Audrey Magee - The Undertaking

Katharina went to the pawnbroker. He always managed to find things that interested her.

She bought a winter suit for Johannes and a bead necklace for her mother. Under a bundle of watches, she saw a pen, black with gold trimmings, the name ‘Samuel’ etched into the clip.

‘I can remove the name,’ he said.

‘Then it would be perfect.’

‘Would you like another name instead?’

‘Peter.’

She would give it to him at Christmas.

Faber was awake at five. He had an hour. He drank coffee, ate bread, and sat down to write to Katharina. His hand was still. What would he say? That he loved her? Loved their child? That he missed her? He tore the paper. It was all pathetic and pointless.

Why did they want a tractor factory anyway? It was a wreck. The roof and walls were already gone, the complex decimated. The planes and tanks should carry on until there was nothing left, nowhere to hide, just a mound of rubble running down to the river. He hated going in after them, picking through the remains. The more often he did it, the harder it became. And Kraft kept crying. For no reason.

At six the order came as usual. They moved out of their cellars, rats emerging from the sewers, and scrambled forward into the darkness, the carcass of the factory looming in front of them.

‘We’re heading for the southern end,’ said Kraus. ‘Stick together and we’ll be fine.’

‘Are you sure?’ said Faber.

‘As sure as I always am.’

He fell in behind the sergeant, again focusing on the heels of Kraus’ boots. The fraying had been neatly stitched – the gaps closed, the leather gathered, all of it reinforced and repaired. He liked that expertise. His army’s attention to detail. He let out a deep sigh. It would be all right. They knew what they were doing.

The planes came, the tanks rolled in and the explosions shook every fragment of his body. Kraus ordered them to catch up with the tanks, walking behind them, close enough for protection, but not too close to be a target. And in they went, into an enormous cavern of collapsed roofs and tumbled pillars, the floor buried under tank and tractor parts, conveyor belts, screws, spanners, twisted fenders, and bodies, dozens of them, bloated and black, riddled with maggots.

‘I don’t know why we want it,’ said Faber. ‘Any of it.’

‘For your great German Empire,’ said Faustmann.

‘Fuck off, Faustmann.’

They set up their gun behind a wall, its barrel peering through a gap. They began firing, taking turns loading, reloading, throwing grenades, defending, attacking; but they ended the day as they had started, cowering behind the same wall. They ate and slept there, starting again in the morning with new rations and more ammunition, the same pattern day after day, but none of it ever enough to thwart the waves of men that came at them, the colour of their skin and hair shifting from pale to dark, from west Russia to further and further east. An endless stream of men. Kraft began to scream. He was shaking. They laid him down and covered him with Weiss’ large coat. Kraus pointed at a doorway.

‘There must be an opening on the other side of that door. We need to seal it off.’

Faustmann went out in front, his gun spraying from left to right, the others behind him. They reached the door and hurtled through, into a building that scarcely had walls. They could see the river. And then the Russians. Dozens of them rising from the rubble and charging at the four men. Faustmann unfolded the tripod and set up the gun. Kraus fed him. Faber and Faustmann threw grenades but still they came. Faber used his gun, but it was too slow. Loading. Reloading. They were too close. And there were too many of them. He used his bayonet, their warm blood running over his hands and thighs, splashing his face. He preferred his gun. He stuck his knife in a man’s neck, left it there, and ran back out the door after Faustmann, back to the wall where Kraft lay quietly, his eyes open.

‘There’s no end to these bastards,’ said Faber.

‘It’s a big country, Faber.’

Kraus shoved Kraft.

‘We’re out of here. I’ll go back and organize support to block that opening.’

They went to the cellar, but Kraus kept on going, back to the school. Faber, Weiss and Faustmann lay on the floor to sleep. Kraft began to tidy, to arrange the shelving, table and chairs.

‘Why are you bothering?’ said Faber.

‘I may as well make it comfortable.’

‘We’re not staying. We’ll be out of here soon.’

It was night when he woke, the dark sky lit intermittently by bursts of Russian phosphorescence.

Stockhoff sent soup, carried by two fresh recruits, their faces pale.

‘How is it looking, boys?’ said Weiss. ‘How are the other sectors faring?’

‘We are not really sure, Sir,’ said the older of the two. ‘But there are a lot of bodies.’

‘Russian or German?’

‘Both, Sir.’

‘They’re easy to trip over,’ said the younger one. ‘And we spill the soup. Burn our hands.’

‘Stop spilling the soup,’ said Faustmann. ‘We’re hungry.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

They slept until morning. Kraus woke them.

‘Right. You’re rested. We need to take over that building. We’re kicking off in half an hour.’

They gathered behind their wall and waited with Kraus and twenty other men.

‘We need more than this, Kraus,’ said Weiss.

‘It’s coming.’

Just before the half-hour was up, four men emerged from the west, pushing a six-barrelled rocket launcher. Faber cheered. They all cheered.

‘That should sort them out,’ said Faustmann.

The launcher blasted through the walls and its operators forced it on towards the river, its rubber wheels bouncing over the rubble. The men followed, firing guns, hurling grenades, forcing the Russians from the southern end of the factory. They were winning. It was easy. Thrilling. Faber was chuckling at the simplicity of victory, so triumphant that he didn’t hear the hiss of the mortar gun, only the landing of each shell on top of their rocket launcher, on top of their men, scattering body parts. He ran from the building, back behind the wall.

‘Nothing’s working, Kraus,’ said Faber. ‘Our guns are too big and heavy. Nothing’s agile enough. Fast enough.’

‘I can see that, Faber.’

After an hour, they went back into the building. Just infantry. Some went upstairs. Faber and Weiss stayed down, moving along what was left of the walls to the end of the building overlooking the river. Down below them, in the distance, they could see hundreds and hundreds of men leaving boats and running up the riverbank into the city.

‘We’ll never beat them like this, Weiss.’

‘Of course we will. We just have to be clever about it.’

‘I need to eat.’

They crawled under the staircase and pulled a sheet of corrugated iron over them. They ate crackers and tinned meat, and drank water. Weiss looked out, saw nobody and lit a cigarette. He inhaled and passed it to Faber.

‘Thanks.’

Faber held the cigarette against his own until the flame took hold. He handed it back.

‘So what do we do?’

‘I don’t know. I’m sure they’ll come up with something.’

Faber finished his cigarette and tumbled into a sleep that teetered on wakefulness. He felt something beside him. Feet. Russian. Silent in felt boots. He pushed back the iron sheeting, fired a shot, checked for more, found none and went back to sleep, deep this time, waking in the near darkness. Uncertain. Weiss was still beside him. Still asleep. He woke him.

‘We should get out of here.’

Weiss shook his head.

‘How long have we been asleep?’

‘I don’t know. Hours. Kraus will lynch us.’