Audrey Magee - The Undertaking

They tugged at the dead men’s clothing. Everything was frozen. Their hats glued by ice to their heads, their packs sealed shut.

‘The snow will bury them for us,’ said Kraus.

Fuchs coughed and spat green phlegm onto the snow.

‘I hope you’ll bury me, Sergeant,’ he said.

‘You’ll be fine, Private.’

Fuchs wiped the sweat dribbling from his forehead and the bridge of his nose.

‘Let’s hope you’re right, Sergeant.’

They gathered around the dead, said some prayers and moved out, heading north-east, following the map and compass, supporting Fuchs when he stumbled, then taking turns to carry him through the snow. When evening came, there was again no village, no shelter, only the never-ending whiteness. Kraus leaned his head against Fuchs’, the eyelashes of both men shrouded in ice.

‘I’m sorry Fuchs.’

Fuchs opened his eyes, then closed them again.

‘It’s not your fault, Sergeant.’

‘We should have disobeyed him.’

‘Then you’d be dead too, Kraus.’

‘I may be, anyway.’

Weiss put a hand on the shoulder of each man.

‘We’ll rest for the night,’ he said.

‘I can’t dig,’ said Faber.

‘We’ve got to,’ said Weiss.

‘I can’t. I’m worn out.’

‘Nor can I,’ said Kraft. ‘Let’s just pitch on the surface.’

‘What if there’s wind, like last night?’ said Weiss.

‘It can’t happen two nights in a row,’ said Faber.

‘I suppose not.’

They fell into deep, consuming sleep, oblivious to the high-pitched whistle of wind across the steppe. It kicked their tent as though it were a football, sending it into the air, dropping it again and rolling it over and over, their hips, knees, heads and guns crashing into each other. They tumbled over and under one another, screaming, howling, Kraft sobbing that they would fall off the edge of the earth. And then it stopped. Suddenly. The men untangled their limbs and tried to still their rasping breath.

‘A ride at a fucking Russian funfair,’ said Weiss.

They laughed, grateful for the release. They were bruised and grazed, but no one was cut. Nothing seemed broken. They shoved their way out of the tent, through the ropes and fabric. Kraus, Gunkel and Faustmann were beside them, their tent pushed the same direction by the same wind.

‘Some fucking country,’ said Gunkel.

They gathered their belongings and walked the quarter-mile back to camp where the others still slept undisturbed under the early morning moon. They tried to pitch the tent again, but the fabric was torn, and ropes and pegs were missing.

‘It’s almost dawn, anyway,’ said Weiss.

‘We should just huddle together,’ said Kraft.

Faustmann laid his tent across the snow.

‘Stand on this,’ he said, ‘and we’ll drape the other one over us.’

‘And put Fuchs in the middle,’ said Gunkel. ‘Breathe on him to keep him warm.’

Fuchs looked lost. He was no longer coughing.

‘Are you all right, Fuchs?’ asked Faber.

‘Yes. You’re all very kind.’

They fell silent in the thin, brittle air, listening to Fuchs’ breath, the plaintive wheeze of a man drowning in his own lungs. Faber rubbed his gloves over Fuchs’ face, knocking off the icicles, breaking the ice spreading across his nose and lips. He was determined to stay awake, to be with his father’s old pupil, but at dawn a wave of sleep dragged him under, holding him down until he felt something fall against him. It was Fuchs, already freezing. He held him briefly, but then let him fall further, face first, into the snow.

‘He’s dead,’ he said.

They all woke and looked down. Weiss bent over the body.

‘I’ll take his paybook and tag,’ said Weiss. ‘For his wife.’

They bent as Weiss did, taking things no longer of use to a dead man – a knife, a torch, a hat, scarf and gloves, moving quickly before the corpse froze any further. They covered him with snow and left.

‘So, what do you think now, Faber?’

‘About what, Faustmann?’

‘Are we cannon fodder?’

‘Shut up.’

‘No, he’s right,’ said Weiss. ‘What the hell are we doing out here, anyway?’

‘I am doing as I am ordered to do by my leaders.’

‘Where are they?’ said Weiss. ‘Why aren’t they here?’

‘Because we are,’ said Faustmann. ‘On their behalf.’

‘We’ll end up dead or mad,’ said Weiss.

‘Or both,’ said Kraft.

‘I can’t think about it,’ said Faber.

‘You have to think about it,’ said Faustmann.

‘No I don’t, Faustmann. What I have to do is stay alive.’

‘You’re ignoring the facts, Faber.’

‘The facts? The facts are that I am starving and freezing to death thousands of miles from home. For what? For a bigger, stronger Germany free of communist Jews. Those are the facts. That’s why I’m here. Why are you here, Faustmann?’

‘I have no fucking idea.’

The snow began to fall again, the flakes landing on already frozen snow. Faber covered himself in everything he had, glad of his mink and felt, so that only his eyes were visible. But it was hard to see. The snow was thick and the sky was dark. He moved towards the front of the group, exposing himself to more of the wind, but getting closer to Reinisch and the compass.

In the early afternoon, they came upon a village, intact but empty of people and food. Gunkel found nothing to slaughter. They lit fires and drank boiled snow. Kraft began to remove his leather boots, the steel tops cleaned by the snow, glistening in the firelight.

‘I’m not sure you should do that, Kraft,’ said Weiss. ‘It’s probably best to wait until we’re there.’

‘I want to wash my feet. Warm them up a bit.’

Faber helped him with his boots and watched as Kraft removed the left sock. The skin underneath was darker than the rest of his leg, with a scattering of white dust across it.

‘What’s that?’ said Faber.

Kraft brushed at it. It didn’t move. He took off the rest of the sock, lifting it over the ball of his foot and over his toes.

‘Shit! That hurts.’

Kraft’s toenails were gone. All five of them. Faber lifted the sock, turned it inside out and found them, stuck to the material, black and rotten. The flesh of Kraft’s right foot was even darker. Those toenails came away too, and the small toe was blacker, squashed and elongated. Nobody spoke. Everybody stared. Kraft stood up and hobbled to the stove. He filled a pan with lukewarm water, sat back down and put his feet in the water.

‘They’ll go back to normal in a minute,’ he said.

The feet lightened a little in colour, but the little toe remained black and spongy. He dried his feet and applied the frostbite cream from their first aid kits. Faber found a pair of thick, dry socks in a pair of Russian slippers by the door.

‘Looks like I should have worn dead men’s shoes,’ said Kraft.

‘I’ll see if I can find some for you here,’ said Weiss.

‘Don’t even bother,’ said Faustmann. ‘Russians only have one pair of boots. They’re wearing them.’

In the morning, Faber, Weiss, Gunkel and Faustmann walked with Kraft, moving slowly at the back, ushering him through snow that reached up to their thighs, along a vague path left by the men who had gone before them.

Cold snow seeped in through Faber’s clothes and hot, damp sweat seeped out, his body exhausted and confused, uncertain of its own temperature, of its own strength. He wanted Stockhoff’s beef stew. Katharina’s long hair. He wanted it all to be over. For the stupidity to end.

They waited, with cake and coffee ready, listening to the clock tick each irretrievable second of the afternoon.