Audrey Magee - The Undertaking

Katharina went down to the street every half-hour to check that he was not wandering up and down, lost, uncertain of the new address, but found no sign of him.

‘Maybe his train was delayed,’ said Mrs Spinell. ‘Nothing can be relied on any more.’

‘I’ll go and check,’ said Mr Spinell.

‘I’ll come with you, Father.’

‘It’s raining, Katharina. Stay with your mother.’

Katharina sat back down in front of the fire, opposite her mother, and resumed her sewing. The clock ticked on.

‘That damn thing,’ said Mrs Spinell. ‘I don’t know why they ever bought it. It’s so loud.’

She stood up, took a cloth from the kitchen and dusted the ornaments she had already cleaned.

‘I’m sure he’s fine,’ said Katharina. ‘There’s probably some simple explanation.’

‘But he was always so punctual. Do you remember how he raced to school every morning to be at the top of the line under the teacher’s nose so that she could praise his timekeeping?’

‘I remember.’

‘He was never, ever late. You always dawdled and dreamed your way to school.’

‘I know, Mother.’

Mr Spinell returned after two hours, his coat and suit sodden.

‘There was no trace of him. All the trains from the east have come and gone.’

Mrs Spinell picked up the cake, wrapped it in a clean towel, placed it in a tin, and went to her room. Her husband changed his clothes and took the place she had warmed on the sofa.

‘Do you think he’s all right?’

‘I’m sure he is, Katharina. We haven’t been told otherwise.’

‘But who would tell us?’

‘In war, you always hear bad news. I’m sure the explanation is simple. You should go to bed, Katharina. You look tired.’

Early the next morning, at around six, the doorbell startled her out of sleep. She threw back the covers and hurtled to the front door, tying the belt of her dressing gown as she ran. Her parents were already there, talking to a soldier, a young man who was not Johannes. He passed them a letter, saluted and left. Mrs Spinell squeezed her husband’s arm, her upturned face shut tight against bad news.

‘Please, Günther. What does it say?’

His reading was silent.

‘It’s all right, Esther. He’s fine.’

She opened her eyes.

‘Oh, thank God.’

‘He’s in an army hospital in Poland. He was taken off the train for treatment and will be home next week.’

‘We can wait a week,’ said Mrs Spinell.

‘I wonder what happened,’ said Katharina.

‘He was always a strong boy, Günther.’

She brought the cake to the living room table, removed the cloth and began to slice it.

‘It’s a bit early, Mother.’

‘No point in wasting those precious eggs,’ said Mrs Spinell.

They sat at the table and ate the cake.

‘Maybe he has influenza,’ said Mr Spinell.

‘Or a stomach bug,’ said Katharina. ‘On a packed train.’

They laughed.

‘It can’t be anything too serious,’ said Mr Spinell, ‘or we would have been informed.’

A second army letter arrived, telling them to collect Johannes from the station at three on the following Thursday. Katharina went with her father this time, running her hand across her belly until the train arrived and the doors opened, spewing hundreds of dirty uniforms onto the platform.

‘We’ll never find him,’ she said, ‘they all look the same.’

‘Look carefully. He’ll see us.’

She did look, at the blanched cheeks and hollowed eyes, at the lines of hunger, cold and exhaustion ploughed into the men’s faces.

‘My God, Father.’

‘The fighting in Moscow is hard, Katharina. But we shall prevail.’

A fleck of white distracted her, bobbing along the platform amid the swarms of staggering grey. It was a nurse in a sparkling-white cap, holding the arm of a frail man and steering him through the crowd. He was oblivious to the nurse, to the crowd, to the sliver of drool sliding from the side of his mouth. Katharina put her arm on her father’s sleeve.

‘I found him, Father.’

‘Where?’

‘In front of you.’

‘Where, Katharina? I can’t see him.’

‘In front of you. With the nurse.’

‘Oh no, Katharina. No.’

The young man’s uniform hung in folds. The thin, papery skin of an old man had been stretched across his face.

‘My poor son.’

The nurse walked past them, Johannes with her.

‘Come on, Father. Let’s go to him.’

‘I don’t know if I can.’

‘It’s definitely him.’

She tapped the nurse’s arm and introduced herself.

‘Hello, Johannes. Welcome home.’

He turned towards the voice, but looked through her, his blue eyes seeing nothing. Mr Spinell stepped towards Johannes and took his arm.

‘Come on, son. Let’s take you home. Your mother is waiting.’

Johannes started off again, down the platform, shuffling his feet, unwilling, or unable, to lift them. Katharina stayed with the nurse.

‘He’s in shock,’ said the nurse. ‘It happens a lot. The doctors have given him three weeks’ leave, so take him home and put him to bed for a few days. He’ll be fine then. His gun and pack are back in Poland, but his documents are here. They tell you everything you need to know.’

She handed over an envelope.

‘The sedation should wear off in a couple of hours. Have him asleep in bed before that happens.’

‘Why?’

‘He’ll be easier to manage.’

‘Oh.’

‘He’ll be fine. It’s really very common.’

‘How long does it last?’

‘It varies. But he should be better within the three weeks. Contact your own doctor if you need to.’

‘Thank you.’

Katharina followed her father and brother, and caught up quickly, easily. She took Johannes’ left arm, lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it.

‘Hello, Johannes. It’s me, Katharina.’

They led him down the steps to the underground and onto a train, all three silent until they stood in front of the door to their apartment.

‘I need to talk to your mother first. To prepare her a little.’

He tried to put the key in the lock quietly, but his wife heard him, opened the door abruptly and pushed past him to greet her son.

‘Johannes,’ she said, reaching out her arms.

She stopped, her body stilled, her arms outstretched.

‘Johannes. My darling, handsome son.’

She stepped towards him, took his face between her hands and kissed him on both cheeks.

‘Welcome home, my sweetheart. Mama will look after you. You’re safe now.’

She took his hand and led him into the living room, plumped up the cushions, sat him down and took off his boots.

‘Katharina, fetch a blanket for him. Günther, bring the coffee from the kitchen. It’s on the stove.’

They did as she bid, each relieved to have a task that distracted from the mangled shape on the sofa. Katharina tucked the blanket around Johannes’ legs and Mr Spinell handed his son the coffee, but Johannes’ hands remained inert and the cup tipped to one side, spilling coffee onto the blanket.

‘Günther, what are you doing?’

‘I didn’t realize.’

‘Pour another cup. Give it to me this time.’

She lifted the cup to Johannes’ mouth and tipped a little of the coffee between his lips. Some went in, but most dribbled out of the right side of his mouth, mottling the white linen napkin draped across his chest. Cake followed, crumbs that she fingered through his lips, gently, refusing to accept his failure to chew and swallow.

‘I made it this morning, my love. Especially for you.’

‘The nurse said the sedation would wear off soon,’ said Katharina. ‘That we should have him in bed before it does.’