"No, mother."
"I would like to tell you to be on your guard against the women out in France. They are no good."
Ah! Mother, Mother! You still think I am a child—why can I not put my head in your lap and weep? Why have I always to be strong and self-controlled? I would like to weep and be comforted, too, indeed I am little more than a child; in the wardrobe still hang my short, boy's trousers—it is such a little time ago, why is it over?
"Where we are there aren't any women, mother," I say as calmly as I can.
"And be very careful at the front, Paul."
Ah, Mother, Mother! Why do I not take you in my arms and die with you. What poor wretches we are!
"Yes, mother, I will."
"I will pray for you every day, Paul."
Ah! Mother, Mother! Let us rise up and go out, back through the years, where the burden of all this misery lies on us no more, back to you and me alone, Mother!
"Perhaps you can get a job that is not so dangerous."