The doctor came back. "It wasn't the professor."
I stood up.
"It was a friend of yours—Lenz."
"Köster hasn't found him?"
"Yes. Jaffé gave him the instructions. Your friend Lenz telephoned them to me. Quite clear and correct, too. Is your friend a doctor?"
"No. He wanted to be. And Köster?"
The doctor looked at me. "Lenz said to tell you Köster had left a few minutes before. With the professor. He would be here in two hours."
I leant against the bed. "Otto," said I.
"Yes," said the doctor, "that was the one point he was wrong on. I know the road. At the quickest they'll need over three hours. All the same. . . ."
"If he said two hours, then you can be sure, doctor, he'll be here in two hours."
"I tell you it's not possible. The road's nothing but bends, and besides it's dark."
"You wait," said I.
"All the same . . . if he could get here . . . It is good he is coming." ,
At last I could stand it no longer. I went into the open. Outside it had turned misty. The sea was booming in the distance. Moisture dripped from the trees. I looked about me. I was no longer alone. To the south beyond the horizon somewhere an engine was whining. Beyond the mist help was racing over the pallid roads, headlamps spouting light, tyres whistling and two hands holding the wheel in an iron grip, two eyes boring into the darkness, cold, sure—the eyes of my comrade. . .
I learned afterwards from Jaffé how it had been.
Immediately, upon my call, Köster had rung Lenz and told him to hold himself in readiness. Then he had got Karl and with Lenz raced to Jaffé's clinic. The nurse on duty there thought the professor had gone out for supper. She gave Köster the names of a few likely places. Köster set off. He ignored all traffic signals—he took no heed of gesticulating policemen. He steered the car through the traffic like a runaway horse. At the fourth restaurant he found the professor. Jaffé "remembered at once. He left his meal unfinished and came. They drove to his house for the necessary things. And this was the only stretch where Köster drove merely fast, and did not race. He did not want to alarm the doctor beforehand. On the way Jaffé asked where Pat was. Köster named a place some forty kilometres out. He meant to get the professor into the car first. The rest would take care of itself. While packing his case Jaffé gave Lenz instructions as to what he should telephone. Then he got in with Köster.
"Is it dangerous?" asked Köster.
"Yes," said Jaffé.
From that moment Karl was transformed into a flying white ghost. With a bound he leapt from the start and swept away. He forced a way through, rode with two wheels on the footway, dashed contrariwise up one-way streets, seeking the shortest way out of the city.
"Are you crazy?" shouted the professor as Köster shot out from under the high fenders of a bus, slackened an instant, then let the engine roar again.
"Drive slower," bawled the professor, "what good will it do if we have an accident?"
"We won't have an accident."
"We will, inside two minutes, if you go on driving like this."
Köster swung the car to the left past an electric tram. "We won't!" He now had to negotiate a long street. He looked at the doctor. "I know I must get you there safely. You leave the rest to me."
"But what's the point of racing? You'll only save a few minutes."
"No," said Köster, dodging a lorry laden with ballast; "we have still two hundred and forty kilometres."
"What?"
"Yes . . ." The car darted between a mail van and a motorbus. . . . "I didn't want to tell you before."
"It would have made no difference," growled Jaffé. "I don't reckon my services by kilometres. Drive to the railway station. It will be quicker by train."
"No." Köster had reached the suburbs. The wind snatched the words from his mouth. "Asked about that already—train leaves too late." He looked at Jaffé again.
The doctor probably saw something in his face. "Is she your girl?" he shouted.
Köster shook his head. He answered no more questions. He had now left the allotment gardens behind and was entering the open country. The car was travelling at top speed. The doctor huddled down behind the narrow windscreen.Köster passed him his leather helmet.
The horn bayed unceasingly. The woods flung back the cry. Köster slowed up in villages only when there was nothing else for it. Behind the thunderous echo of the un-throttled explosions the rows of houses flapped like a shadow line of washing, the car swept through them, plucked them an instant into the livid glare of the headlights and with its beam before it devoured its way farther into the night.
The tyres began to snarl, to hiss, to whine, to whistle; the engine was giving all that was in it. Köster lay, his whole being intent on what was ahead, his body one mighty ear, a filter sifting the thunder and the whistling for every tiniest other noise, for every suspicious purr or knock or drag that might mean a puncture and death.
The road became wet. On one clayey stretch the car skidded and hurtled sideways. Köster was compelled to slacken speed. Afterwards, to make up, he took the corners still more sharply. He was driving no longer with his head, but by instinct. The headlights showed up the bend in two halves; the moment of the actual turn was black and blind. Köster helped himself out with the spotlight, but the beam was narrow.
The doctor was silent.
