Audrey Magee - The Undertaking

‘Thanks,’ said Katharina.

She extended her legs along the sofa.

‘Dr Weinart is obviously more used to cake than we are.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Mr Spinell.

‘He left half of his on his plate.’

‘He’s a very important man, Katharina, and that brings its privileges.’

Mr Spinell ate dinner and left the apartment, leaving the women to bathe Johannes.

‘We should get him to bed early,’ said Mrs Spinell. ‘It’s a perfect night for the English.’

When the siren sounded, Katharina snapped awake. Her parents were already in the doorway, her mother clutching a pack of cards as she would an evening bag.

‘Will you be all right, Katharina?’

‘Just go, Mother.’

She pushed the door tightly behind them, shutting out any bombs that might land in the hall, and twice checked that the windows were shuttered and the curtains fully drawn. Johannnes was asleep. She heard planes, to the west of the city.

‘Please God, let them stay there.’

She tried to read her American book, but it was boring. She was bored. And safer than she had expected. She stood up.

‘I know I shouldn’t do this, Johannes.’

She switched off the light, drew open the curtains, opened the shutters, raised the window and looked out. The air was cold, exhilarating, the street dark and still, emptied of everything but feral cats evicted from homes that no longer had food for them.

The sky was a chalky orange, a mixture of fire and dust. She could see the planes, little black dots waltzing over houses and shops, over people; swirling and twisting around each other in a dance of incongruous beauty. She closed the window, shutters and curtains, sat down on the chair beside Johannes’ bed and pulled the blanket over her shoulders and chest, her feet against her brother’s hand, her hands over her womb.

She didn’t hear the plane until it was overhead, a single one, straying from the pack, its engine quiet and light. She begged it to move on. It didn’t. It released a bomb, a sharp, single whistle, an exhilarated child rushing down a slide. She dived under her brother’s bed, pleading for his protection. He slept on. The house shook and the windows rattled. She remained under the bed, listening to the lightness of her brother’s breath until her mother returned.

‘He slept through it all,’ said Katharina.

‘Thank God for that,’ said Mrs Spinell. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You look exhausted. Go to bed. I’ll warm some milk for you.’

‘Where’s Father?’

‘He has gone to help. A house three streets away was hit by a bomb.’

‘It sounded so much closer. I thought they were going to kill us.’

‘Go on, Katharina. Go to bed.’

Under the covers, still in her clothes, she cupped her belly, mumbling apologies over and over to the baby. Mrs Spinell sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing her back through the blankets.

‘Drink your milk while it’s still warm.’

‘I’ll get it in a minute. Leave it on the table.’

Mrs Spinell remained where she was until Katharina emerged.

‘I can’t believe that Johannes slept through it, Mother.’

‘Maybe Dr Weinart is right and it will do him some good.’

‘It was the machine guns that upset him the last time, wasn’t it? I wonder if something happened with machine guns when he was in Russia.’

‘I can’t bear to think about it, Katharina.’

‘I have to think about it because what if Peter comes back like that? His brain turned to mush? Or without arms or legs? What happens then? What type of life do I have then?’

‘You should sleep. I’m sure Peter’s fine.’

‘You don’t know that. You can’t know that. The whole damned thing goes on and on, with no end.’

‘There is an end. The summer.’

‘They said Christmas. Now it’s summer. How long are we supposed to wait? I am sick of it all.’

‘It will all be over soon. You heard Dr Weinart.’

‘And you believe him?’

‘I have to, Katharina.’

Russia, March 4th, 1942

My darling Katharina,

I am jealous. There. I have admitted it. Johannes is home with you. I am not. He is in clean clothes, sitting down each evening to have dinner with you. I am still in this fleapit, no closer to being home than I was when we set off down these godforsaken roads.

I hate this place. I am worn out, Katharina. By the war, by being without you, by these stupid, ugly Russians who come at us with whatever weapons they can find, in whatever clothing. They are relentless.

I am trying to focus on cheerful things, on the fact that spring is coming, that the wind is abating and that tiny little flowers are pushing their way up through the melting snow. But it is hard. I miss you so much and I miss my friend, Fuchs. He seems to have died so needlessly, Katharina. If we had been allowed to wait at our previous camp until the snows had melted, Fuchs would be alive now. As it is, we have made little difference to Kharkov. It still belongs to us. The Russians are too weak. It was all so bloody pointless. Except for Reinisch. He is to be promoted. For his good work in marching us through the snow.

I don’t know if this letter will evade the censor, but if it does, forgive my grumpiness. It is only that I am fed up, worn out by the Russians and their scrawny, lice-ridden women who possess none of your beauty. They even send their women to fight, Katharina.

I’m sorry, my love, to burden you in this way. I am, on the whole, quite well and safe, if a little tired. But I do miss you, terribly, and I fret in the darkness of night that this war will go on so long that you will forget me. By tomorrow morning, when the sun has warmed me a little, I will feel more positive, certain that it will all be over soon and that I will be back to you and our baby.

I am looking forward to it very much, Katharina. To being with you and our child. I can’t decide if I want a boy or a girl. Have you a preference? Whatever it is, I know we will make it a happy and healthy child.

I do miss and love you.

Katharina stretched as she walked into the living room, chasing sleep from her limbs. Johannes was already there, upright on the sofa, awake. Mrs Spinell was beside him.

‘He got up by himself,’ she said.

‘Has he said anything?’

‘Not yet.’

Katharina lifted his hand and kissed skin that was still pale but softer. No longer paper dry.

‘Good morning, Johannes. It’s nice to see you up and about.’

In the afternoon, he began to pick at things. His pyjamas. His dressing gown. Plucking threads, twisting and tugging, working them over and over until they were tiny balls of dense cotton.

‘Is he getting better, Mother?’

‘So far as we can tell.’

The following day, he switched to newspaper, tearing long strips first, then shredding the war reports into tiny pieces, scattering black and grey confetti on the sofa and floor. Mrs Spinell reprimanded him, tidied up, washed the ink from his hands but then gave him a second newspaper.

‘I suppose it’s doing you some good,’ she said.

But he wasn’t interested. He stood up, walked to the table and sat down, extending his large, elegant hands across the mahogany.

‘Are you hungry, Johannes?’ said Mrs Spinell. ‘Dinner will be in about an hour.’

He remained there, still, even as Katharina worked around him, placing mats, cutlery and glasses on the table, chattering as she went. She put down his napkin and he lifted it up, unfolded it and placed it across his knees.

Mr Spinell came home, hesitated, and kissed the crown of his head.

‘Hello, son. Have these women not got your dinner ready yet?’