Audrey Magee - The Undertaking

Her parents were in his room, already dressed, trying to slip a sweater, the one with swastikas, over his head.

‘I’m sorry. I was fast asleep.’

‘Fetch his shoes and socks, Katharina,’ said her mother.

They bundled him into his coat and into the hall. At the door, he wet himself.

‘Oh my God, Johannes,’ said Katharina. ‘Not again.’

‘I’ll get fresh clothes.’

‘No, Esther. We have no time.’

‘We can’t take him like this, Günther. The shelter will stink, and we’ll never be forgiven. Or forgotten.’

Katharina stripped him and her parents dressed him, all three struggling to keep him upright. They steered him down the stairs and onto the street, relieved, as their eyes adjusted to the dark, to find others still there, women with young children and old parents. But Johannes sat down on the pavement, under a siren. The others were quickly gone.

‘Hurry, Johannes,’ said Mr Spinell. ‘They’ll shut the doors very soon.’

Katharina could see the huge concrete shelter towering over the street, but it seemed miles away. They lifted Johannes to his feet and hurried him forward, his laces undone, his feet stumbling. Mr Spinell shouted at two men shutting the doors at the top of the concrete staircase. They didn’t hear him, and the bombs started to fall on the outskirts of the city, far to the west, but falling nonetheless. Mr Spinell shouted louder. At his son. At the men. He waved the arm that was not holding Johannes and the two men caught sight of him. They grabbed Johannes under his arms and dragged him up the steps. Katharina and her parents followed and the doors slammed shut, heavy bolts and bars thrown across their width.

‘Thank God,’ said Mr Spinell. ‘And thank you, gentlemen.’

‘Don’t do that again,’ said one of the men.

‘No. No, we won’t. We’re hoping he’ll improve soon.’

Katharina and her parents normally sat on the ground floor during the raids, with a little bag of books, cushions, puzzles and sewing. This time all the lower floors were full and they had nothing with them.

‘You’ll have to go towards the top,’ said the man at the door.

They followed the trail of fluorescent paint that led to the staircase and began to climb. Johannes moved easily, as though more compliant when sheltered from the outside, from the cold, the wind. The first, second and third floors were full. They found space on the fourth, close to the flak towers on the roof.

‘I don’t like being so high,’ said Katharina. ‘We’re nearer to them.’

‘These towers are indestructible, Katharina. The Führer designed them himself.’

‘I know that, Father, but I still prefer to be lower down.’

They walked through rooms full of people already settled into their routines as they waited for it all to be over. Mothers and grandmothers sitting on wooden benches were reading to young children while old men scraped out pipes and talked quietly to one another. The older children knew to behave, knew to resume sleep or unfinished schoolwork. They looked at Johannes, but then looked away. It was rude to stare.

In the last room on the fourth floor, they found a space next to a group of families with young children. Mrs Spinell guided Johannes to the bench and sat him down, tilting his back towards the dusty concrete wall. She smoothed his hair.

‘Now, my love, we’re here, and you’re safe.’

Katharina’s parents sat either side of her brother. She flopped down beside her mother, sighed and laughed.

‘What is it?’ said her mother.

‘Look, he’s wearing odd shoes.’

‘We’ll get it right next time,’ said Mrs Spinell.

One of the anti-aircraft guns on the roof kicked off, closer than Katharina was used to, and noisier. She decided to ignore it, to drift off towards sleep, but her mother’s movements were agitated.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I don’t know. He’s trembling.’

‘Maybe he’ll settle in a minute.’

A second, then a third gun started firing. Katharina put her hands to her ears, then to her belly, which was becoming round and firm. Her mother sat forward. Johannes was shaking, his arms and legs rattling in time to the weapons. Mrs Spinell tried to rock him, to sway him as though he were back in her arms, her troubled infant, whispering into his ear. He settled a little. Katharina sat back against the wall, but a blast pushed her forward. A single bomb. People screamed, but only briefly, regaining their composure when they realized that the walls and ceiling were intact.

But Johannes’ breathing did not settle, and the emptiness of his eyes was gone, displaced by a vivid, frantic blue. Katharina slid to the floor and rubbed his legs. Her mother pulled at her.

‘Get up, child. People are looking at you.’

‘Mother, we need to keep him calm.’

‘Get up. You’re pregnant. You look ridiculous.’

She got up, and sat beside her father, nestling into her brother, the tremor of his limbs passing into hers.

‘Sssh. It’ll soon be over.’

Another bomb fell. Then another. Four of them, six, battering at the people’s calm and confidence. The children wailed. The adults ordered them to be quiet, told them it would soon be over. They obeyed, but Johannes was on the floor, rolled in a ball, his hands over his ears, his eyes shut tight, his mouth wide open in a scream that made no sound. Katharina tried to lift him up.

‘Come on, Johannes. It’s not that bad.’

Johannes remained on the floor, still curled up.

‘Come on, son,’ said Mr Spinell, ‘you don’t want to worry people.’

‘Maybe you should leave him there, Father. Let him recover. He’s not doing any harm.’

‘It’s shameful, Katharina. Help your father.’

She bent down, but lost her balance and toppled onto her brother’s chest and head, throwing him into darkness. He shrieked, so piercingly that the children began to cry. In time they responded to their mothers’ soothing. But Johannes fought off all attempts to soothe him, and continued screaming. The mothers carried their children to another part of the shelter, away from Johannes, the man made mad by war.

Dr Weinart came, carrying a cake box.

‘For you, Mrs Spinell.’

She received it awkwardly, almost with a curtsey.

‘That’s very kind of you, Dr Weinart. Thank you.’

‘It’s nothing.’

She shifted the box from one hand to the other.

‘Let me help, Mother.’

‘I’m fine, Katharina. People don’t really give cakes any more, do they, Dr Weinart?’

‘Don’t they, Mrs Spinell? I hadn’t noticed.’

‘We must be very lucky.’

She passed the cake to her daughter.

‘Günther, take the doctor’s coat.’

Katharina balanced the cake evenly on her palms and walked towards the kitchen, salivating. She lifted the lid. It was a chocolate roulade filled with fresh cream and decorated with sifted icing sugar and mint, the sprig set perfectly in the centre of the cake. Mrs Spinell came in behind her.

‘Let me see it.’

‘It’s gorgeous, Mother.’

Katharina transferred the cake onto a white rectangular gilt-edged plate and stood over it, inhaling the chocolate and mint.

‘I have to do this.’

She dipped her finger into the cream and licked it, scraping her skin with her teeth to ensure none had been left behind. She rolled the cream over and under her tongue, and swallowed.

‘Heavenly.’

‘Let me.’

Mrs Spinell took more than her daughter, a large blob that covered a third of her finger.

‘That’s not fair.’

Katharina laughed and dug in a second time, using a teaspoon to smooth over the holes.

‘Why is Dr Weinart so kind to us, Mother?’