Audrey Magee - The Undertaking

‘But we will starve. The children need food.’

Kraus lifted his gun and shoved it into the man’s stomach.

‘No food.’

They shuffled past, about seventy of them, out into the winter. Faber took the old woman’s house, its single room still warm, smoke escaping from the metal flue attached to a stove of baked earth. Kraft slipped off his pack and began poking at the embers, scraping away the damp ash that had been thrown over the flames as the soldiers arrived.

‘How do you cook on this thing?’ said Weiss.

‘God knows,’ said Kraft. ‘But we can boil water.’

Kraft hummed as he unpacked the coffee that his mother sent every month, then the pot. Faber, Weiss and Faustmann sat beside him, waiting for their share, their boots and coats scattered around the room. There were two large beds and a neat row of sheepskin slippers by the door, small and large. The walls were lined with yellowed newspaper, layer upon layer of insulation that reeked of poverty.

‘It’s a pit,’ said Faber. ‘How could anyone live here?’

‘At least it’s warm,’ said Faustmann.

‘Your ancestors probably came from this kind of hovel.’

‘All our ancestors came from this kind of hovel, Faber.’

Kraft bounced to his feet.

‘Is there any food?’

They rummaged through chests and wardrobes but found nothing until Weiss threw back a rug, uncovering a hatch that led to a small cellar neatly lined with shelves of bread, salted ham, flour, oats, corn, seeds, nuts and jars of fruit and vegetables, boiled, pickled and poached. And vodka. Crude and home-made.

Faber slept well, warm in a bed beside Weiss. In the morning, they went to find more food. Weiss carried a bucket, determined to find milk.

‘Do you know how to do this?’ said Faber.

‘I’ve seen my uncle do it.’

They kicked at the snow, which had settled thinly on the ground, and headed towards a large barn at the other end of the village. Faber opened the door, diluting the warm darkness with cold dawn light, stirring muffled noises from creatures not yet ready for the day.

They searched for eggs, but the hens had yet to lay. They went down to the other end of the barn where two cows waited, their udders heavy.

‘So what do we do?’ said Faber.

‘It’s easy,’ said Weiss. ‘Squeeze and the milk comes out.’

‘Off you go then.’

Weiss knelt on the ground beside the cow’s udder, wrapped his right hand around a teat and squeezed. Nothing happened. He tried again. Still nothing. Faber laughed.

‘You try, Faber.’

The men switched places and Faber too wrapped his fingers around a teat, discomfited by the soft, flabby flesh. He squeezed but quickly released his hand and stepped back.

‘Nobody will ever turn me into a fucking farmer,’ he said.

Weiss laughed and tried again, squeezing so hard that the cow kicked at him and swivelled, turning her rump to him, damp faeces dribbling down her legs. The two men ran from the barn, roaring with laughter, and returned to the house. They had black coffee and army-issue crackers for breakfast.

By mid-morning, the other soldiers had collected eggs and milked both cows. Gunkel killed and plucked a few of the hens and, after lunch, brought one of the sheep to stand under the cherry tree. He put a pistol against its head and shot it, standing to one side as it twitched and jerked its way to stillness. He tied it by its hind legs to the tree, slit its throat and removed the pelt, blood draining from the animal as he worked. He sawed off the head and lowered the animal back to the ground, turning the carcass on its back, its shoulders tight between his calves. He sawed through the ribs, and, with a long, thin, tapering knife, cut from its neck to its groin, then dug his hands into the sheep, pulling out the stomach and intestines, jettisoning them so hard across the earth that they burst, half-digested hay spewing across mud and melted snow. He worked diligently, neatly, until the animal evolved into chops, roasts, racks and chunks for stew. Gunkel stood up straight, a neat stack of meat at his feet.

‘Lamb and chicken for dinner tonight, my friends.’

The soldiers clapped, waited in line for their allocation and retreated to cook. They ate the meat with potatoes and boiled corn, and rested for two more days, stripping the barn of everything but the cows. They sang as they left, their bellies and packs filled with food. Faustmann shouted at the forest behind the village.

‘What did you say?’ said Faber.

‘I told them they could go back now. That we’d finished.’

‘We needed that rest.’

‘We certainly did. It was well deserved.’

Just before six in the morning, a surge of nausea woke her. She threw back the silk-covered eiderdown and ran to the bathroom, just in time to reach the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl. She pulled the chain, rinsed her mouth, splashed water on her face and went back to bed, rubbing herself against the linen to chase the cold from her feet.

Russia, November 15th, 1941

My Dear Katharina,

The post truck has just stopped beside us. He is returning to Kiev and has told us that he will wait for ten minutes, allowing us time to write letters home.

I am well, Katharina, although missing you greatly. I want this whole thing to be over so that I can come home to you. In the meantime, could you do something for me? Could you send me a lock of your hair? As close to the full length as you can manage. I adore your hair. I wrap myself in it as I go to sleep. And a photograph; one of you smiling. I will keep them against my heart.

We have seen a little of the infamous Russian snow. It is already cold, Katharina. Colder than I have ever known it in November. How is the rest of winter in this godforsaken place?

We are marching again, obliterating all the enormous work that you put into my feet. It’s such a huge place, Katharina. We march and march, but seem to get nowhere.

It helps me so much to know that you are waiting for me, although I do wish you hadn’t moved apartment. I want you still in the bed we shared, in that room, as that is how I remember you, how I know you.

Wait for me nonetheless. I will be back soon.

The driver sat on the step of his cab, passing round chocolate and cigarettes. Faber took both and handed in his letter.

‘How do I get your job?’ he said.

The driver sniggered.

‘You’re too skinny. Too fit. You have to be fat and wheeze a lot.’

‘I can do that.’

‘It takes years of practice.’

They watched as he hoisted himself back into the cab, revved the engine and headed back west, his wheels churning at the already churned earth.

‘Lucky bastard,’ said Faber.

‘But no chance of a medal,’ said Weiss. ‘Of Iron Cross fame and glory. His picture in the newspaper, women fawning over the hero.’

‘I’ll take the chocolate, cigarettes and warm feet.’

Faber was wearing all his socks, but still the cold penetrated his feet, exacerbated by the steel across the toe of his boots. He walked a little faster to catch up with Kraus.

‘How much further, Sergeant?’

‘About sixty miles.’

‘Three days?’

‘Hopefully, Faber.’

‘What did the driver have to say?’

‘About what?’

‘Our progress.’

‘Struggling outside Moscow, but doing well around Kharkov.’

‘So how does it look?’

‘You know as much as I do, Faber. Judge it yourself.’

‘But how long more will it take?’

‘As I said, three days.’

‘I meant the war.’

‘I only know, Faber, about this march to Poltava. That’s what I’m in charge of. Not the war.’