Audrey Magee - The Undertaking

‘He and your father go back a long way. He was a lieutenant in the last war, very young but very gifted, and your father recognized that, accepting his youth when others wouldn’t.’

‘And they stayed in touch all this time?’

‘This war brought them back together.’

Mrs Spinell carried the plate and coffee to the table. Katharina followed with a knife and cut into the cake, first serving the doctor, then her father, her mother and herself, sneaking the mint sprig onto her own plate, hidden from her mother’s view. They set their plates on the table and waited for Dr Weinart to stop talking, to start eating so that they could follow his lead. But he carried on, talking about the war, the eastern front, their triumphs, oblivious to the poured coffee and unfolded napkins, indifferent to their torment. Mr Spinell coughed; Mrs Spinell spoke.

‘Please, Dr Weinart, do start.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Spinell.’

He raised his plate, allowing them to raise theirs, but his fork remained on the table.

‘It’ll all be ours by the summer. Once this spring campaign is under way, they are finished.’

‘That’s certain,’ said Mr Spinell.

‘We must concede that we were somewhat thwarted by their winter weather, but that is behind us now. We will again prove our strength.’

‘Indeed,’ said Mr Spinell.

‘Please, Dr Weinart,’ said Mrs Spinell. ‘Your coffee will go cold.’

He picked up his fork and poked at the edge of his cake. He didn’t eat, but the movement was sufficient for the others to start on the rich, dark and obviously expensive chocolate sponge.

‘This cake is marvellous,’ said Katharina, ‘where did you find it?’

‘I am glad you are enjoying it, Mrs Faber.’

‘Where can I find one? Is there a special bakery that you go to? I would use a week’s salary to buy one.’

Dr Weinart cleared his throat. Mr Spinell echoed the polite cough.

The doctor returned his plate to the table, half of the cake uneaten, and wiped his mouth with their best linen.

‘Mrs Faber, this is a cake made by one of the Führer’s bakers. It is not available to you.’

‘Oh, I see. Then I am honoured to eat it.’

‘Indeed.’

The doctor finished his coffee and declined to take any more.

‘Now, Mrs Spinell, how is your son? Johannes.’

‘The same, Dr Weinart,’ said Mrs Spinell. ‘He lies all day staring at the ceiling. He moves his mouth less, though, and makes the occasional sound. An improvement of sorts, I suppose.’

‘That’s good.’

‘His food intake is small but steady. Beyond that, there is little I can tell you.’

‘May I see him now?’

‘Of course.’

They followed the doctor into the bedroom where Johannes lay awake but motionless on the mattress.

‘Johannes,’ said Mr Spinell. ‘This is Dr Weinart. He has come to examine you.’

Dr Weinart sat on the edge of the bed. He picked up Johannes’ hand and shook it.

‘Hello, Johannes.’

Johannes’ limp fingers slipped from the doctor’s and fell back onto the sheet. Dr Weinart checked his temperature and pulse. He clicked his fingers and clapped his hands beside each ear.

‘We shall just have to wait. I will come back in a week unless something changes and you need me sooner.’

‘Thank you, Doctor,’ said Mrs Spinell.

‘And he hasn’t made any sounds at all, Mrs Spinell?’

They trailed behind him as he walked to the hall door.

‘Only at the bomb shelter. He became a little upset there.’

‘Ah yes, I heard about that.’

Dr Weinart wrapped his scarf around his neck and began to fasten his coat, which was made of fine dark wool. He stopped at the third button.

‘I think it is better not to take Johannes to the shelter in future.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Mrs Spinell.

‘In the interests of German science, I want to see if Johannes can sleep through a bombing raid, to find out if his subconscious will allow him to rest.’

‘We can’t do that to him, Dr Weinart,’ said Mrs Spinell.

‘Keep him in bed, Mr Spinell. Without sedation.’

‘He shouldn’t be left like that,’ said Katharina.

‘One of you, unfortunately, will have to sit with him.’

‘Oh,’ said Mr Spinell.

‘I think it is for the best. For him. And, indeed, for your neighbours.’

‘Our neighbours?’ said Katharina.

‘We don’t want them seeing a soldier frightened of bombs. It’s bad for morale.’

‘Why would it be bad for morale?’ she said. ‘It’s just the truth.’

‘I’m sure your parents understand, Mrs Faber.’

‘Indeed,’ said Mr Spinell.

Mrs Spinell wrapped her arms tightly across her chest as the doctor resumed buttoning his coat.

Her husband spoke again.

‘I will arrange it, Doctor.’

‘Thank you, Günther. And thank you for your hospitality.’

‘Thank you for the cake,’ said Mr Spinell.

Mrs Spinell closed the door, listened until she could no longer hear the doctor’s shoes on the stairs, and turned on her husband.

‘How could you, Günther?’

‘What?’

‘Pander to him like that?’

‘Esther, that man has been very kind to us.’

‘So kind that we have to stay here during a bombing raid.’

‘That’s enough. It might help Johannes.’

‘Or kill him. Kill us all.’

‘Stop it, Esther. We have to do what he says.’

‘“We have to do what he says.”’

‘Stop it.’

‘Good old Günther Spinell. Always does what the big boys say.’

‘That’s enough. It’s done now.’

She slumped into the sofa.

‘What if the house is hit?’

‘That’s very unlikely, Esther.’

‘You can’t be sure. You don’t know.’

Katharina sat down beside her mother.

‘I’ll stay with him,’ she said.

‘You?’ said Mrs Spinell. ‘You’re pregnant. You can’t.’

‘I’ll be fine, Mother.’

‘What would people think of us, Katharina?’

‘Who will know?’

‘It’s out of the question. Your father and I will do it. Günther will do the first night.’

‘Fine,’ he said.

‘Let me do it,’ said Katharina.

‘If you’re sure,’ said Mr Spinell. ‘I should really be with your mother.’

‘Günther, that’s your pregnant daughter. You can’t let her do it.’

‘I’ll be fine, Mother. You’ll frighten Johannes if you stay with him. You’ll be too nervous.’

‘And you won’t?’

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘Let her do it, Esther. She can rest on our return.’

‘How can you do this? You’re a coward, Günther Spinell.’

Katharina returned the cups and plates to the kitchen, cut a piece of cake for Johannes and sat on his bed to tuck the chocolate into his mouth.

‘Taste it, Johannes. It’s by the Führer’s baker. And it’s far better than Mother’s.’

She stroked his hair, kissed his forehead and ran her hand over his cheeks, still hollow despite a week of mashed potatoes and vegetables, the weight of his head and body making barely a dent on the bed linen.

‘Come back to us, Johannes.’

She sat down in a chair, covered her knees with a blanket, and stared at him, the stillness enhanced by the quiet rhythm of his breathing and the occasional flutter in her belly. She ate what remained of the cake and read for a short while from an American detective novel that was being passed around the women at work. Her father disapproved, so she read it out of his sight.

Her parents were by the living room fire, reading newspapers. She showed them the empty plate.

‘He liked the cake.’

‘How is he?’ said Mrs Spinell.

‘Asleep.’

‘We left some cake for you.’