The Road Back (17 page)

"What major?" I ask mystified. Ludwig gives me a prod. "What should we say to him?" I add hastily.

"Tell him he should let me go back to Fleury again," answers Giesecke excitedly. "That would help me, I'm sure it would. It is all quiet there now; but I only know it as it was then, when everything was going up. You see, I'd go down by Death Valley, past Cold Earth, and so to Fleury; and not a shot would fall and everything would be over. Then, I believe, I couldn't help but get peace and quiet again. Don't you think so yourself, too?"

"It will pass all right, anyway," says Ludwig, putting his hand on Giesecke's arm. "You've only to make it all perfectly clear to yourself."

Giesecke stares ahead gloomily. "But you will write to the major? Gerhard Giesecke, that's my name, spelled with ck." His eyes are fixed and blind. "Couldn't you bring me some apple sauce though? I should so like to taste apple sauce again."

We promise him everything, but he hears us no longer, he has suddenly lost all interest. As we go he stands up and clicks his heels to Ludwig. Then with vacant eyes he sits down again at the table.

At the door I look toward him once again. He jumps up suddenly as if he had just waked, and runs after us. "Take me with you," he says in a queer, high-pitched voice. "They are coming again!" He huddles against us in terror. We don't know quite what to do. But then the doctor comes in, and seeing us, puts a hand cautiously on Giesecke's shoulder. "Now we'll go into the garden," he says to him gently. And submissively Giesecke allows himself to be led away.

Outside the evening sun lies over the fields. From the 
barred window the voice sounds singing still—
"The castles 
are in ruin—but the clouds—go sailing by——"

We walk out in silence, side by side. There is a splendour on the furrowed fields. Slender and pale the sickle moon hangs among the branches of the trees.

W
e had pictured it all otherwise. We thought that with one accord a rich, intense existence must now set in, one full of the joy of life regained—and so we had meant to begin. But the days and the weeks fly away under our hands, we squander them on inconsiderable and vain things, and when we look round nothing is done. We were accustomed to think swiftly, to act on the instant—another minute and all might be out for ever. So life now is too slow for us; we jump at it, shake it, and before it can speak or resound we have already let go again. We had Death too long for companion; he was a swift player, and every second the stakes touched the limit. It is this that has made us so fickle, so impatient, so bent upon the things of the moment; this that now leaves us so empty, because here it has no place. And this emptiness makes us restless; we feel that people do not understand us, that mere love cannot help us. For there is an unbridged gulf fixed between soldiers and non-soldiers. We must fend for ourselves.

But occasionally into our restless days there intrudes something, a strangely growling, muttering something, like the distant menace of gun-fire, some indistinct warning from beyond the horizon which we do not know how to interpret; which we do not wish to hear; from which we turn away always in a curious fear lest we may miss something—as if something were trying to escape us. Too much has escaped us already—and for not a few it was no less than life itself.

Karl Bröger's lodgings are in a terrible mess. The bookcases are all empty and piles of books are strewn over the tables and floor.

Karl was a bibliomaniac before the war; he collected books as we did butterflies and postage stamps. Eichendorff was his special weakness. He had three separate editions of his works, and knew most of his poetry by heart. But now he means to sell up his library, to get enough capital to set up in the schnapps business. According to him there is a lot of money to be made in such things. So far he has merely been agent for Ledderhose, but now he proposes to start on his own account.

I turn the pages of the first volume of one of the editions
of Eichendorff that is bound in a beautiful, soft, blue
leather. Sunset, Woods and Dreams—Summer Nights, De
sire, Exile——What a time that was!

Willy has the second volume. He looks at it appraisingly. "You ought to offer them to a shoemaker," he suggests.

"How so?" asks Ludwig smiling.

"The leather!" answers Willy. "The shoemakers haven't a square inch of decent leather these days. Here"—he takes up the Works of Goethe—"Twenty volumes! They would make at least six pairs of topping leather shoes. A shoemaker would give a sight more for them than a bookseller, believe me. They're absolutely crazy for real leather!"

"Would any of you like some yourselves, perhaps?" says Karl. "I'll let you have them at reduced prices." But nobody wants them.

"Think it over though, Karl," says Ludwig. "It won't be so easy to buy them back again later."

"What's it matter?" laughs Karl. "Live first, that's more important than reading. As for the exam., well, to hell with it! It's all bunk, anyway. Tomorrow I start in with the schnapps samples. Ten bob on a bottle of smuggled brandy —not much wrong with that, eh, my lads? Money's what you want, then you can get everything else."

