36

The streets were dark and empty, the lamps haloed in a mist of driving snow.

As Karl hurried along, he had the dazed feeling that time had collapsed together, that it was tonight that he was going to Kurt’s house to see Eric Reinhardt. It was tonight that the long tragedy was to begin. Here was the snow, here was the serving-girl running along with her red shawl over her head. Here were the lighted windows and the crisp white curtains and the dark houses. In Kurt’s house Eric Reinhardt waited for him, back from a long journey.

He stopped. His heart plunged. Yes, it was true. Eric was there, waiting, back from his long journey. He put his hand to his throbbing head. I have been given another chance, he thought. It is yesterday, and I have been dreaming, and now there is another chance for me. His eyes filled with moisture. He went on his way, his head bent, his thoughts mournful and filled with sorrow. So many thoughts, so heavy, so profound, so understanding, now.

He passed a small marching group of Storm Troopers, and he stopped and looked after them, as though he were a stranger and they were new to him. Yes, they were new. He had been away a long time in a strange country, and had returned to find his people convulsed and dying. What have I done? he thought. Where have I been? So much time wasted, when there was time no longer.

Forgive me, he said aloud, simply, looking at the sky, dark-purple and alive with silent snow.

Like the world, he had been living in dreams. The foolish, self-absorbed, dreaming world! And now, like himself, it must be awakened, called back to life by the urgent voices of the dead, and the despairing voices of the living. So much to do! So much to do.

He reached Kurt’s house. It loomed, somber and dark and lightless, above him. He struck the knocker, and its long doleful crash resounded through the silent street. A servant opened the door, his old face white and streaked. He did not recognize Karl.

“I am sorry, Mein Herr,” he began, “but no visitors …”

“Franz! It is I, Doctor Erlich.”

The old man started at the familiar voice. He bent forward and stared incredulously at Karl. He studied the gaunt and spectral face, so changed, so feverish. He gave a little cry.

“Herr Doctor! Is it possible? I did not know you!”

He was still incredulous. The dim lamplight from the bleak hallway fell on Karl. The old man thought that this was a ghost, not a living creature. He fell back from the doorway and admitted Karl. He could not take his eyes away, but continued to stare vacantly, helplessly. When Karl began to remove his coat and white-rimmed hat, the old man came back to life. “I am sorry, Mein Herr Doctor! Allow me. I was so startled.…”

They regarded each other in silence. Karl then glanced about the old familiar hall. His features worked. Yes, it was yesterday again, and Eric was waiting.

The old man spoke again, stammering.

“I am sorry, but the Frau Professor is in no condition … You understand, Herr Doctor? The little Wilhelm died today.”

“Today? Yes, I have heard.”

Karl sighed heavily.

“There are to be no visitors admitted. There is great tragedy here, Herr Doctor. The Herr Professor is dying, and he does not know yet. But perhaps Frau Reiner will see you.”

“I will go up to her, Franz. Do not announce me.”

He went up the great stairway. No rooms were lighted. Tragedy and death were thick motionless smells in his nostrils. He passed rooms so familiar, yet so strange in the far struggling light. He heard, as Therese had heard, the dim echoing boom of distant echoes in this sorrow-filled house. The air was cold and stagnant. He held to the balustrade for a moment, trying to shake off his dizziness. When his father had died, in this house, it had been like this. Every room, every hallway, had had this dusty silence, this crushing emptiness. He heard the stifled sound of weeping now. It was his mother, weeping behind her door.

There was no past. There was only the present. There was always the present, and it was always the same.

He reached Frau Reiner’s door and opened it without knocking. The sound of weeping he had heard had come from this room. There was no light in the room except that which came from the single dim candle burning before the crucifix he had given the old woman. Its faint deathly rays glimmered on the walls and the ponderous furniture. Frau Reiner was sitting near her window, her handkerchief to her eyes. She did not hear Karl enter. He spoke her name. She dropped her hand and glared at him, blinking.

“It is I, Karl,” he said, gently.

She did not believe it. She stammered hoarsely: “Are you a ghost?”

“Yes,” he replied, very quietly. “I am a ghost.”

She gazed at him silently, leaning forward a little, the better to see him in the candlelight. Her shrivelled painted face quivered. The false curls on her ancient head trembled. The chains sparkled on her breast.

“But you have come back, Karl?” she whispered.

“Yes, I have come back. I have been away a long time.”

Again she gazed at him silently. Then, all at once, she uttered a thick strangled sound and held out her hands to him. He came to her, and took her withered hot hands. Tears ran down her face, streaking the paint more and more. He bent over her and kissed her forehead. She clung to him.

“Karl! Karl! Thank God, you have come back!” Her hands fumbled at him, seizing his sleeves, his shoulders. “Karl, you do not know.… It does not matter. You have come back!”

“I have heard Kurt is dying. I must see him at once. I have so much to say to him.”

She wiped her face. She continued to clutch him.

“He is dying. Perhaps tonight he will die. And his son, our little Wilhelm, is dead in his room. Maria—she is prostrated, unconscious. So many terrible things.”

“I must see Kurt. That is the only important thing to me.”

“Yes, yes! And then he will die. The terrible pain.… They said he could not die until you had come to him.…”

“Until I had come,” repeated Karl. He breathed sharply, as though he felt a knife in his heart.

“No one knows why he is dying. They said it was a sickness of the mind. Some mysterious malady. I, myself, think that he wishes to die. There are things that men cannot endure, Karl. Do you know that?”

“Yes, I know. O God, I know!”

