Audrey Magee - The Undertaking

‘So, where is he? The doctor’s fat son. Is he here? In Berlin?’

‘No. On the Russian front somewhere.’

‘He’s not fat any more then.’

They both laughed, and he offered her his arm. She took it.

‘And your father? What does he think?’

‘He approved of you. From the beginning.’

‘So why does he want to turn me into a farmer?’

‘He gets ideas. But you should see Weinart. It can’t do any harm.’

‘I said I’d think about it.’

She tugged his arm and he shortened his stride to keep pace with her. He took a deep breath and rolled from the heel to the toe of each foot, relishing the hard pavement, the distance from Russia. He felt her press into him.

‘Actually, my father likes you.’

‘How can you possibly tell?’

‘You’re a soldier, fighting on the front. That is enough for him.’

‘He made that clear, I suppose. And you? What do you think?’

‘I haven’t decided yet.’

‘Should I try to persuade you?’

‘You could try.’

He put his hands on her shoulders and steered her backwards, into the doorway of a shop that was already closed. He kissed her. She pushed him away and moved back onto the pavement, her right hand over her mouth, overwhelmed by his stench.

‘Your buckles were sticking into me,’ she said.

He smiled at her.

‘You’re a funny woman. Come on. Let’s see this park.’

She took his arm again. They walked through the gates to a bench overlooking a lake. Three boys were using the last of the day’s light to push boats around the lake with long sticks.

‘It’s good to sit among trees again. Russia’s forests are huge and dark. Frightening. I hate them.’

‘Is there anything you like about Russia?’

‘I was in Belgium before and it was civilized, comfortable. The people were like us. But Russia is different. Hard and hostile.’

‘It’ll soon be over.’

‘It’s such a big country. It seems to go on for ever.’

‘All the better for us.’

‘I suppose so.’

He kissed her again and she let him, briefly.

‘I thought it was against the rules for soldiers to kiss in public,’ she said.

‘I’m sure they’d forgive a man on his honeymoon.’

He stared at the lake, at the water lapping at the boys’ feet. She put her head on his shoulder, her face away from him.

‘Why did you marry?’ she said.

‘I wanted leave. And you?’

‘My mother said it would be a good idea. A bit of security, I suppose. The title of wife. Other girls are doing it.’

‘Why did you choose me?’

She smiled.

‘I don’t know. I liked your picture. Your hands, especially.’

He flipped them over and back.

‘What is there to like about my hands?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said.

She touched his thumb.

‘They’re strong. Sinewy. I like that.’

‘Ah yes, I remember. You don’t like fat.’

They both laughed and he kissed her again.

‘You’re prettier than I thought. Your hair and eyes. Your smile. Why didn’t you smile in the photograph?’

‘Mother said I shouldn’t. That it might put men off.’

‘You’ll have to stop listening to your mother.’

‘If I had, you wouldn’t be here.’

He opened her coat and ran his hands over her breasts.

‘You’re much prettier than I expected.’

‘So you keep saying. What had you expected?’

‘Somebody duller.’

‘Why would you marry somebody dull?’

‘God knows.’

They laughed and she stood up.

‘We should go,’ she said.

They passed the boys’ abandoned sticks.

‘What do your parents think of our marriage?’ she said.

‘I haven’t told them yet.’

‘Will they approve?’

‘I doubt it. They don’t know you.’

‘Nor do you.’

‘No, but I will.’

‘Will you, Mr Faber? You sound very sure of yourself.’

She took his arm.

‘We should hurry. Mother will be waiting for you.’

Mrs Spinell stood at the end of the corridor waving her arm, directing Faber to the bathroom. The bath was already full.

‘Please use the toothpaste and soap sparingly,’ she said. ‘They’re hard to come by.’

‘I will.’

‘Leave your clothes in there.’

‘Thank you.’

He smiled at Katharina, closed the door and began to undress, dried Russian soil falling to the floor as he removed layer after layer of clothing stiff with sweat. He looked in the mirror, at his tanned face and torso, at his white legs and red feet, blistered and chafed by months of marching over hard Russian earth.

He stepped into the hot water and submerged his head, wallowing in the warmth and quietness, in his distance from the other soldiers. He splashed water over his chest, relieved to be away from the noise, the chaos, the explosions, the buzzing of flies, the rattle of machine guns, from the voice of Katharina’s father making plans for the rest of his life. He didn’t need another father. Another set of parents.

He bent his knees and dropped his head under the water again. Away from the maggots crawling from corpses, from the sickly sweet stench of death. Cocooned in water. In stillness. In nothingness. He wanted to stay, but came up for air, took the flannel and soap from the end of the bath, and scrubbed himself until the water turned brown.

Mrs Spinell had left clothes, a razor, toothbrush and paste on a stool by the sink. He dragged the dull blade through his stubble and scrubbed at his teeth, so neglected that the foam turned from light pink to red. The trousers were too short, but the shirt fit well enough. He hesitated at the sweater with swastikas on each sleeve but pulled it on anyway, grateful for the warmth of the thickly knitted wool.

Mrs Spinell hurried from the kitchen as he opened the bathroom door.

‘It feels good to be clean again,’ he said.

He saw her looking at the floor.

‘Could you at least empty the bath?’ she said.

‘Of course.’

‘Your food is ready.’

‘I’m afraid that I used all the soap.’

‘And the toothpaste?’

‘There was only a small amount anyway.’

Katharina and Mr Spinell were already at the table. A single black pot sat between them, steam seeping from an ill-fitting lid.

‘Sit down,’ said Mr Spinell. ‘Eat with us.’

Mrs Spinell piled stewed vegetables onto her husband’s plate and selected three pieces of meat to place on top of the mound. She gave the same to Faber, but only two to herself and Katharina. Faber ate in silence, chewing at the gristly beef offcuts, mopping the watery sauce with grey bread. He sat back from his meal, months of hunger still to be sated.

Mrs Spinell slipped a brown paper bag into the pocket of her daughter’s faded blue apron.

‘You’ll need that.’

‘What is it?’

‘Powder.’

‘For what?’

‘He has lice.’

‘What? How can you tell?’

Katharina turned from the sink to look at Faber, who sat beside her father scrutinizing Johannes’ trophies and badges. He scratched his scalp, briefly but aggressively, still holding the thread of conversation. She whispered to her mother.

‘He doesn’t even know he’s doing it.’

‘The bath must have roused them,’ said Mrs Spinell. ‘That’s some husband you chose.’

Katharina wiped down the sink, although it was already clean.

‘You’ll have to treat him, Katharina.’

‘But I hardly know him.’

‘You’re his wife, Katharina. Do it or you’ll get them too. We all will.’

‘It’s too disgusting.’

‘They might be all over him. You’ll have to ask.’

Katharina folded the tea towel and took down the crockery required for breakfast.