hearts with heavenly peace, Give the poor pilgrim rest; pour balm upon his hurt, The stars are shining brightly, bright in the blue sky, Seeking to lead me back to thee—heavenward, home.
"So moving," said Rosa wiping her eyes.
The second verse died away. Thunderous applause resounded. The glee-party bowed its thanks. Stefan Grfgbleit mopped the perspiration from his forehead. "Beethoven is still Beethoven," he declared. No one contradicted. Stefan stowed away his sweat rag. "And now to arms."
The dinner table was in the big clubroom. In the centre on silver dishes over little spirit lamps, crisp and brown, reigned the twin suckling-pigs. They had lemons in their snouts, blazing fir trees on their backs and were surprised at nothing any more.
Alois turned out in newly dyed tails, a gift from the proprietor. He brought half a dozen pitchers of Steinhager and filled the glasses. With him came Potter of the Cremation Society, who had just been attending a funeral. "Peace on earth," said he magnificently, shaking hands with Rosa and taking a place beside her.
Stefen Grigoleit, who at once invited Georg to join them at the table, stood up and delivered the briefest and best speech of his life. He raised his glass of sparkling gin, looked around beaming, and cried "pros't!" Then he sat down again and Alois brought in the trotters, sauerkraut and chipped potatoes. The host arrived with big tall glasses of Pilsener beer.
"Eat slowly, Georg," said I. "Your stomach has to accustom itself to the fatty meat first."
"I have to accustom myself altogether first," he replied and looked at me.
"That won't take long," said I. "No comparisons, that's all. Then it goes all right."
He nodded and bent again over his plate.
Suddenly there arose a quarrel at the far end of the table. Potter's crowing voice was audible above the din. He had been trying to get one of the guests, Busch, a cigar merchant, to drink with him, but Busch had refused on the ground that he didn't want to drink, so as to be able to eat more.
"That's damned nonsense," snapped Potter. "To eat you have to drink. If you drink you can even eat more."
"Rot," boomed Busch, a gaunt, tall fellow with a flat nose and horn-rimmed spectacles.
Potter leapt up. " 'Rot?' You say that to me, you tobacco owl?"
"Peace," called Stefan Grigoleit. "No rows on Christmas Eve."
He had them explain what the trouble was and delivered a Solomon's judgment. The matter should be tried out. In front of each of the disputants were placed several plates of equal size with meat, potatoes and sauerkraut. They were enormous portions. Potter was allowed to drink whatever, he liked, Busch was to stay dry. To add spice to the whole, bets were laid on the two rivals. Grigoleit conducted the totalisator.
Potter built up a garland of beer glasses around him, and in between little glasses, like diamonds, of Steinhager. The betting was three to one in his favour. Then Grigoleit signalled the start.
Busch ate away doggedly, bent low over his plate. Potter fought in an open, upright posture. With every swig he took he gave Busch an exulting pros't, to which the latter replied with a spiteful look.
"I feel bad," said Georg to me.
"Come out with me." I took him to the lavatory and then sat down in the outer room to wait for him. The sweet smell of the candles mingled with the crackle and the smell of burning pine needles. And suddenly it was as if I heard the light, loved footstep, felt the warm breath, and saw before me two eyes . . .
"Damn," said I and stood up. "What's the matter with me?"
At the same moment I heard a mighty roar. "Potter! Bravo Aloysius!"
Cremation had won.
In the back room cigars were smoking and the cognac was passed around. I continued to sit by the bar. The girls came in whispering eagerly.
"What are you up to?" I asked.
"We get our presents now," replied Marian.
"Ach, so." I leaned my head against the bar and tried to think what Pat would be doing now. I pictured the hall of the sanatorium, the open fire and Pat at a table by the window with Helga Guttmann and some other people I didn't know. It was all so dreadfully far away. . . . Sometimes I used to think that one day I should wake up, and all that had been would be over, forgotten, sunk, drowned. Nothing was sure—not even memory.
A bell rang. The girls ran across to the billiard room like a flock of hens at feeding-time. There stood Rosa with the bell. She beckoned me to come too.
On the billiard table under a little Christmas tree stood an array of plates covered with tissue paper. On each lay a slip of paper with the name, and under it the parcels with the presents that the girls were giving one another. Rosa had arranged it all. Each girl had had to give her presents for the others, wrapped up, to Rosa, and she had distributed them over the several plates.