All at once the air glistened in the line of the headlamps; the beam coloured—a pale silver, a cloudy veil. That was the only time Jaffé heard Köster swear. A minute later they were in thick fog.
Köster dipped the lights. They were now swimming through cotton wool, shadows drove silently by, trees, phantoms in a milky sea; there was no road any more, only guesswork and luck, shadows that loomed and dwindled to the accompanying roar of the engine.
After ten minutes, when they came out of it, Köster's face was haggard. He looked at Jaffé and murmured something. Then at full speed he drove on, crouching, cold and self-possessed once more. . .
The sticky warmth weighted in the room like lead.
"Has it stopped yet?" I asked.
"No," said the doctor.
Pat looked at me. I smiled. It fixed in a grimace. "Half an hour more," said I.
The doctor looked at his watch. "An hour and a half, if not two. It's raining."
The drops were rustling lightly down among the leaves and shrubs of the garden. I peered into the dark with blinded eyes. How long ago was it since we had got up, Pat and I, in the night and gone out into the garden and sat among the stocks and wallflowers and Pat had hummed children's lullabies? How long since the moon shone so white on the pathway and Pat, like a lithe animal, ran down it between the bushes?
For the hundredth time I went to the door. I knew it was useless; but it shortened the waiting. The air was misty. I cursed; I knew what that would mean for Köster. A bird cried out of the darkness.
"Shut up," I growled. Bird of ill omen! it flashed through my mind. "Rubbish," said I aloud. A beetle was droning somewhere—but it did not come nearer—it did not come nearer. It kept up an even, steady hum; now it stopped— now it was there again—and again. I suddenly trembled. That wasn't a beetle; that was a car a long way off, going into the curves at top speed. I stood stock-still—I held my breath and opened my mouth to hear better. Again . . . again . . . the light, high-pitched buzzing, as of an angry wasp . . . And now, stronger, I could clearly detect the sound of the compressor—then the sky line, stretched to breaking-point, suddenly broke into a soft infinity, burying under it might and fear and terror. . . .
I ran back to the house. Supporting myself in the doorway, "They're coming!" I said. "Doctor, Pat, they're coming! I can hear them already!"
The doctor had treated me as if I were half-crazed the whole evening. He came too and listened. "It'll be some other car," said he at last.
"No, I know the engine."
He looked at me irritably. He thought himself some
thing of a car fan, apparently. With Pat he was patient and thoughtful as a mother; but when I mentioned cars he would glare at me through his spectacles and know better. "Impossible," said he shortly and went inside again.
I remained outside. I was trembling with excitement. "Karl! Karl!" said I. Muffled sounds, whining sounds in quick succession—the car must be in the village, going at breakneck speed between the houses. The whine grew fainter; it was behind the wood—and now it swelled again, racing, triumphant—a bright beam swept through the mist: the headlights; a roar like thunder . . . Incredulous, the doctor was beside me. Suddenly the full piercing light quite blinded us and with a scream of brakes the car pulled up at the garden gate.
I ran towards it. The professor stepped out at once. He took no notice of me, but went straight to the doctor. After him came Köster.
"How is she?" said he.
"Still bleeding."
"She'll be all right now," said he. "You. don't need to worry now."
I said nothing, just looked at him . . .
"Have you a cigarette?" he asked.
I gave him one. "It was good of you to come, Otto."
He smoked in long pulls. "I thought it might be as well."
"You must have driven fast."
"Not so bad. Only one patch of fog."
We sat down side by side on the garden seat and waited.
"Do you think she'll come through?"
"Of course she will. A haemorrhage isn't dangerous."
"She never told me a word about it."
Köster nodded.
"She must come through, Otto," said I.
He did not look up. "Give us another cigarette," said he, "I forgot to put mine in."
"She must come through," said I, "else all is filth."
The professor came out. I stood up. "Damn me if I ever ride with you again," said he to Köster.
"Sorry," said he, "but she's my friend's wife."
"So?" said Jaffé, looking at me.
"Is she safe?" I asked.
He looked at me coldly. I shifted my gaze.
"Do you think I'd be standing here, if she wasn't?"
I bit my lip. I clenched my fists. My eyes filled with tears.
"I beg your pardon," said I, "but you've been so quick."
"That sort of thing can't be quick enough," said Jaffé, smiling.
"I can't help worrying, Otto," said I.
He took me by the shoulders, turned me about, and gave me a gentle push toward the door. "If the professor allows it?"
"I'm right now," said I. "Can I go in?"
"Very well, but no talking," replied Jaffé. "And only for a moment. She must not be excited."
I could see only a haze of light swimming in water. I blinked. The light danced and sparkled. I did not dare to wipe my eyes lest Pat should think I was crying because things were so bad. I ventured only a smile into the room. Then I turned quickly away.
"Was it right to bring you?" Köster asked the professor.
