Audrey Magee - The Undertaking

‘It’s a curse rather than a luxury, Mrs Sachs, when there is no coal and the wind blows into the apartment.’

‘How is your husband?’

‘Fine. Safe. We’re expecting a baby in the summer.’

‘Congratulations.’

‘Thank you. I’m very excited.’

‘How is your mother? I never see her now.’

‘She’s well, Mrs Sachs. Enjoying the new apartment.’

Katharina moved up the queue, close enough to see the spikes of the S-shaped hooks digging into the birds, their flaccid necks shifting in the breeze from the open door. She craned her neck. There were eight birds in the window, all of them ducks. In front of her were ten women. The butcher was still drawing on stocks from inside the shop. She turned to the woman behind her.

‘It’s nerve-racking, isn’t it?’

‘Awful.’

A car stopped outside the shop and a woman got out, her hair and make-up perfect, her body sculpted by a woollen jacket and skirt. Her driver, in black uniform, shifted the queue to one side. The woman walked into the shop.

‘Who is she?’ said Katharina.

‘I think it’s more “what” than “who”,’ said the woman behind her.

Katharina watched the suited woman point at the ducks in the window. The butcher removed three from the display. A woman ahead of Katharina started to cry, but fell silent as the suited woman left the shop, her driver carrying the ducks to the boot of the car. He drove off and the queue moved back to its previous position. The butcher served eight more women, then shut his door and pulled down his blinds. Katharina knocked at the door. He didn’t answer. The remaining women shuffled away, hiding their tears from their children.

She climbed into bed when she got home as it was too cold in the apartment of high ceilings and large rooms without coal. She missed the cloying cosiness of their old kitchen. Her mother did too, although neither woman would admit it.

She woke in the darkness of a winter afternoon. She got up, wrapped a cashmere blanket over her shoulders and went to the living room, braced for the cold, and surprised by the warmth. There was a fire in the grate. Her parents sat on the sofa in front of it, giggling.

‘There is more,’ said her father.

She looked at the mound of coal still on the slate, waiting to be burned.

‘So I see,’ she said. ‘It’s fantastic.’

‘Go and look in the kitchen, Katharina.’

On the counter, lying between the cooker and the sink, were a goose, a leg of lamb, sausages, a bag of potatoes, carrots, two turnips and a bottle of wine.

She shrieked and embraced her father.

‘And there’s more,’ he said. ‘Let me show you.’

He dipped his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

‘Stand in front of the fire please, ladies.’

He draped gold and emerald around his wife’s neck, silver and sapphire over his daughter’s wrist. They each kissed him and looked at themselves in the hall mirror, above their new bust of Wagner. Mrs Spinell was crying.

‘You’re a marvellous man, Günther Spinell,’ she said. ‘You have served this family well.’

Katharina fingered her bracelet.

‘It’s just a pity we have nowhere to wear them,’ she said.

‘Oh, but you do,’ he said. ‘We’re going to Dr Weinart’s house tomorrow. To hear the Führer’s Christmas message.’

Their backs straight, the two women walked either side of Günther Spinell up to the first floor of the doctor’s house. A coal fire blazed there too, but the other guests, the women in silk, were indifferent to it as they drained their champagne and picked canapés from the train of passing plates. Mrs Spinell whispered to her daughter.

‘Don’t guzzle, Katharina. Remember that we have plenty to eat at home.’

Katharina moved about the room, introducing herself, admiring dresses and jewellery, accepting admiration of her bracelet, revelling in the conversation. Mrs Weinart was especially charming.

‘I have heard about your family, Mrs Faber. You should come for morning coffee with your lovely mother.’

Dr Weinart demanded their silence and called the company to gather around the radio, Katharina towards the front. The voice entered the room, and people bowed their heads. She listened to the rise and rise of his pitch, but drifted off to replay her success at the party, to run her hand across her expanding womb, to relish the growth of her new life.

Kraft pushed into the house, panting.

‘Close the damn door,’ said Weiss.

‘Give me a chance to come in first.’

He swept snow from his eyes.

‘The lieutenant wants us.’

‘Bloody hell,’ said Faber. ‘What for?’

‘To award you the Iron Cross, Faber,’ said Weiss. ‘For services to fatherhood.’

They laughed.

‘It’ll be the only one I get,’ said Faber. ‘Stuck in this pit.’

‘Why does he want us?’ said Faustmann.

‘I don’t know,’ said Kraft, ‘but he’s wound up.’

They swore as they pulled on their outdoor clothes. Kraft stoked the stove.

‘I’ll make coffee when we’re back,’ he said.

They stood outside the lieutenant’s house, snow and wind cutting into their faces, darkness on its way. Faber stamped his feet. He should have put on a second pair of socks.

Reinisch came out of his house, his shoulders straight, but his face pale.

‘We’re moving out tomorrow,’ he said. ‘At first light.’

A shock of cold rushed up Faber’s legs.

‘It’s January, Sir.’

‘I’m aware of that, Private.’

Reinisch stepped back from the men, towards his house.

‘Where are we going?’ said Weiss.

‘Kharkov. The Russians are on the move there. Our boys need support.’

‘But that’s a hundred miles away.’

‘A little less, I think, Private.’

‘What, ninety?’

‘About that.’

Faber started shivering, his teeth chattering.

‘I could die, Sir, if I go out there again,’ said Fuchs.

‘Have the doctors told you that?’

‘No, Sir.’

‘Well then, you’ve nothing to worry about.’

The lieutenant turned his back on the men and went back into his house, shutting the wooden door against them, shoving it tight into its buckled frame. The wood shuddered. Together the men moved towards it, two, three steps. And then they stopped, turned away towards Kraus. He threw his hands into the air.

‘Those are our orders. They want us to shore up Kharkov.’

‘It’s impossible,’ said Weiss.

‘We are expected to walk thirty miles a day and will be given enough food for ten. There are villages along the way where we can rest.’

‘It’s madness,’ said Fuchs. ‘We can’t walk thirty miles a day in snow. Russian snow.’

‘I have been told that most of the road has been cleared.’

‘It’s madness, Sir.’

‘That’s enough, Fuchs. Back to your houses, everyone, to rest and prepare.’

They were still.

‘Who will lead us?’ said Weiss.

‘The lieutenant will,’ said Kraus. ‘It’s a straightforward route.’

Faber suddenly wanted to sleep. To forget what he was hearing.

‘What’ll we eat?’ said Gunkel. ‘What’ll we do for meat? We need meat in the snow.’

‘I’ll talk to Stockhoff,’ said Kraus. ‘See what extra rations he can give us.’

They drifted back to their houses. Kraft began to make the coffee sent by his mother, to bang pots and hum.

‘Shut up, Kraft,’ said Faber.

‘Leave him alone, Faber,’ said Weiss. ‘He’s making coffee.’

‘That piss! You call it coffee?’

‘Forget it.’

‘No, I won’t. I hate his humming. He’s like an old woman.’

‘Leave it. Write a letter to your wife.’