Read Online The Road Back by Erich Maria Remarque - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Erich Maria Remarque
Tags: Fiction, Literary, Historical, History, German, Literary Criticism, European, Military, War & Military, World War; 1914-1918, World War I
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myself upright in my chair again, "I forgot about that."
They recount all the rest that has happened since my last leave. The butcher at the corner was half killed by a mob of hungry women. At one time, the end of August, there had been as much as a whole pound of fish to a family. The dog at Doctor Knott's has been taken away, to be worked up into soap, like as not. Miss Mentrup is going to have a baby. Potatoes are dearer again. Next week, perhaps, one may be able to buy some bones at the slaughter-yard. Aunt Grete's second daughter was married last month— and to a captain, too!
My sister stops short. "But you aren't listening at all, Ernstl" she says in astonishment.
"O yes, yes," I reassure her, and pull myself together, "a captain, quite, she married a captain, you said."
"Yes, just think of it! Such luckl" my sister runs on eagerly, "and her face simply covered with freckles, too! What do you say to that now?"
What should I say?—if a captain stops a shrapnel bullet in the nut, he's a .goner, same as any other sort of man.
They talk on. But I cannot marshal my thoughts, they will keep wandering.
I get up and look out the window. A pair of underpants is dangling on the line. Grey and limp, they flap to and fro in the twilight. The dim, uncertain light in the drying-yard flickers—then suddenly, like a shadow, remote, another scene rises up away beyond it—fluttering linen, a solitary mouth organ in the evening, a march up in the dusk—and scores of dead negroes in faded blue greatcoats, with burst lips and bloody eyes: gas. The scene stands out clearly for a moment, then it wavers and vanishes; the underpants flap through it, the drying-yard is there again, and again behind me I feel the room with my parents, and warmth and security. That is over, I think to myself with a sense of relief, and turn away.
"What makes you so fidgety, Ernst?" asks my father. "You haven't sat still for ten minutes together."
"Perhaps he is overtired," suggests my mother.
"No," I answer, a little embarrassed, "it's not that. I think perhaps I've forgotten how to sit on a chair for so long at a stretch. We didn't have them out at the Front; there we just lay about on the floor or wherever we happened to be. I've lost the habit, I suppose, that's all."
"Funny," says my father.
I shrug my shoulders. My mother smiles. "Have you been to your room yet?" she asks.
"Not yet," I reply, getting up and going over. My heart is beating fast as I open the door and sense the smell of the books in the darkness. I switch on the light hastily and look about me. "Everything has been left exactly as it was," says my sister behind me.
"Yes, yes," I reply in self-defence; for I would rather be left alone now. But already the others have come too, and are standing there in the doorway watching me expectantly. I sit down in the armchair and place my hands on the top of the table. It is smooth and cool to the touch. Yes, everything just as it was. The brown marble letter-weight that Karl Vogt gave me—there in its old place beside the compass and the inkstand. But Karl Vogt was killed at Mount Kemmel.
"Don't you like your room any more?" asks my sister.
"O yes," I say hesitantly, "but it's so small——"
My father laughs. "Its just the same size that it used to be."
"Of course, it must be," I agree, "but I had an idea it was so much bigger, somehow——"
"It is so long since you were here," says my mother.
I nod. "The bed is freshly made," she goes on—"but you won't be thinking of that yet."
I feel for my tunic pocket. Adolf Bethke gave me a packet of cigars when he left us. I must smoke one of them now. Everything around me seems to have come loose, as if I were a bit giddy. I inhale the smoke deep into my lungs and begin to feel better already.
"Smoke cigars, do you?" asks my father in surprise and almost reprovingly.
I look at him with a certain wonderment. "But of course," I reply. "They were part of the ration out there. We got
They recount all the rest that has happened since my last leave. The butcher at the corner was half killed by a mob of hungry women. At one time, the end of August, there had been as much as a whole pound of fish to a family. The dog at Doctor Knott's has been taken away, to be worked up into soap, like as not. Miss Mentrup is going to have a baby. Potatoes are dearer again. Next week, perhaps, one may be able to buy some bones at the slaughter-yard. Aunt Grete's second daughter was married last month— and to a captain, too!
My sister stops short. "But you aren't listening at all, Ernstl" she says in astonishment.
"O yes, yes," I reassure her, and pull myself together, "a captain, quite, she married a captain, you said."
"Yes, just think of it! Such luckl" my sister runs on eagerly, "and her face simply covered with freckles, too! What do you say to that now?"
What should I say?—if a captain stops a shrapnel bullet in the nut, he's a .goner, same as any other sort of man.
They talk on. But I cannot marshal my thoughts, they will keep wandering.
I get up and look out the window. A pair of underpants is dangling on the line. Grey and limp, they flap to and fro in the twilight. The dim, uncertain light in the drying-yard flickers—then suddenly, like a shadow, remote, another scene rises up away beyond it—fluttering linen, a solitary mouth organ in the evening, a march up in the dusk—and scores of dead negroes in faded blue greatcoats, with burst lips and bloody eyes: gas. The scene stands out clearly for a moment, then it wavers and vanishes; the underpants flap through it, the drying-yard is there again, and again behind me I feel the room with my parents, and warmth and security. That is over, I think to myself with a sense of relief, and turn away.
"What makes you so fidgety, Ernst?" asks my father. "You haven't sat still for ten minutes together."
"Perhaps he is overtired," suggests my mother.
"No," I answer, a little embarrassed, "it's not that. I think perhaps I've forgotten how to sit on a chair for so long at a stretch. We didn't have them out at the Front; there we just lay about on the floor or wherever we happened to be. I've lost the habit, I suppose, that's all."
"Funny," says my father.
I shrug my shoulders. My mother smiles. "Have you been to your room yet?" she asks.
"Not yet," I reply, getting up and going over. My heart is beating fast as I open the door and sense the smell of the books in the darkness. I switch on the light hastily and look about me. "Everything has been left exactly as it was," says my sister behind me.
"Yes, yes," I reply in self-defence; for I would rather be left alone now. But already the others have come too, and are standing there in the doorway watching me expectantly. I sit down in the armchair and place my hands on the top of the table. It is smooth and cool to the touch. Yes, everything just as it was. The brown marble letter-weight that Karl Vogt gave me—there in its old place beside the compass and the inkstand. But Karl Vogt was killed at Mount Kemmel.
"Don't you like your room any more?" asks my sister.
"O yes," I say hesitantly, "but it's so small——"
My father laughs. "Its just the same size that it used to be."
"Of course, it must be," I agree, "but I had an idea it was so much bigger, somehow——"
"It is so long since you were here," says my mother.
I nod. "The bed is freshly made," she goes on—"but you won't be thinking of that yet."
I feel for my tunic pocket. Adolf Bethke gave me a packet of cigars when he left us. I must smoke one of them now. Everything around me seems to have come loose, as if I were a bit giddy. I inhale the smoke deep into my lungs and begin to feel better already.
"Smoke cigars, do you?" asks my father in surprise and almost reprovingly.
I look at him with a certain wonderment. "But of course," I reply. "They were part of the ration out there. We got
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