Audrey Magee - The Undertaking

They sat down and started with soup. Mrs Spinell ladled from a ceramic tureen, serving Johannes first.

‘You can start, Johannes,’ she said. ‘It’s vegetable.’

He lifted his fork, dipped it into the bowl and brought it to his mouth. He sucked, but the orange soup dribbled to his chin, little bits of vegetable tumbling to his chest. He tried again, his mother’s ladle suspended over the blue and white tureen, his father and sister staring into bowls that had nothing in them. Mrs Spinell reached across the table.

‘Here, Johannes,’ she said, ‘let me help you.’

She wiped his chin and chest, and gently prised the fork from his hand, replacing it with a spoon.

‘You might find this easier.’

He became more dextrous with each movement of the spoon. He ate most of his soup, lifted the napkin, rubbed his chin and pushed back his chair.

‘Thank you,’ he said, tipping his head into a small bow. ‘That was delicious.’

He walked towards the sofa, his slippers slapping against the wooden floor. They stared after him, their own soup uneaten.

‘He spoke,’ said Mrs Spinell.

‘And ate,’ said Katharina. ‘By himself.’

‘Let’s not make a fuss of it,’ said Mr Spinell.

Dr Weinart returned a couple of days later. Johannes was sitting on the sofa, staring at the pages of a newspaper, neither ripping nor reading.

‘It’s a miracle, Doctor,’ said Mrs Spinell.

‘Has he said much?’

‘Not a lot, no, but they were words.’

‘And used appropriately?’

‘Oh yes, Doctor.’

Dr Weinart checked his pulse and temperature.

‘What is your name?’ he asked.

‘Johannes Spinell.’

‘Do you know the names of the people in this room?’

Johannes said nothing, but stared again at the newspaper.

‘I have no wish to force him. Things are obviously improving. When is his leave due to end?’

‘In ten days,’ said Mr Spinell.

‘I will have them give him an extra week. There is no point in rushing him.’

‘Thank you, Doctor,’ said Mrs Spinell. ‘We are very grateful.’

‘We have to look after our soldiers.’

Johannes followed the doctor to the hall. He stopped in front of the mirror, ran his fingers over his hair, straightened the collar of his pyjamas and leaned into his reflection. He smiled at himself. A little laugh.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Dr Weinart, ‘he’s improving, although it is a strange journey for you all.’

The doctor left.

‘Who was that?’ said Johannes.

‘It was Dr Weinart,’ said Katharina. ‘He has been looking after you.’

‘A doctor. Have I been unwell?’

‘Just a little,’ said Mrs Spinell. ‘But I think you are getting better.’

‘I feel fine. Although hungry.’

Over an early lunch of meat and potato pie, he talked. Feverishly.

‘When did we move here? It’s very grand.’

‘Before Christmas,’ said Katharina. ‘We brought all your things with us.’

‘That’s very kind. You look like you’ve been eating well, Katharina.’

‘I’m pregnant, Johannes.’

‘Oh. A baby?’

‘I got married in August. To a soldier.’

‘A soldier.’

‘He’s in Russia.’

‘Why? Why does he want to be in Russia?’

She looked at her parents. Her mother put her hand on her father’s arm.

‘He’s fighting in the war, Johannes,’ said Mrs Spinell.

‘The war?’

‘On the eastern front,’ said Mr Spinell. ‘You were there too, Johannes.’

‘I’ve never been to Russia, Father. It holds no interest for me.’

They went for a walk and sat on a park bench, Johannes squeezed between his parents, Katharina against her father’s arm.

‘This is a good day, Father.’

‘It is, Katharina.’

When the doorbell rang the following week, Johannes opened the door.

‘Hello, Dr Weinart,’ he said. ‘Come in.’

‘Oh, hello, Johannes. It’s a pleasure to meet you properly. How are you enjoying being home?’

‘Very much. It is a fine apartment.’

‘Can you tell me the names of the people in this room?’

‘The names? Of course I can. Over there, by the fireplace is my father, Günther Spinell. On the sofa, to the right, is my mother Esther Spinell and beside her is my sister, Katharina Faber. And you, should you need reassurance, are Dr Weinart.’

‘Thank you, Johannes. That’s excellent.’

He held up his hand.

‘How many fingers can you see?’

‘Three.’

‘Good. And now?’

‘Two.’

‘Excellent. And what is the date?’

‘March the thirtieth, nineteen forty-two.’

‘Excellent.’

Dr Weinart laughed, picked up Johannes’ hand and shook it.

‘Congratulations, young man. You have made an excellent recovery. Enjoy the rest of your leave.’

‘Thank you, Doctor. Leave from what?’

‘What do you mean, Dr Weinart?’ asked Mrs Spinell.

‘I see no reason why he should not return to his unit.’

‘But he has been so ill.’

‘He is well now, Mrs Spinell. You can see it yourself.’

‘He needs more time,’ she said. ‘He talks to himself in the mirror every day, preening himself, fixing his collar, telling himself that he is off out. He’s not better yet.’

‘I have already given him an extra week. He must return.’

‘Even another week, Doctor?’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Spinell.’

‘He has improved so much over the last few days. One week more will not make any difference to the army.’

‘Esther.’

Mr Spinell took his wife’s hand.

‘This is always hard for a mother, Dr Weinart,’ he said.

‘I understand.’

Mrs Spinell took her hand from her husband.

‘He can’t go back, Doctor,’ she said. ‘I won’t let it happen.’

‘Mrs Spinell, he is a soldier. We need him for our decisive spring campaign. The sooner he goes, the sooner we bring this war to an end.’

‘Doctor, he might be a soldier, but he is also my son. I tell you that he is still too weak to go anywhere.’

Mr Spinell took his wife’s arm.

‘Esther, please.’

‘Günther, please, talk to Dr Weinart.’

Her husband walked away, towards the tall windows coated with rich, glossy, white paint. He placed his hands on the oval brass handle and looked down at the street.

‘What about a second opinion?’ said his wife. ‘An army doctor?’

‘Mrs Spinell, my judgement is final. Your son will return next week.’

‘Günther, please, say something.’

Mr Spinell continued to stare into the street.

‘Mrs Spinell, your husband understands the army’s position.’

‘Günther.’

He turned back to his wife.

‘There is nothing to be done, Esther.’

‘The matter is settled then,’ said Dr Weinart. ‘Good man, Günther. Keep well, Johannes, and good luck.’

‘Goodbye, Doctor,’ said Johannes.

Dr Weinart left. Mr Spinell went with him. The two women sank into the sofa.

‘His own son.’

‘There must be something we can do,’ said Katharina.

‘How could he?’

Johannes sat between them.

‘What’s wrong with Mother, Katharina? She looks a bit pale. Is she ill?’

‘Johannes, did you understand what Dr Weinart said?’

‘I’m afraid I stopped listening, Katharina. I hate it when Mother is emotional.’

‘They want to send you back.’

‘Who does? Back where?’

‘The army. To the front.’

‘Oh. I had quite a good time there, considering.’

‘Where?’

‘France. When I was in France.’

‘No, they want to send you back to Russia.’

‘Katharina, as I have never been there, it is surely hard to send me back.’