Audrey Magee - The Undertaking

‘Who’s going to tell him?’

Weiss yawned and scratched his face.

‘Where’s everybody else, Faber? We’re on our own.’

Faber shoved back the corrugated iron, looked at the dead Russian and pulled it back over them.

‘What are we going to do, Weiss?’

‘I don’t know. That guy stinks.’

‘This whole place stinks.’

Faber ran his hands through his hair. The lice were back.

‘Any sign of the others?’ said Weiss.

‘Not that I can see.’

‘So what’ll we do?’

‘I don’t know.’

They lit cigarettes, waving at the smoke to break it up, diluting its trail.

‘It’s so quiet,’ said Weiss.

‘We should go back. Find them.’

Weiss slipped out from under the corrugated iron and back through the door, towards the west. Faber followed.

‘We’re in hell, Weiss.’

‘It’s too fucking cold to be hell.’

‘I think I see men.’

He peered harder into the fading light.

‘They’re ours.’

‘You sure, Faber?’

‘Certain. Come on.’

On their bellies, they crawled out of the factory to the remains of a junction.

‘You cross first,’ said Weiss.

‘I always follow you.’

‘Now I want to follow you.’

‘I don’t want you to. I want to follow you.’

‘Just go, Faber.’

‘No. You’re older than I am. You’ve always gone first.’

Weiss cursed at him and moved forward. Faber followed, staring at Weiss’ boots, at the gaps in the stitching, surprised when the boots suddenly flipped in a rush of wind, noise and exploding earth, and he found himself staring instead at their steel-tipped toes.

‘Jesus, Weiss. What are you doing?’

Everything was muffled; his own voice, the thump of cement and soil falling on his back and head. But he could see that Weiss was screaming, that his mouth was wide open, that his eyes were startled, that his hands were shaking over the place where his stomach had been, his intestines spilling onto the ground beside him. Faber scrambled to Weiss, deaf still to everything, even to his own crying and screaming. He scooped up the intestines, shoving the ragged and bloodied flesh back into the hole, all the time shouting at Weiss to get off the road, to get back behind a wall, to hide. Weiss stopped screaming. He cried instead, and called for his mother.

Faber heard the hiss of a new attack.

‘Get up, Weiss. Get up.’

Faber ran to a wall, and listened to the crash of each mortar shell onto the earth. He counted twenty-four of them. And then silence.

‘Weiss?’

Nothing.

‘Weiss?’

He stayed there, behind the wall, as night came, his helmet off, his knees against his chest, his fingers picking at pieces of his dead friend’s flesh.

Berlin, October 30th, 1942

My darling Peter,

It is hell here, Peter. Absolute hell. My mother shouts at my father all the time. Any little thing turns into the most enormous row. Yesterday, she accused him of having an affair with another woman. Somebody called Maria. He laughed at her and walked out the door. Again.

I’m always on my own, Peter. It’s just me and Johannes, and it feels so lonely. My mother is about, of course, but she only moves from her bedroom to the living room, just as my brother did, wearing her dressing gown all day, staring at nothing, scavenging all the time through the kitchen cupboards so that she is becoming bloated, fat at a time when everybody else is losing weight. I no longer bother talking to her as she just shouts at me, even when I am holding the baby.

I spend all day at the park, though it’s freezing. But I’ve nowhere else to go to find peace. Come home please soon, my love. I need you to take me away from all this. I do hope that your mother will be a better grandmother to our child than my own.

PS I hear from the radio and read in the newspapers that the fight for Stalingrad is going well. Keep up the good work, my darling. I am very proud of you, of your bravery. Johannes is too. PPS I hope that you are not having an affair with some Russian woman. Natasha here is a little dull to look at, but I am sure there are others who are prettier. You wouldn’t, would you?

Faber flopped onto the cellar floor, waking Faustmann.

‘Where’s Weiss?’

‘Dead.’

Faustmann rolled into a tight ball.

‘What happened?’

‘Shrapnel. His stomach. Mortar shell.’

‘The poor bastard. Are you all right, Faber?’

‘No.’

Kraft handed Faber coffee in a tin cup.

‘Drink, Faber. And then sleep.’

He slept, tucked between the two men, the warmth of their bodies soothing him. He woke at five again and sat with his hands over his mouth, watching morning creep into the room and light up the shelf Kraft had decorated. A porcelain ballerina, one arm missing, a sepia picture of his mother, a candle, a flower of blue tattered silk and a black carriage clock that no longer told the right time, stuck on half past six. The other two woke and Kraft made more coffee.

‘What about his parents?’ said Faustmann.

‘What about them?’

‘Will you write to them?’

‘The army will do that.’

‘But you should too, Faber. You were the last person with him.’

‘What? And tell them their son died with his gut spewing out all over the ground? I can’t do that, Faustmann.’

‘Somebody should.’

‘You do it. You didn’t see him. It’s easier then.’

‘Maybe Kraus should. Does he know yet?’

‘No. Not yet.’

Kraft poured coffee into cups and gave them each a chunk of chocolate.

‘How do you find this stuff?’ said Faber.

‘I pay lots of money for it. More than others are prepared to.’

‘Or able to,’ said Faustmann.

‘That may be so,’ he said, handing them each another piece of chocolate. He stood up and began to tidy their packs, to hang coats and hats from makeshift pegs he had hammered into the wall.

‘Aren’t you having any?’

‘I’m not hungry, Faber.’

‘You didn’t fight at all, Kraft?’ said Faustmann.

‘Did they miss me? Your coats stink.’

‘They’ll execute you if they find out,’ said Faustmann.

‘What? That I’m buying chocolate.’

‘That you’re here. Hiding. Not fighting.’

‘I don’t like it. The noise. The blood. It’s not for me.’

‘None of us likes it,’ said Faber. ‘But we’re supposed to do it.’

‘And I’ve decided not to.’

‘They’ll be looking for you,’ said Faustmann.

‘It’s chaos out there. They won’t notice.’

‘Kraus will,’ said Faber.

‘Is he looking for you? Does he know you two have quit the battlefield to sit here with me drinking coffee and eating chocolate?’

Faustmann drained his cup.

‘We should leave. Thank you for the hospitality.’

Faber followed Faustmann up the rattling staircase and through the hatch.

‘Are you all right, Faber? Are you up for this?’

‘I’ll have to be.’

The wind and rain were laced with ice. Faber, Faustmann and Kraus curled into a hole in the ground that faced east, blankets over their heads and shoulders.

‘We’re going to have to accept it, lads,’ said Kraus.

‘What?’ said Faber.

‘That we’re here for the winter. That this will not be over soon.’

‘You can’t say that, Sergeant.’

‘Do you want me to say it again, Faber?’

‘All we need is more men,’ said Faber. ‘They’ve been promised.’

‘There aren’t any.’

‘I’ve seen them, Kraus.’

‘Convalescents and seventeen-year-olds. They’re no use to us.’