Audrey Magee - The Undertaking

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘There’s a place three miles from here where we can spend the night. Go and tell the others.’

The town square was quiet, and scattered with corpses. Some were German. Most were Russian. Faustmann bent down and rummaged through a Russian backpack. He pulled out a mink hat, the earflaps tied up.

‘It’s not that cold,’ said Faber.

‘It will be.’

‘But we won’t still be here.’

‘So you say. No harm in being prepared though.’

‘I don’t know if I could do that,’ said Faber. ‘Wear dead men’s clothes.’

‘Up to you, Faber. But they’re not using them.’

Faber squatted beside a corpse, its eyes already scavenged, peck marks on its cheeks and forehead. He took the felt boots from the man’s feet, and put them on. They fitted perfectly. He kicked the corpse, hard, in the ribs, and moved on, his back bent over, picking at the dead. He found a mink hat of his own, as well as gloves, cigarettes, Belgian chocolate in an envelope, and two lengths of sausage. The houses, however, had already been stripped. He carried his booty to a small, wooden church. Weiss was there, at the front. They sat beside each other under gold-framed paintings and shared the sausage and chocolate.

‘Do you think it’s real?’ said Faber.

‘What?’

‘The gold?’

‘Probably.’

‘We should take it with us.’

‘I’m not carrying any of that shit.’

‘We’ll pick it up on the way back then. It must be worth a fortune.’

‘It’s kitsch, Faber.’

They slept in the church. It was cold, but drier than their tents. When they woke, a light layer of snow covered the ground. They buried the Germans and moved out, their boots breaking a crust of ice as they walked. Faber pulled his scarf over his mouth and nose, his breath condensing where the warmth of his body met the cold of the steppe. Weiss was beside him.

‘How cold do you think it’ll get?’

‘This isn’t cold, Faber. Winter hasn’t begun yet. Not properly.’ ‘How do you know?’

‘Faustmann told me.’

Faber looked at the sky, at the clouds heavy with snow. He kicked at the earth, at its muddied whiteness.

‘I hate this fucking place.’

‘It’s not on my holiday list either.’

‘We’re wasting our time here. Let the tanks and planes do the job and we go home.’

‘The perfect war. No infantry required.’

‘Just bomb them all into submission. It worked in France, why not here?’

‘Here they fight back, Faber.’

Weiss dug some chocolate out of his tunic and broke off enough for both of them.

In the afternoon, the snow came back, accompanied by wind, rain and hail that stripped it of its softness, hammering at the soldiers’ faces, sharp pricks of pain on their eyelids. Faber wore his mink hat and blindly followed the men in front, glad of the blackness of their clothing, of the authorities’ delay in sending winter camouflage. As darkness came, Fuchs halted and lifted the blanket off his head and face.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘We’re going the wrong way.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We’re lost, Faber.’

Fuchs bellowed at the sergeant, out in front.

‘We’ve gone the wrong way,’ he said.

Kraus trudged on.

‘We’re lost, Sergeant,’ said Fuchs. ‘You don’t know where we are.’

Kraus stopped, turned slowly and lifted his head. His eyes were almost closed.

‘You’re right. I don’t know where we are.’

‘Shit,’ said Weiss.

‘We’re walking north,’ said Fuchs. ‘Into the wind and rain. We have been for hours. Poltava is east, south-east.’

‘I realize that.’

‘When did you realize that?’ said Fuchs.

‘Just now, when you told me.’

‘Damn it,’ said Fuchs. ‘You’re supposed to be in charge.’

‘I am,’ he said, his eyes fully closing. ‘I am in charge. We’ll camp here for the night and get back on the right road tomorrow.’

‘How will we know?’ said Weiss.

‘What?’ said Kraus, his eyes still shut.

‘That we’re on the right road?’

‘Set up camp, Weiss.’

They dropped their packs and pitched their tents on the sodden earth. Under wet fabric that stank of mildew, Faber and Weiss ate tinned sardines and crackers without talking, and lay down to sleep, burying their bodies under damp blankets and coats.

‘Kraus is a fucking idiot,’ said Weiss.

‘He’ll sort it out tomorrow.’

‘We don’t have a clue where we are, Faber. Or who the fuck is outside, lurking around.’

‘I know.’

‘Is your gun ready?’

‘Yes, and my knife.’

‘Mine too.’

‘We should try to sleep, Weiss.’

‘Good night, Faber.’

‘Good night, Weiss.’

Faber closed his eyes and unpicked the pins from Katharina’s hair, watching the locks unfurl, his gun across his chest, his finger on the trigger, ready for a dagger through the tent, or a pitchfork. He didn’t know what he would do with a sniper bullet. Or a machine gun. A rocket launcher, grenade or tank. He moved closer to Weiss and buried his fear in his wife’s hair.

He woke at dawn and heard Fuchs coughing.

‘I never thought I would be glad to hear that bastard.’

‘We’re still alive then?’ said Weiss, his head tucked under his blanket.

‘Just about.’

Weiss sat up, plunged his arm into his pack and began to eat, voraciously.

‘You’ll run out of food if you keep eating like that,’ said Faber.

‘I’ll die if I don’t.’

Kraus gathered the men. He was rested. Awake.

‘I regret what happened,’ he said, ‘but I will get us out of here.’

‘How?’ said Weiss. ‘You’re the one who got us lost in the first place.’

Kraus paused, waiting for the affront to pass. He spread out his map, turned his compass, and pointed at the flat featureless landscape.

‘We need to head south again,’ he said. ‘It’s about ten miles back to the main road to Poltava.’

‘How can you be sure?’ asked Fuchs. ‘We have no bearings.’

‘We came north, and now we have to go south.’

‘Due south?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why not travel south-east, towards Poltava?’

‘We should get back to the road first.’

‘If we can find it,’ said Weiss.

‘That’s enough from you, Weiss,’ said Kraus.

‘The whole place looks the same, Sir.’

‘I realize that, Weiss.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘At least the wind will be behind us,’ said Kraft.

‘We should reach Poltava in three days,’ said Kraus. ‘Divide your rations accordingly.’

Faber had only enough food for two days.

‘We’ll manage,’ said Kraft.

‘How?’ said Weiss.

‘I don’t know. We just will.’

They set off south, the wind against their backs, a pleasant relief until it grew too strong and pressed them to their knees, over and over again, their feet unable to keep pace with its strength. They slept again in their tents and Fuchs woke with a fever, his skin translucent, his eyes elsewhere. They draped him over their shoulders and trailed the sergeant and his compass, their minds and bodies numbed by the weather, rousing only when they heard Weiss shouting.

‘Poltava.’

Faber and Faustmann surged forward, Fuchs between them, towards the light and the smoke rising from chimneys.

‘We’re there, Fuchs,’ said Faber.

‘We’re not,’ said Kraus. ‘It’s too small and too soon.’

‘But it’ll do,’ said Weiss.

They knocked the ice from their weapons, loosened the bolts and moved towards the village, a tiny enclave of one barn and ten houses, all in darkness, wisps of smoke seeping from the chimneys.