They held each other’s hands, and wept together, openly, the old broken woman and the sick, trembling man.

“You must go to him at once, Karl. You must go now, so he will have peace.”

She pushed him away resolutely, and pointed at the door. “Now.”

“Yes, I will go.”

He left her, walking with a feeble step. He passed the crucifix. The candlelight leaped up in the draft from the open door. It shivered over the ivory figure in its death agonies. Karl regarded it for a long moment. The deepest and most solemn silence stood between the man and the cross. Then he went out.

He reached Kurt’s door. It opened before he could touch the handle. Alfred, in his uniform, came out, tears on his round hard cheeks, which were no longer red. He started when he saw Karl. “Who are—” he began. Then he cried out: “Uncle Karl! It is you!”

Karl looked at him heavily. Then, without speaking, he entered the room and closed the door after him, leaving Alfred outside.

The nurse sat beside the bed, peering intently at the unconscious face on its pillows. She looked up as Karl approached. She had never seen him before. But his aspect frightened her. She rose to her feet.

“I am sorry,” she murmured, “but the doctor said no visitors.…”

“I am his brother,” he answered quietly, but he did not look at her. He looked only at Kurt.

“Doctor Erlich.”

He motioned to her. “Please leave me alone with him.”

“But—but he is unconscious. The doctor says he will not recover consciousness again. I must ask you to go.…”

“Leave me alone with him,” he repeated. He looked over his shoulder at her with terrible eyes. She was terrified. She backed away, wetting her dry lips. She thought to herself that this was a madman. But some mysterious force seemed to be pushing her from the room. She went out, closing the door after her.

Karl sat down in her chair. He bent over Kurt. It seemed to him that this was his own face on the pillow, discolored, emaciated, dying. Yes, it was his own face, the reflection of himself, the image of a dying self. All that he had been for long was dying here, never to live again. He moved the lampshade, so that he could see the better.

He took the cold claylike hand which lay impotently on the sheets. He held it tightly. “Kurt,” he said softly, and then louder: “Kurt!”

A strange change came over the sunken, haggard face. The spirit behind it, preparing to leave, halted, looked back at the sound of that beloved voice, then trembled with recognition and dim joy. It came back, slowly, opening doors it had closed behind it, entering corridors it had abandoned, and then, coming back into the chamber where Karl waited, looked about it wildly.

Kurt’s glazed eyes opened. A film lay over them, glaucous and thick. He stared through it, trying to see. The hand moved in Karl’s. A little warmth returned to it. Then recognition was full, through the mists. The dry mouth parted, and a strangling sound bubbled through it.

Karl could not endure the sight of that joy, that passionate recognition. Shame, sorrow, remorse struck at him like heavy blows. He closed his own eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he saw Kurt staring at him in ecstatic realization.

“Yes,” he said, very softly, “it is I, Karl.”

“Karl,” breathed the dying man. His bony fingers clung to Karl’s hand. Mucus was thick between his parted lips. But his eyes shone with light.

Then another change came over him. His face took on a dark look of remembrance and agony.

“Forgive me,” he said. Karl could barely hear him. He had to bend low over his brother. But he heard.

“No,” he said, in a shaking voice. “You must forgive me.” He took both the other’s hands. “You must forgive me. If you do not, I shall never forgive myself.”

The words were few, but they understood each other. They understood the long years of misunderstanding, grief, hatred, longing, love and despair. There were no reticences between them now, no reserves. They moved through forgotten years, remembering everything, understanding everything, forgiving everything. They looked into each other’s eyes, and both knew peace.

Then, after a long time, Kurt struggled to speak again, in his low panting whisper.

“Karl, I am sorry. Eric—Gerda …”

“Hush. It does not matter now.”

“But I killed them, Karl.”

“No, no, you did not kill them. Hush, be still. Rest.”

But Kurt fought with his death and his cold choking flesh. He tried to sit up. Karl put his arm about him, to support him. The bones of his brother’s body were hard against his arm, and again he felt the shock of sorrow and remorse. Kurt’s face was close to him, his cool breath on his cheek, his eyes fixed passionately on Karl’s.

“When—when it was done, Karl, it was like a light to me. I saw things I never saw before.” A convulsion made his body arch, become rigid. “I could not bear it. The things I saw.… They killed me.”

“Yes, I know, Kurt. But even all that does not matter now.”

He held Kurt to him, tightly. His brother’s head rested on his shoulder. The tortured breathing became easier. He relaxed.

“It was a long time—the seeing. I fought against it. But I could not escape seeing. Then I knew I could not live any longer. Karl, you understand?”

“Yes, I understand. Everything.”

Karl laid him gently back upon his pillows. A translucent light of peace and joy wavered over Kurt’s sinking face. He still held his brother’s hand. Karl heard the voices of the wind at the windows, the hissing of the snow. He held Kurt’s hand tightly, warmly, and smiled.

“Rest,” he said. “Sleep.”

“Yes,” whispered Kurt. “Yes. Sleep.”

He closed his eyes. He slept. He smiled deeply to himself. His breathing became lower, more shallow.

Karl released his hand. Kurt’s hand fell back inertly on the sheet. Karl stood up, and for a long time watched his brother as he slept. Then he forced his aching body to its feet, and left the room.

He went downstairs, holding to the balustrade to keep himself from falling. No one was about. He opened the hall door, and a gust of wind and show-fresh air blew upon his face.

He was about to go out when he heard the nurse’s shrill cry as she re-entered the room where Kurt lay, at peace at last.

He closed the door silently after him. Then, standing on the steps, he wept again.