All Quiet on the Western Front / На Западном фронте без перемен. Книга для чтения на английском языке. Эрих Мария Ремарк

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without a word. Then he says, ‘You can take my flying boots for Muller.’

      I nod and try to think of something to say that will cheer him up. His lips are pallid, his mouth has got bigger and his teeth look very prominent, as if they were made of chalk. His flesh is melting away, his forehead is higher, his cheekbones more pronounced. The skeleton is working its way to the surface. His eyes are sinking already. In a few hours it will all be over.

      He isn’t the first one I have seen like this; but we grew up together, and that always makes it different. I’ve copied school exercises from him. In school he usually wore a brown jacket with a belt, with parts of the sleeves worn smooth. And he was the only one of us that could do a full arm-turn on the high bar[60]. His hair flew into his face like silk when he did it. Kantorek was proud of him for being able to do it. But he couldn’t stand cigarettes. His skin was very white, and there was something feminine about him.

      I glance down at my own boots. They are big and heavy and my trousers are tucked into them; standing up, you look solid and strong in these wide-legged things. But when we undress for swimming we suddenly have thin legs and narrow shoulders. We aren’t soldiers any more then, we are almost schoolboys again; nobody would believe that we could carry a full pack. It is really strange when we are naked; we are civilians again, and we almost feel like civilians.

      Whenever we went swimming, Franz Kemmerich used to look as small and slim as a child. Now he is lying there – and for what reason? Everybody in the whole world ought to be made to walk past his bed and be told: ‘This is Franz Kemmerich, he’s nineteen and a half, and he doesn’t want to die! Don’t let him die!’

      My thoughts run wild. This smell of carbolic and gangrene clogs the lungs, like thick, suffocating porridge.

      It gets dark. Kemmerich’s face gets paler, it stands out against his pillow and is so white that it looks luminous. He makes a small movement with his mouth. I get closer to him. He whispers, ‘If you find my watch, send it home.’

      I don’t argue. There is no point any more. He is beyond convincing. I’m sick with helplessness. That forehead, sunk in at the temples, that mouth, which is all teeth now, that thin, sharp nose. And the flit, tearful woman at home that I shall have to write to – I wish I had that job behind me already.

      Hospital orderlies move about with bottles and buckets. One comes up to us, glances at Kemmerich speculatively and goes away again. He is obviously waiting – probably he needs the bed.

      I get close to Franz and start to talk, as if that could save him: ‘Maybe you’ll finish up in that convalescent home[61] in Klosterberg, Franz, up where the big houses are. Then you’ll be able to look out over the fields from your window, right across to the two trees on the horizon. It’s the best time now, when the corn is ripening, and the fields look like mother-of-pearl[62] when the evening sun is on them. And the row of poplars by the stream where we used to catch sticklebacks. You can get yourself an aquarium again and breed fish, and you can go out without having to ask permission and you can even play the piano again if you want to.’

      I bend down over his face, which is now in shadow. He is still breathing, but faintly. His face is wet, he is crying. So much for my stupid chattering.

      ‘Come on, Franz —’ I put my arm around his shoulder and my face is close to his. ‘Do you want to get some sleep now?’

      He doesn’t answer. The tears are running down his cheeks. I would like to wipe them away, but my handkerchief is too dirty.

      An hour passes. I sit there, tense and watching his every movement, in case he might want to say something else. If only he would open his mouth wide and scream. But he just weeps, his head turned away. He doesn’t talk about his mother or his brothers and sisters; he doesn’t say anything. All that is probably already far behind him; now he is all alone with his life of nineteen short years, and he is crying because it is slipping away from him.

      This is the hardest, the most desperately difficult leave-taking I have experienced, although it was bad with Tiedjen, too, who kept on shouting for his mother – Tiedjen was a great tough chap who held the doctor away from his bed with a bayonet, his eyes wide open with terror, until he collapsed.

      Suddenly Kemmerich groans, and there is rattling in his throat.

      I’m on my feet, rush outside and ask, ‘Where’s the doctor?’ I see a white coat and grab hold of it. ‘Please come quickly or Franz Kemmerich will die.’

      He pulls away from me and says to a hospital orderly who is standing nearby, ‘What’s all this about?’

      The orderly replies, ‘Bed twenty-six, amputation at the upper thigh.’

      ‘How should I know anything about it?’ the doctor snaps, ‘I’ve done five leg amputations today.’ Then he pushes me out of the way, tells the orderly, ‘Go and see to it,’ and rushes off to the operating room.

      I’m shaking with anger as I follow the orderly. The man looks round at me and says, ‘One operation after the other since five o’clock this morning – crazy, I tell you; just today we’ve had another sixteen fatalities – your man will make seventeen. There’s bound to be twenty at least —’

      I feel faint; suddenly I can’t go on. I don’t even want to curse any more – it’s pointless. I just want to throw myself down and never get up again.

      We reach Kemmerich’s bed. He is dead. His face is still wet with tears. His eyes are half open, and look as yellow as old-fashioned horn buttons.

      The orderly nudges me. ‘Taking his things with you?’

      I nod.

      ‘We’ve got to move him right away,’ he continues. ‘We need the bed. We’ve already got them lying on the ground out there.’

      I take the things and undo Kemmerich’s identity tag[63]. The orderly asks for his pay book[64]. It isn’t there. I say that it is probably in the guard room, and leave. Behind me they are already bundling Franz on to a tarpaulin.

      Once I get outside, the darkness and the wind are a salvation. I breathe as deeply as I can, and feel the air warmer and softer than ever before in my face. Images of girls, fields of flowers, of white clouds all pass rapidly through my mind. My feet move onwards in my boots, I am going faster, I’m running. Soldiers come towards me, their words excite me, even though I can’t understand what they are saying. The whole earth is suffused with power and it is streaming into me, up through the soles of my feet. The night crackles with electricity, there is a dull thundering from the front line, like some concerto for kettle drums[65]. My limbs are moving smoothly, there is strength in my joints as I pant with the effort. The night is alive, I am alive. What I feel is hunger, but a stronger hunger than just the desire to eat —

      Muller is waiting for me in front of the huts. I give him the flying boots. We go in and he tries them on. They are a perfect fit – He digs into his kit and gives me a decent chunk of salami. And there is hot tea with rum as well.

      III

      We are getting reinforcements. The gaps in the ranks are filled, and the empty straw palliasses[66] in the huts are soon occupied. Some of them are old hands, but twenty-five young

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