Audrey Magee - The Undertaking

‘Move them out, Faustmann,’ said Kraus.

The people slowly emerged.

‘Tell them to give us their food,’ said the sergeant.

‘They say they don’t have any. That other Germans have already raided the village. That the Jews and communists have already been taken away.’

‘I don’t give a fuck about the Jews and communists, Faustmann. Only food. That’s all we want. Tell them to hand it over.’

Kraus was agitated, hungry for his men. The villagers were still. An old woman spoke.

‘She says they have nothing left,’ said Faustmann.

‘Right then,’ said Kraus, ‘we’ll just have to find it ourselves. Let’s go.’

They crashed into the small houses, ripping up floorboards, emptying cupboards, cellars, vats and wardrobes, unearthing potatoes, sunflower seeds, bread and apples. But no meat. Kraus stormed back into the yard and the men followed, stuffing bread and apples into their mouths. He grabbed an old man by the collar of his tattered coat.

‘Where are the animals? Where’s the meat?’

Faustmann translated the sergeant’s fury.

‘We don’t have any,’ replied the old man.

Kraus pulled a warmed pistol from inside his tunic and placed it against the man’s head.

‘Where is it? My men need meat and I am going to find it.’

‘We don’t have any. It’s all gone.’

Kraus squeezed his finger against the trigger and the old man fell to the ground, a puff of body heat and a scarlet flush across the muddied snow. The villagers covered their mouths, frozen, until a young woman with long dark hair hanging from beneath her brightly coloured cotton headscarf stepped forward.

‘I will show you,’ she said.

They followed her past the emptied barn to a small orchard at the end of the village, her plump, rounded buttocks shifting the material of her filthy, torn coat. Faber watched her. As she knelt down. As she scraped back frozen hail and lifted a sheet of wood, her bottom towards them. The chickens clucked, raucously, disturbed by the light. There were about twenty of them, on a shelf of earth scattered with seed.

‘Clever,’ said Faustmann.

‘But not clever enough,’ said Faber.

‘How did they stop them suffocating?’ said Gunkel.

‘Who gives a fuck?’ said Weiss.

Gunkel reached in and wrung the neck of each bird, passing them back to the waiting men. They ran to the houses, kicked the floorboards back into place and sat down, feverishly plucking the chickens with their coats and packs still on, resting only when the dampened fires had been restarted, when the roasts were on. Faber stuffed his mouth with sunflower seeds.

‘Never thought I’d eat this bird food,’ he said.

‘Hunger is a great sauce,’ said Kraft.

Faber laughed.

‘Old mother Kraft is back. We have survived.’

‘We’re not there yet, Faber,’ said Weiss.

‘No. But at least we’re here.’

He began peeling off his clothing, first examining his fingers, which had turned a dark red.

‘Much longer out there and I might have been in trouble.’

‘You’re fine, Faber,’ said Faustmann. ‘It’s not cold enough.’

‘How are your feet?’ said Weiss.

‘They feel fine,’ said Faber.

He removed his Russian felt boots. His feet were red, but safe. Kraft asked for help in taking off his boots. The leather was sodden, rotting near the heel and steel tips.

‘You should have changed boots, Kraft.’

‘I won’t wear a dead man’s shoes.’

Faber tugged at Kraft’s left boot, laughing at the sucking sound as it loosened and came off. Newspaper and socks stuck like wet plaster to his friend’s leg.

‘You’re disgusting, Kraft.’

‘Just get it off, Faber.’

He unravelled the paper and fabric, but dropped the foot. It was riddled with lice. Kraft threw his hands over his face.

‘Do the other one, Faber.’

‘No way, Kraft. I’m not going near you.’

‘You owe me. For not going to see my mother.’

‘Bastard.’

Faber pulled off the second boot, tearing everything away as quickly as he could. He filled a bowl with water and placed it at Kraft’s feet.

‘There’ll be eggs on your feet. You need to wash them off.’

‘Thank you, Faber. You’ve been very kind.’

‘I’m sorry I didn’t go to see your mother, Kraft.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘How is she?’

‘I don’t know. I’m hoping to hear when we reach Poltava. It’s hard.’

‘What is?’

‘Being out here. Not knowing how she is. If she is even dead or alive.’

He looked at the ground, hiding his eyes from Faber.

‘I hate this place, Faber. I want to go home. I want to see her.’

Faber patted his arm.

‘We all want to go home, Kraft.’

They ate and slept. More snow fell and they stayed a second night. Fuchs slept most of the time, his lungs rattling with the effort of each breath, indifferent as the men tucked into bottle after bottle of home-made vodka.

‘They’re still here,’ said Weiss.

‘Who are?’ said Faber.

‘The villagers.’

‘Where?’

‘They crept into the barn this evening. They must have come in from the woods. Decided we were safe.’

‘All of them?’

‘Yep.’

‘Including the woman?’

‘Including her.’

They finished another bottle. Weiss stumbled to his feet.

‘Let’s go, Faber. Find out what they’re up to.’

‘Are you sure she’s there?’

‘She’s there, Faber.’

Faber turned to the other men.

‘Are you coming, Kraus? Kraft?’

‘We’ll have a look,’ said Kraus. ‘What harm?’

‘I’ll come too,’ said Gunkel. ‘Stretch my legs.’

‘Come on Kraft,’ said Weiss.

‘I’m fine here,’ he said.

They wore their boots, but left their coats and hats.

‘Faustmann?’ said Faber. ‘Are you coming?’

‘I’ll stay here.’

‘Why?’

‘Not my thing, Faber.’

‘Come on. We might need an interpreter.’

‘I doubt it.’

‘Suit yourself.’

They picked up their guns and stepped outside, into moonlight and sparkling snow. They walked across the village, crashing into each other as they went, loudly hushing each other’s laughter. Weiss and Gunkel started to sing. Kraus told them to be quiet. They reached the barn and cocked their guns.

‘All right, boys,’ said Weiss. ‘Who’s first this time?’

‘It must be you, Faber,’ said Kraus. ‘Your wedding present from us.’

They pushed open the door and swung torch beams until they located the huddle of staring eyes. Faber saw her, her headscarf still on. He walked towards her, but then he turned away and went back into the snow. He returned to the house to sleep between Kraft and Faustmann, his wife’s hair and photograph pressed into his cheek.

Katharina leaned back into the soft black leather chair, took a magazine from the walnut coffee table and angled her legs to the left, her feet crossed at the ankles like those of the other women in the room, although their fur coats closed neatly across their chests. She flicked through the pages, scanning pictures of ball gowns, gas cookers and tips for the perfect family Christmas, listening to the near silence of the other women, the polite coughs, the low whispers to already quiet children.

The nurse opened the door across thick cream carpet.

‘Mrs Faber.’

Katharina did not lift her head. It was rude to stare. She turned onto a new page.

‘Mrs Faber, please.’

The other women’s coats had obviously been bought for them. She could tell. No straining at the buttons. She felt herself in shadow. It was the nurse. Standing over her.