Von Genthner nodded and his face was grave. He went on: “Eric said in English: ‘I understand that the General Staff has issued orders that the nearest major conduct a court-martial in the case of a spy’s being captured and that, if guilty, the spy be shot within three hours.’
“ ‘Your intelligence is well informed,’ I said a bit stiffly.
“ ‘Oh, yes,’ he said carelessly. ‘Well, friend, there’s no sense in holding a court-martial. Of course I plead guilty. We wanted to know just when you were going to attack Ypres. Rather thought I’d get away with it, you know. After all, I speak better German than most of your officers.’ He laughed. ‘Now let’s face this silly business, Von Genthner. We have three hours. Then I die. Let’s make the best of those three hours. We have lots to make up for — do you know it’s eight years since I saw you? And so — another drink. Thank God it’s French brandy. I never could stand German brandy, you remember?’
“ ‘And I always preferred it to French,’ I reminded him.
“ ‘Because it was milder,’ he said softly. ‘Just as you preferred music to philosophy. Philosophy is strong stuff — it is truth untarnished, truth without any sugar coating of sentimentality. Music? Music is a soporific. That’s why they have music at weddings and funerals.’
“ ‘There is nothing sentimental about music at a funeral, Eric,’ I said. ‘God knows, death is ugly at best. Handel’s “Death March” from Saul detracts n bit from the ugliness. It is at least a reminder that though one poor devil has passed on there are yet beautiful things left in the world.’
“ ‘Is there a life hereafter?’ Eric asked. ‘I don’t know. I hope and rather think so. However, I want more consolation when I go than Chopin’s — what is that funeral march of his called? The B-Flat Minor Sonata, isn’t it?’ He reached for the brandy bottle. This time he didn’t fill his glass to the brim, yet a few drops spilled over the side of the glass. ‘Rotten taste we’re showing, Von Genthner, talking of funerals. But then you and I were never sticklers for good taste, were we? Remember that fat professor who tried to teach us mathematics?—’
“He launched forth into one of our more florid adolescent escapades. For a time the ugly walls of the dug-out faded and the voices of Kreutzer and Marschner died away. Now we were swimming across the rapidly-moving Neckar after an all-night session at the Rote Ochsen or one of the other bierstubes; we were tramping stern-faced up the winding hill across the river to the Hirchgasse, tipping our caps reverently as we passed the statue of St. Nepomuk, patron of duelists —
“ ‘Eric,’ I said abruptly — and what made me say it I don’t know — ‘have you still that scar on your wrist?’
“He pushed back his sleeve. He held it out and there was that thin, jagged, white mark. He turned his wrist over and I noticed his watch. We had twenty minutes left.
“ ‘That was a long time ago, Eric. We swore to be blood-brothers.’
“ ‘Well,’ Eric laughed, and for the first time I noticed a slightly uneven note in his voice, ‘Edmund Burke once said: “War suspends the rule of moral obligation.” If we are both fools enough to fight in a war, we must abide by its rules. But let’s forget the war — I mean for the next twenty minutes. We can at least kill and be killed like gentlemen. I am always amused,’ he sneered, ‘when officers talk about fighting and dying like gentlemen. I was almost thrown out of my officers’ training camp when I asked in all innocence: “How do you stick a bayonet into a. man’s stomach in a gentlemanly manner?” ’
“ ‘I am afraid, Eric, I am losing my taste for war a little, too. On paper it is fascinating and glamorous — but actually it’s dirty, unpleasant, a horrible thing.’
“ ‘Poor Von Genthner,’ he mocked. ‘You talk like a pacifist. I don’t mind war so much — I mind the sickening bait which is held by those who send us to war.
“ ‘You know, Von Genthner,’ he went on, seriously, ‘I think there may be something in pacifism at that. What are you fighting for? Who will gain if Germany wins the war?’
“We were both talking against time and we both knew it. I saw beads of perspiration standing out on his fore-head. I was clenching my hands and the nails were drawing blood.
“ ‘I don’t know what posterity will say of this war, Eric,’ I said.
“ ‘Posterity will never say that the Lusitania sank a submarine,’ he mocked. ‘But to get back for a moment. You are not fighting for Germany, my friend, you are fighting for Krupp. The French are fighting for the glory and further dividends of Schneider-Creusot. The Czechoslovakians are fighting for the glory of Skoda. And, of course, the Japs are fighting for Mitsui. This is a war of munition manufacturers.’
“ ‘For God’s sake, Eric, stop this talk,’ I cut in — so sharply that Kreutzer and Marschner looked up and exchanged winks. Their major was a little drunk, they thought. ‘Stop it, Eric,’ I whispered.
“Eric’s face was white, but his voice was level. ‘You have to do something within ten minutes which is repellent to you. But you have to do it. In all fairness. Von Genthner, I ask you which of us is bearing up the better? What of your Wagner now? What of your Beethoven? What of your other masters? They aren’t helping you. Why cannot you believe as — oh, as Buddha believed, for instance? Buddha, dreaming of the blessed peace of Nirvana, rested under the Botree — and he discovered that all living was painful. Death was a beautiful release from pain. So, Von Genthner, I do not fear death. And now, friend, my time is up.’
“He looked at his watch. ‘We have talked for three hours. Do you recall what day this is, Von Genthner? It is the same day on which another and greater man spent three hours of agony in a garden called Gethsemane. Von Genthner, will you give the orders? Or shall I? Suppose I do it. Kreutzer! Marschner!’
“He spoke sharply in German now: ‘The Major’s orders are that you immediately assemble a firing squad of six men. Have them ready in three minutes. The Major has discovered a spy who shall be shot according to the orders of the General Staff.’ “Kreutzer and Marschner looked at me. I was numb. ‘They are the Major’s orders,’ Eric said crisply, and they left the dug-out.
“ ‘One final drink, Von Genthner.’ Eric filled and raised his glass. ‘What shall we toast? Life? It’s been fun, but it hasn’t lasted long enough to warrant the dignity of a toast. Death? We don’t know enough about it to waste good brandy on it. Oh, I know, my friend. Do you know those lines of Du Maurier’s:
“La Vie est brève:
Un pen d’espoir,
Un peu de rêve,
Et puis — Bonsoir.”
“Eric smiled. ‘A good epitaph: “Life is brief, a little hope, a little dream, and then — good night.” ’
“I stood up. At lease I would try to match his courage. I had to do this thing. ‘Goodbye, Eric,’ I said, grasping his hand. I don’t know if he saw the tears in my eyes.
“ ‘Goodbye.’ He wheeled and
turned toward the door. He turned once and glanced back. His eyes fell on my phonograph. Then his eyes wavered. And now he wasn’t the mocking-eyed Eric I had always known. Suddenly some inner support which had been holding him up collapsed. He was beaten. Not afraid, God knows. He had no physical fear. But suddenly he realized that his sense of values had toppled like a house of cards. That to which he had always clung had fallen.
“ ‘Von Genthner,’ he asked, and his voice cracked, ‘would you play “Liebestod” for me? Play it loudly so that I can shut my eyes and hear it even outside. Play “Liebestod” for me, Von Genthner.’