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- Эрих Мария Ремарк
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- Три товарища
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- Стр. 4/18
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"
Very
good
.
"
I
poured
her
another
glass
.
She
tipped
it
down
,
and
,
still
singing
my
praises
,
she
left
the
workshop
.
I
put
the
bottle
away
and
sat
down
at
the
table
.
The
pallid
sunlight
through
the
window
shone
upon
my
hands
.
A
queer
feeling
,
a
birthday
—
even
though
it
means
nothing
.
Thirty
years
.
.
.
.
I
remember
the
time
when
I
thought
I
should
never
reach
twenty
—
it
seemed
so
far
away
.
And
then
.
.
.
.
I
took
a
sheet
of
paper
from
the
drawer
and
began
to
reckon
.
Childhood
,
school
—
an
unresolvable
complex
of
things
and
happenings
—
so
remote
,
another
world
,
not
real
any
more
.
Real
life
began
only
in
1916
.
I
had
just
joined
the
Army
—
eighteen
years
of
age
,
thin
and
lanky
.
And
a
snotty
sergeant
-
major
who
used
to
make
me
practise
,
on
-
the
-
handsdown
,
over
and
over
again
in
the
mud
of
the
ploughed
fields
at
the
back
of
the
barracks
.
.
.
One
evening
my
mother
came
to
the
barracks
to
visit
me
;
but
she
had
to
wait
for
me
over
an
hour
,
because
I
had
failed
to
pack
my
kit
the
regulation
way
,
and
as
punishment
had
been
ordered
to
scrub
out
the
latrines
.
She
offered
to
help
me
,
but
that
was
not
allowed
.
She
cried
,
and
I
was
so
tired
that
I
fell
asleep
as
I
sat
there
beside
her
.
1917
.
Flanders
.
Mittendorf
and
I
bought
a
bottle
of
red
wine
at
the
canteen
.
.
.
.
We
intended
to
celebrate
.
But
we
never
got
so
far
,
for
early
that
morning
the
English
bombardment
began
.
Köster
was
wounded
about
midday
;
Meyer
and
Deters
were
killed
during
the
afternoon
.
Then
,
with
nightfall
,
just
as
we
thought
things
were
quietening
down
,
and
were
about
to
draw
the
cork
,
gas
came
over
and
filled
the
dugouts
.
We
had
our
masks
on
in
good
time
,
but
Mittendorf
’
s
was
defective
,
and
by
the
time
he
knew
it
,
it
was
too
late
.
He
ripped
it
off
,
but
before
a
new
one
could
be
found
he
had
swallowed
so
11
/
529
much
gas
he
was
spewing
blood
.
He
died
the
next
morning
,
green
and
black
in
the
face
.
1918
.
That
was
in
hospital
.
A
fresh
convoy
had
come
in
a
few
days
before
.
Paper
bandages
.
Badly
wounded
cases
.
Groans
.
Low
operating
-
trolleys
trundling
back
and
forth
all
day
.
Josef
Stoll
was
in
the
bed
next
to
mine
.
Both
his
legs
were
off
,
but
he
didn
’
t
know
that
.
He
could
not
see
it
,
because
the
bedclothes
were
supported
on
a
wire
cradle
.
He
would
not
have
believed
it
anyway
,
for
he
could
still
feel
the
pain
in
his
feet
.
Two
chaps
died
in
the
night
in
our
room
,
one
very
slowly
and
hard
.
1919
.
Home
again
.
Revolution
.
Starvation
.
And
outside
the
machine
-
guns
rattling
.
Soldier
against
soldier
.
1920
.
Putsch
.
Karl
Bröger
shot
.
Köster
and
Lenz
arrested
.
My
mother
in
hospital
.
Cancer
.
