Mortality is man's invention; not in the logic of life."
He gave the chap his money and we went on.
The street was empty.
A black cat darted away in front of us.
Lenz pointed to it.
"We ought to turn back now, really."
"Don't worry," said I, "we saw a white one a while ago; that cancels out."
We walked along the street.
Some people were approaching on the other side.
They were four young lads.
One was wearing bright yellow, new leather-leggings, the others sort of military boots.
They halted and looked across at us. "There he is!" suddenly called the one with the leggings, running across the street toward us.
The next moment there were two shots, the young fellow sprang away and all four made off as fast as they could.
I saw Koster about to set off in pursuit, but then with an extraordinary twist he swung back, stretched out his arms, uttered a stifled, wild cry and tried to catch Gottfried Lenz, who crashed heavily to the pavement.
For one second I thought he had merely fallen; then I saw the blood.
Koster ripped his coat open, tore away the shirt—the blood welled out thickly.
I pressed my handkerchief against it.
"Stay here, I'll get the car," called Koster and ran off.
"Gottfried," said I, "can you hear me?"
His face turned grey.
His eyes were half-shut.
The lids did not move.
With one hand I supported his head, with the other I pressed my handkerchief on the bleeding place.
I knelt beside him, I listened for his gurgling, his breathing, but there was nothing, no sound anywhere—the endless street, endless houses, endless night—I heard only the light dripping of the blood on the pavement and knew that that must have been another time and that it could not be true.
Koster raced up.
He pulled away the back rest of the left-hand seat.
Carefully we lifted Gottfried up and laid him on the two seats.
I jumped into the car and Koster shot off. We drove to the nearest casualty station.
Koster braked cautiously.
"See if there's a doctor there.
Else we must go on."
I ran in.
An orderly came towards me.
"Is there a doctor?"
"Yes.
Have you got someone?"
"Yes.
Come with me.
A stretcher."
We lifted Gottfried on to the stretcher and carried him in.
The doctor was already standing in his shirt-sleeves.
"Over here." He pointed to a flat table. We lifted Gottfried off the stretcher.
The doctor pulled down a light close over the body.
"What is it?"
"Revolver shot."
He took a swab of cotton wool, wiped away the blood, felt Gottfried's pulse, listened to him and straightened up. "Nothing to be done."
Koster stared at him.
"But the shot is well to the side.
It can't be so bad."
"There are two shots," said the doctor.