He smiled.
"You don't need to thank me.
We are every one of us in God's hands." He looked at me a moment, his head bowed a little to one side, and it seemed as if something passed over his face. "Only trust," said he. "The Heavenly Father helps.
He always helps, even when sometimes we do not understand." Then he nodded to me and went.
I followed him with my eyes until I heard the door shut behind him.
Yes, thought I, if it were so simple.
He helps, He always helps—but did He help Bernhard Wiese when he lay wounded in the .stomach, yelling in Houthoulst Wood? Did He help Katczinsky, who fell at Handzaeme, leaving a sick wife and a child he had never seen? Did He help Muller and Leer and Kemmerich? Did He help little Friedmann and Jurgens and Berger, and millions more?
No, damn it, too much blood had flowed in the world for that sort of belief in the Heavenly Father.
I took the flowers home, then I drove the car to the workshop and walked back.
From the kitchen was now issuing the smell of freshly brewed coffee and I heard Frida rumbling about.
It was curious, but the smell of coffee made me more cheerful.
I knew that from the war; it was never the big things that consoled one—it was always the unimportant, the little things.
I had hardly closed the passage door when Hasse shot out of his room. His face was yellow and puffy, his eyes red and stained, and he looked as if he had slept in his clothes.
When he caught sight of me an immense disappointment passed over his face. "Ach, so, it's you," he murmured.
I looked at him in surprise.
"Were you expecting somebody at this time?"
"Yes," said he softly, "my wife.
She hasn't come home yet.
Haven't you seen her?"
I shopk my head.
"I've only been out an hour."
He nodded.
"I just thought—you might have happened to see her."
I gave a shrug.
"She'll probably be in later.
Didn't she telephone?"
He looked at me a bit embarrassed.
"She went last night to her friends.
I don't know where they live."
"Do you know the name, then?
In that case you could ask 'Enquiries.'"
"I've tried that already.
They don't know the name."
He had the expression of a beaten dog.
"She was always so mysterious about the people; if I so much as asked she would flare up at once.
So I let her alone.
I was glad she had someone to go to.
She was always saying, surely I didn't grudge her that too."
"Perhaps she'll come yet," said I. "In fact I'm pretty certain she'll come soon.
Have you tried the casualty wards and the police? You never know."
He nodded. "Everything.
They know nothing."
"Well, in that case," said I, "you don't need to get excited.
Perhaps she didn't feel well during the evening and has stayed the night.
That sort of thing often happens.
She'll probably be here again in an hour or two."
"Do you think so?"
The kitchen door opened and Frida appeared with a tray.
"Who's that for?" I asked.
"For Fraulein Hollmann," she replied, slightly incensed at my glance.