He ropes up the books in great bundles. There was a time, I remember, when he would have gone without food rather than sell one of them. "What are you pulling such a face about?" he says scornfully. "One must be practical! Dump all the old stuff and start in afresh."

"Yes, that's right," agrees Willy. "I'd sell mine too—if I had any."

Karl pats him on the shoulder: "Half an inch of business is better than a mile of culture, Willy. I sat in the muck out there long enough—I mean to see a bit of life now."

"He's right, you know," I say. "What are we going to do
about it, lads? a little bit of schooling—what does it 
amount to, anyway? Damn all "

"Yes, you pull out too, boys," advises Karl. "What do you want with pen-pushing?"

"God knows; it is a lot of tripe," replies Willy. "But at least we are all together still. And then, its only a couple of months now to the examination, it would be a pity not to go through with it. One can always have a look round afterwards."

Karl shears off some brown paper from a roll.

"Get away with you!—you'll always have some couple
of months or other about which it would be a pity—and in
the end you will wake up and find yourself an old man "

Willy grins. "Yes, and won't you have a cup of tea while you're waiting, Mr. Homeyer, eh?"—Ludwig stands up.

"What does your father say about it?"

Karl laughs. "What all the frightened old people say. But one can't take that seriously. Parents always overlook the fact that one has been a soldier...."

"What would you have been if you hadn't been a soldier?" I ask.

"Bookseller probably, poor fool," answers Karl.

Karl's decision has made a profound impression on Willy. He is in favour of our giving up all this useless grind and taking joy where it is to be had.

But man easiest tastes the joys of life eating. So we settle on a scrounging expedition. The ration-cards allow only half a pound of meat, three-quarters of an ounce of butter, an ounce and a half of margarine, three ounces of pearl-barley and some bread each week per person.—No man can get a square feed off that.

The foragers begin to assemble at the station in the evening and during the night, in readiness to go out into the villages first thing in the morning, so we must set off by the first train if they are not to be there before us.

Grey misery sits sullen in the compartment as we move off. We fix on an outlying spot and there leave the train, separating, always in pairs, to scrounge systematically over the countryside. We have sufficiently studied this art of patrolling.

Albert and I are together. We come on a large farmstead; the dung-heap is steaming in the yard and cows stand in long rows in the stalls. A warm odour of cattle and of milk comes out to greet us. There are hens cackling too. We look at them covetously, but restrain ourselves as there are people in the barn. "Good day," we say. No one takes any notice. We continue to stand about. At last a woman shrieks at us: "Get out of the yard, you damned gypsies!"

The next place. The farmer is standing outside. He has a long military greatcoat and is lightly flicking a whip. "Like to know how many have been here already?" says he. "Just a dozen!" We are surprised, after all we came out with the first train. They must have come last evening and passed the night in barns or out in the open. "A hundred come in a day sometimes," the fanner persists. "What can a man do? I ask you."

We see his point. Then his eye suddenly fastens on Albert's uniform. "Flanders?" he" asks. "Flanders," replies Albert. "Me too," says he, and goes within. He comes back with two eggs apiece for us. We fumble with our pocket-books. He shakes his head. "You can keep that. We'll call it a bargain, eh?"

"Well, thanks, mate."

"Not at all——But don't spread it about, or half Ger
many will be here tomorrow."

The next house. A notice plastered with cow-dung on the hedge. "No scroungers. Beware of the dog." That is practical.

We push on. A spacious field and a large farmhouse. We go into the kitchen. In the middle is a cooking-range of the latest model that would more than serve an hotel. On the right a piano, on the left a piano. Facing the cooking-range is a superb bookcase with flutted columns and books with gilt bindings. And in front the same old table and three-legged wooden stools. It looks comical. Especially the two pianos.

The farmer's wife appears. "Have you got any yarn? But it must be real."

We look at each other. "Yarn? No!"

"Silk then? Silk stockings?"

I look at the woman's massive calves. Slowly it dawns on us—she, wants to exchange, not to sell.

"No, we haven't any silk," I said. "But we will gladly pay you for anything."

She dismisses the idea. "Money! Pooh! It's not good even to wipe the floor with! It's worth less every day." She ambles off. Two buttons are missing from the back of her flaming red, silk blouse.