Audrey Magee - The Undertaking

‘We’ve walked into hell, Sergeant,’ said Faber.

‘There’s a school close by that will serve as our company base. We’ll move across the city from there.’

‘How long will it take, Sergeant?’

‘Not long, Faber.’

‘You always say that.’

‘So stop fucking asking.’

The school still had most of its roof and all of its desks, though no longer in neat rows. The men went down into the basement, and found an extensive network of passages and rooms. Stockhoff was already there, preparing his kitchen. Queues had formed for the barber, tailor and cobbler, and small amounts of hot water were being dispensed for washing. The doctor was busy with blistered feet. Faber went there first.

‘I prefer the way my wife does it,’ said Faber. ‘Letting them soak in hot water first.’

‘I presume she only has one husband. Go on, out of here.’

Washed, shaved, his hair and nails cut, he settled down to clean his gun, stripping it back to dust and oil each part, his fingers practised in the routine. He slept well, despite the barrage of tank and artillery fire that continued through the night. It was not his problem. He was safe.

Katharina went to her mother and opened the curtains.

‘Up you get, Mother. We’re going to Mrs Weinart’s today.’

Mrs Spinell groaned.

‘Go without me, Katharina.’

‘She’s expecting all of us.’

‘There is no all of us.’

‘Stop it, Mother.’

‘I don’t want to go.’

‘I’ll help you choose something to wear.’

She held up dresses, one in each hand.

‘Either of these?’

‘No.’

‘Mother, you can’t stay in bed for ever. You’ll rot.’

‘I already have rotted.’

‘Oh, get up. Natasha is making breakfast. Eggs and toast.’

‘Don’t let her have any.’

‘No, Mother.’

The Russian had a heavier hand in the kitchen than either Katharina or her mother, so that her cooking was not always successful. But she was good with clothes; cleaning too, and Johannes liked her.

Katharina took the baby from the Russian and fed him, running her fingers over his fontanelles, willing the gaps to close. They had to be at the doctor’s house at ten, and her mother would require all her attention.

Mrs Weinart had a selection of cakes ready for them in her living room. She took Johannes immediately, fussing over his tiny hands and nose.

‘He must bring you so much pleasure, Mrs Spinell. Your own grandchild.’

‘Oh, I enjoy him thoroughly, Mrs Weinart.’

Katharina wanted to sit down.

‘Do, Mrs Faber, do. First-time motherhood is exhausting. But you have help, I hear.’

‘Indeed, Mrs Weinart,’ said her mother. ‘She is settling in well. We are lucky to have her.’

The doctor’s wife passed Johannes to Mrs Spinell, and poured coffee.

‘We’ll let your daughter rest, Mrs Spinell.’

‘Indeed.’

Katharina looked at her mother, who smiled down at her grandson and held out a finger for him to hold. He took it.

‘Have you heard from your husband, Mrs Weinart?’

‘I was talking to him on the telephone last night, Mrs Faber. He is well. They both are, but the work is hard as the partisans keep setting fire to the crop. Can you believe it? Such wanton destruction.’

‘It seems to be a very hard place, Mrs Weinart. They are a hard people.’

‘True, Mrs Faber. But we’ll sort them out soon enough. How is your husband?’

‘He is at Stalingrad. I am very proud of him.’

‘You should be.’

They ate and drank, and Mrs Weinart took charge of Johannes again, playing with him, singing to him, and calling on her own children to come and see the baby. They played gently with the infant and sang when their mother asked them to. The girls danced too. Katharina laughed.

‘They’re gorgeous children, Mrs Weinart.’

‘I’m sure your son will grow up to be just like them, Mrs Faber.’

Kraus woke them at five and Stockhoff fed them hot coffee and warm bread with jam. At six they left, moving north-east towards the factory district, the sky lightening and clearing, promising heat, a last surge of summer sun. Tanks, machine guns and heavy artillery announced the start of the assault and Faber ran down a boulevard, scurrying from one fragment of wall to the next, barely able to hear the weapons over the sound of his own breath and pounding heart.

‘I don’t like this,’ said Faber.

‘Nor do I,’ said Faustmann. ‘It’s not what we’re used to.’

Snipers fired towards them from the right. Faber saw three men go down, each shot through the head.

‘Training wasn’t like this,’ said Weiss.

A captain circled his arm through the air, pressing them forward.

‘Keep going,’ he shouted. ‘They can’t get all of us.’

‘Fuck that,’ said Kraus. ‘This way, boys.’

He pushed through a door and Faber followed, turning to let Weiss know, but he was already behind him, followed by Kraft, Faustmann and Gunkel. Faber focused on Kraus’ boots, on the leather fraying over the heels, as they clambered over rubble, across tables, beds, dressers, along bullet-punctured walls sieving dust and smoke; his trousers were wet with urine, and sweat poured from his cold, clammy skin. Sniper fire dissected the air, slicing through gaps between walls and doors, between one building and another, one street and the next. Faber grabbed Kraus’ boot and pinned him to the rubble. He shouted at his sergeant.

‘I want to go back.’

‘You can’t.’

‘I can’t do this, Kraus.’

‘You have to. You’re a fucking soldier, Faber.’

‘I’m not. I’m a schoolteacher. A fucking provincial school-teacher.’

‘Act like a soldier, Faber, or you’ll never be a schoolteacher again.’

Faber followed him, crawling on his belly when Kraus did, tracking the heels and soles of his boots to places snipers could not reach. But mortars could. And grenades. They scrambled behind a piece of corrugated iron, their backs against a west-facing wall, sweating and panting, separated from the rest of the group.

‘It’s harder than I expected,’ said Kraus.

‘They’re bastards.’

They waited until it was dark and crawled back to the school. The others were already there. They all shook hands.

‘We didn’t see any point in staying out there, Sergeant,’ said Weiss.

‘We’ll try again tomorrow when we’re a bit more familiar with the territory,’ said Kraus.

Stockhoff soothed them with bacon and potato.

‘It might take a bit longer than Kharkov, lads,’ said Kraus.

‘How many dead, Sergeant?’ said Kraft.

‘Six. All sniper fire. No wounded.’

‘We’re not used to this, Sir.’

‘I know, Faustmann.’

‘We know trenches and open spaces. Not this.’

‘I know. But we’re going to have to find a way.’

The following morning, when it was still dark, they raced through the streets, moving before the sun rose, before the snipers could see them. They reached so far forward that they could no longer go back. They settled behind a wall that hid them from the east, and Faustmann set up his gun. They waited, still and silent, until the sun began to move towards the west, revealing a sniper they had not been able to see in the morning. Faustmann took him out. They moved on again, found a cellar, moved in, and waited for Stockhoff to find them. The cook brought soup, rations for the next day and a letter for Faber from his wife.

‘She sent me two bars of chocolate, lads.’

He passed them round. The third he slipped back into his pocket with the envelope.