The girls in their excitement tumbled over one another, like children in their haste to see as quickly as possible what they had got.
"Won't you look at your plate?" asked Rosa.
"What plate?" :
"Yours. There are presents for you too."
Sure enough, there stood my name in two colours, red and black, and capitals even. Apples, nuts, oranges—a pullover from Rosa, knitted herself, a grey-green tie from the hostess, a pair of real artificial silk pink socks from Kiki, a leather belt from Wally the beautiful, a half-bottle of rum from Alois the waiter, half a dozen handkerchiefs from Marian, Lina, and Mimi together, and from the host two bottles of cognac.
"Boys," said I, "boys, but this is most unexpected."
"A surprise, eh?" cried Rosa.
"Absolutely."
I stood there confounded, and, damn it, was touched to the marrow.
"Lads," said I, "do you know when I last got a Christmas present? I don't even remember. It must have been before the war. But now I have nothing at all for you!"
There was an immense outburst of delight that I had been so completely outwitted.
"Because you've always played something for us," said Lina, blushing.
"Yes, play something for us, that's your present," declared Rosa.
"Anything you like," said I. "Everything you like."
"Something out of childhood," called Marian.
"No, something cheerful," opposed Kiki.
He was overruled. He never quite counted as a man in any case. I sat down to the piano and began. They all sang with me.
Out of my childhood—comes a song to me . . .
Oh, how far off now lies—the land that once was mine . . .
The hostess turned out all the electric lights. Only the soft light of the candles remained. The beer tap trickled gently like some spring in the woods and the flat-footed Alois hovered in the background to and fro like a dark Pan. I started the second verse. With shining eyes and good little middle-class faces the girls stood around the piano—but look, who is that snivelling tears? Kiki, Kiki from Luckenwalde.
Softly the door opened from the big clubroom. Humming melodiously, the glee-party goose-stepped in and took up position behind the girls, Grigoleit leading with a black Brazilian cigar.
When first I said farewell—the world seemed full to me,
When I came back again—it all was gone . . .
Softly the mixed chorus died away. "Beautiful," said Lina.
Rosa lit the magic candles. They hissed and sprayed.
"So, and now for something jolly," she called. "We must cheer Kiki up."
"Me too," said Stefan Grigoleit.
At eleven Köster and Lenz arrived. With Georg, still pale, we sat at a table by the bar. To steady him up, Georg was given a couple of slices of dry bread to eat. Soon after Lenz was lost to view in the tumult of the cattlemen. A quarter of an hour later he turned up at the bar with Grigoleit. The two had linked arms and were pledging eternal brotherhood.
"Stefan," said Grigoleit.
"Gottfried," replied Lenz and both tipped the cognac down.
"I'll send you a parcel of blood and liver sausage to-morrow, Gottfried. Suit you?"
"Down to the ground." Lenz clapped him on the shoulder. "Good old Stefan!"
Stefan beamed. "You have a grand laugh," said he, "I like people who can laugh well. I get so easily depressed myself, that's my weakness."
"Mine too," said Lenz, "that's why I laugh, of course. Come, Bob, have one with us to endless world laughter."
I went across to them. "What's up with the lad there?" asked Stefan, pointing to Georg. "He looks mighty depressed too."
"It wouldn't take much to make him happy, though," said I. "All he wants is a bit of work."
"Not so easy," replied Stefan, "nowadays."
"He'll do anything."
"Everybody will do anything nowadays." Stefan grew soberer.
"He only needs seventy-five marks a month."
"Impossible. He couldn't live on that."
"He does live on it," said Lenz.
"Gottfried," replied Grigoleit, "I'm an old toper. Good. But work's a serious matter. It's not a thing you give to-day and take away to-morrow. That's worse than letting a man marry and taking his wife away again in the morning. But if the lad's honest and can live on seventy-five marks he's had a hell of a time. He can report to me at eight o'clock Tuesday. I need an assistant with my running-about for the club and so on. Now and then there's a parcel of meat thrown in. Looks as if he ought to have something between his ribs."
"Is that honour bright?"
"It's the honour bright of Stefan Grigoleit."
"Georg," I called. "Here a minute."
He started to shake when he heard it. I went back to Köster.
"Listen, Otto," said I, "if you could live your life over again, would you like to?"
"Just as it was?"
"Yes."
"No."
"Me neither," said I.