"It was as well," said Jaffé.
"I can take you back first thing in the morning."
"I'd sooner not," said Jaffé.
"I'll drive reasonably this time, of course."
"I think I'll stay here the day just to keep an eye on things.. Is your bed available?" he asked me. I nodded.
"Good. Then I'll sleep here. Can you get put up in the village?"
"Yes. Shall I get you a toothbrush and pyjamas?"
"Not necessary. I have everything. I am always prepared for emergencies—if not exactly for racing."
"I apologise," said Köster. "I don't wonder if you are annoyed."
"I'm not," said Jaffé.
"Then I'm sorry I didn't tell you the truth at once."
Jaffé laughed. "You have a poor opinion of doctors. Well, off you go. I'll stay here."
I hastily assembled a few things for Köster and myself. We walked in to the village.
"Are you tired?" I asked.
"No," said he. "Let us sit awhile somewhere."
After an hour I began to get restive. "If he stays, then it must be dangerous, Otto," said I. "Why should he else.
"I guess it's just a precaution," answered Köster. "He is very fond of Pat. He told me so, as we were coming. He attended her mother, too."
"Did she . . ."
"I don't know," said Köster quickly. "May have been something quite different. Feel like sleep yet?"
"You go, Otto. I'd like just once more . . . You know, from a distance . . ."
"Right. I'll come with you."
"Listen, Otto. Don't you trouble—I like sleeping out— in warm weather. I've dofte quite a bit of it lately."
"It's pretty wet."
"That's nothing. I'll put up Karl's hood and sit there awhile."
"Very good. I rather like sleeping out myself."
I saw there was no getting rid of him. We gathered up a few blankets and cushions and went back to Karl. We unlashed the cover and pushed back the seats. One could lie quite comfortably so.
"Better than at the Front sometimes," said Köster.
The bright patch of window glowed in the misty air. From time to time I saw Jaffé's shadow move across it. We smoked a packet of cigarettes. At last the light was turned out and only the little night-light still burned.
"Thank God," said I.
The rain trickled off the hood. A slight breeze was blowing. It turned cooler. "You can have my blanket if you like, Otto," said I.
"No—what do you think? I'm warm enough."
"Good sport, Jaffé, eh?"
"Yes. Clever, too, I believe."
"Sure."
I sat bolt upright out of a restless half-sleep. It was grey and cold outside. Köster was already awake.
"Haven't you slept, Otto?"
"Yes."
I climbed out of the car and went stealthily down the garden path to the window. The little night-light was still burning. I saw Pat lying in bed with closed eyes. For a moment I was afraid she was dead. Then I saw her right hand move. She was very pale. But she was not bleeding any more. Then again she made the same movement. At the same moment Jaff6, who was in my bed, opened bis eyes. I stepped back. I was reassured; he knew his job.
"I think we ought to shove off, Otto," said I to Köster; "he mustn't see we have been keeping a check on him."
"All in order inside?" asked Otto.
"So far as one can see. He has the right sleep, the professor. Sleeps through a bombardment, but wakes if a mouse nibbles at his haversack."
"What do you say to a swim?" said Köster. "Wonderful air here." He stretched himself.
"You go," said I.
"Come on," he insisted.
The grey sky parted. Streaks of orange-red light poured through. The curtain of cloud lifted along the horizon, and beyond showed a clear apple-green.
We sprang into the water and swam. The sea was grey and red.
Then we went back. Fräulein Müller was already up. She was picking parsley in the garden. She started when I spoke to her. Rather awkwardly I tried to apologise if I had perhaps sworn overmuch yesterday.
She started to cry. "Poor lady. So beautiful, and so young."
"She's going to live to a hundred," said I, vexed that she should weep as if Pat were going to die. Pat wasn't going to die. The cool morning, the quick sea-whipped life in me, told me so; Pat could not die. She could die only if I lost heart. Köster was here—I was here: Pat's comrades . . . we would die first. As long as we lived, she would pull through. It had been before. While Köster lived, I did not die. And so while we two lived, Pat could not die.
"One must submit to fate," said the old woman, and looked at me rather reproachfully out of her brown, wrinkled baked-apple face. She meant my cursing, apparently.
"Submit?" said I. "Why submit? Small good that will do. Everything in life has to be paid for, twice, thrice over. Then why submit?"
"Yes, yes—it is the best."
Submit! thought I. A lot that would h
elp. Fight, fight, was the only thing in this struggle, where one would go under in the end anyway. Fight for the little that one loved. At seventy one might begin to think about submitting.
Köster spoke to her. Soon she was smiling again and asking him what he would like for lunch.
"You see," said Otto. "That's the gift of age. Tears and laughter—quick changes. No resentments. Something one might well learn," he observed meditatively.