Audrey Magee - The Undertaking

Weiss picked up a newspaper. Faber paced the room and settled beside Fuchs, crumpled by the stove.

‘So what do you think, Fuchs? Will you survive out there this time? All that snow?’

‘I doubt it.’

‘What are you going to do about it?’

‘There’s nothing I can do.’

‘You could go back to Reinisch,’ said Faustmann. ‘Refuse to go.’

‘And be lined up and shot? In front of you all?’

‘But you’re not fit, Fuchs,’ said Faustmann.

‘The doctors say I am. So that’s that.’

‘You shouldn’t be going,’ said Faustmann. ‘None of us should be. We should refuse the order. Collectively.’

‘Don’t be a fucking idiot, Faustmann,’ said Faber.

‘So what do we do, Faber? We go out there, march Fuchs to his death?’

‘It’s an order. From a proper army. Not your Soviet rabble.’

‘Right then, Fuchs,’ said Faustmann. ‘Off you go, out into the snow. Pack up.’

‘Leave it, Faustmann,’ said Weiss.

‘But write to your wife and children first, Fuchs. Tell them you won’t be coming back.’

‘Shut up,’ said Weiss.

‘Tell them that you are about to die because you’re following some stupid fucking order to walk ninety miles through January snow. Tell them all that.’

Fuchs’ cheeks flushed. He shoved his knuckles into the floor and vaulted onto Faustmann, pummelling his chest and face. The other men wrenched him off.

‘Shut the fuck up, Faustmann,’ said Fuchs.

Faustmann dragged a sleeve across his bloodied nose and lit a cigarette. He handed the rest of the pack to Fuchs.

‘Thanks. How’s your nose?’

‘Fine.’

‘You’re right anyway. I’ll never last another week out there.’

‘Of course you will,’ said Faustmann. ‘I was talking rubbish.’

‘I’m beaten. I don’t have it in me.’

‘You’ll be fine,’ said Weiss. ‘The road has been cleared and we’ll have plenty of food.’

The coffee spluttered on the stove.

‘It’s ready,’ said Kraft.

They drank in silence and played cards, without money.

Faber was unable to sleep. He took his blanket to sit by the stove. Faustmann was already there, smoking and staring at the flames.

‘How’s your face?’ asked Faber.

‘Sore.’

‘He whacked you.’

‘I deserved it.’

Faber threw three more logs on the already blazing fire.

‘We may as well use them up.’

Faustmann lit a cigarette.

‘They don’t give a damn if we live or die.’

‘Who?’ said Faber.

‘Those idiots in Berlin.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They don’t give a damn about us.’

‘Of course they do.’

‘We’re cannon fodder, Faber. Just like in the last war. Nothing has changed.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. We are crucial to the inevitable victory.’

‘Cannon fodder. That’s all. For Russian guns and German ambition.’

‘Have you been drinking, Faustmann?’

‘Reinisch will be promoted because we’ve walked through ninety miles of Russian snow.’

‘I’m not listening to this, Faustmann. You’re just looking for another fight.’

‘I’m not, Faber. I’m just sick of being used.’

‘You’re a soldier, Faustmann, and there’s a war on.’

‘But what’s the war about?’

‘A greater Germany.’

‘At whose expense? Not theirs in Berlin, with their stuffed gullets. At our expense, Faber. With our lives.’

‘You sound like a communist, Faustmann.’

He laughed.

‘I’m not a communist.’

‘But you speak Russian, your grandmother’s Russian and your politics sound Russian.’

‘I’m German, and you know it. But these Russians have done nothing to us, so what the hell are we doing here?’

‘We need a bigger Germany.’

‘For what?’

‘For food, space, oil, coal.’

‘Can’t we just buy it all?’

‘You’d better shut up.’

‘Why?’

‘You might be reported.’

Faustmann placed a log on his thighs and picked at the splinters.

‘By whom, Faber?’

‘It could be dangerous for you. That’s all.’

‘I’m not a communist.’

‘You speak Russian.’

‘So what? Weiss speaks French. What does that make him?’

‘I’m only concerned with you.’

‘Why? Why the sudden concern with me? You were never concerned before.’

‘I have a family and a future to think about. I can’t have our campaign in Russia jeopardized by communists spreading disaffection.’

‘Is that what you think I’m doing? Spreading disaffection?’

‘You just need to be careful. That’s all.’

Faustmann went to the end of the room where Weiss, Kraft and Fuchs were sleeping. Faber stayed, relishing his easy victory, and fell asleep by the stove, his feet against the shrunken woodpile.

They moved out just after dawn, towards the sun rising into a cold, cloudless sky. The road was clear, as promised, and the sixty men made steady progress, about twenty miles that day, before finding an abandoned village at dusk where they built fires and sheltered for the night. The second day, too, began well, but in the middle of the morning the road suddenly disappeared under a drift of snow that reached up to their thighs.

‘We must have gone off course,’ said Fuchs.

Reinisch, who checked his map and compass every half-hour, was adamant.

‘This is the right way,’ he said. ‘No doubt about it.’

‘That’s old, compacted snow,’ said Faustmann. ‘They haven’t cleared it. They stopped here.’

‘They wouldn’t do that,’ said Kraft. ‘We must be lost.’

‘We’re not lost, Kraft,’ said Kraus.

Faber looked at the tyre tracks in the snow, at the traces of turning circles.

‘We should go back,’ said Weiss.

‘I can’t allow that,’ said Reinisch. ‘There’s a village two miles from here.’

Faber followed the lieutenant. The snow melted into his trousers and coat, chilling his sweat, confusing his senses so that he did not know whether he felt cold or hot. He took off his gloves and hat, but put them back on again. He removed his scarf. He was comfortable for a short time, but then too cold again, his body drained by the changes. After four hours, they reached the edge of the village. He checked his gun. It was frozen. Fuchs was coughing.

‘Why can’t I see any roofs?’ said Faber.

Weiss peered through the fading light.

‘Damn it,’ he said. ‘It’s been burned out.’

‘Right men,’ said Reinisch. ‘Find a bed for the night.’

Fuchs coughed, bending at the waist.

‘We’ll find shelter,’ said Kraft. ‘You’ll be all right, Fuchs.’

‘And there’ll be something to slaughter, Fuchs,’ said Gunkel. ‘There always is.’

They walked towards the centre, marked, as usual, by a wooden bench and a cherry tree, both blackened. They stubbed at the charred remains of the village with their boots.

‘Who did it?’ said Faber.

‘It’s a thorough job, lots of petrol,’ said Weiss. ‘Must have been our boys.’

‘Thanks lads,’ said Fuchs.

‘We’d better move,’ said Weiss, ‘or all the best places will be gone.’

‘There aren’t any best places,’ said Faber. ‘It’s a hellhole.’

‘Let’s look,’ said Kraft.

They moved from house to house, but stoves, beds and cupboards were lost under blankets of snow. The only roof they could see was on the south-facing gable end of the barn, but it was already packed with other soldiers, their backs set firmly against the gusting northerly wind.

‘Let’s keep looking,’ said Kraft. ‘Fuchs needs proper shelter.’

‘There isn’t any,’ said Faber.