Audrey Magee - The Undertaking

‘And officers back from leave,’ said Faustmann. ‘Looking fat and rested.’

‘But they’re on their way,’ said Faber. ‘They must be.’

‘So it’s said. Either way, we need shelter.’

In the early morning darkness, they prised sleepers from the railway line that ran through the city and carried them back to their end of the tractor factory. They dug into the ground and built a wooden cave big enough for them to sleep and squat in, the entrance hidden by a bank of earth, the dampness attenuated by a wood fire in a small metal barrel.

‘How much longer do you think we’ll have to put up with this, Kraus?’

‘I don’t know, Faber.’

The routine was firmly in place. As structured as his father’s teaching. He got up at dawn, urinated, ate and crawled through the rubble with Faustmann and Kraus to find a place for their gun, a nest safe from snipers. A different place each day.

At nine, sometimes earlier, sometimes later, the Russians began firing; rockets and shells hissed and screeched across the river, blasting the already blasted dead, blowing holes in the already mangled earth. He shut out that noise, focusing instead on the sound of a footstep, a breath, a whisper in a language he did not understand. And shot it. Dead. Always dead. Only the dead counted in their end-of-day tally.

‘I’m beating you, Faustmann.’

‘I’ve given up keeping tabs, Faber.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘I couldn’t be bothered, Faber. Too many dead.’

When it was dark, they went to the trench behind them and waited for Stockhoff. He gave them coffee, cabbage soup, chocolate, a day’s rations, razor blades, cigarettes and lice powder.

‘It’s always good to see you, Stockhoff,’ said Kraus. ‘But where’s the meat?’

‘You get what I get.’

‘It’s cold. We need it.’

‘I do tell them that.’

‘And what do they say?’

‘Nothing, so Gunkel is helping me. We are trying.’

‘Any news on replacements?’

‘First-timers again.’

‘They won’t last long then. And winter clothes?’

‘Nothing yet, Sergeant.’

‘And post?’

‘Not a lot. It’s slow too. Only one for Faber and one for Kraft.’

Kraus took both letters, passed one to Faber and looked at the one addressed to Kraft.

‘Has anybody seen him, Stockhoff? Any news?’

‘Nothing, Kraft.’

He threw it to the ground, Faber picked it up and slipped it into the inside pocket of his tunic, next to the photographs of his wife and son. He opened the letter from Katharina. He laughed.

‘She wonders whether I’m having an affair.’

‘Take your pick of those fine Russian women soldiers,’ said Faustmann. ‘Just be careful what she does with her knife.’

‘You’re sick.’

‘Sick and getting sicker.’

Stockhoff left, but his orderlies remained to heat water and clean out the latrines, the darkness lit by a single oil lamp and Russian phosphorescence.

‘There are advantages to being a frontline soldier,’ said Faustmann.

They lit cigarettes and waited until the orderlies left. The latrines still stank and the water was only warm. Faber dipped his spare vest into the water, squeezed it, rubbed soap into the fabric and cleaned his face, ears, neck, underarms, groin and bottom. He scrubbed his teeth, ignoring the blood, and shaved without a mirror. He dunked his head into the dirty water, shook off the heavy droplets and threw on lice powder, digging it into his scalp with his nails. It would have to do. Everything would have to do.

When it was dark, he went back with Faustmann to the cellar. Kraft was lit by candlelight, dusting, using a sock to wipe away the concrete and rock chippings that fell with each bombardment onto his furniture and decorations. Faber handed him the letter. He didn’t take it.

‘I know.’

‘How can you know?’ said Faber. ‘You haven’t opened the letter.’

‘I already know. Open it if you like.’

Faber read the words written by a neighbour.

‘How did you know?’

‘I just did.’

They sat as he made coffee, their coats still on. It was freezing, colder than in their bunker, but Kraft didn’t seem to notice.

‘Are you eating?’ said Faber.

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘You need to eat, Kraft.’

‘I pick up my rations most nights. What I don’t eat is in my pack. You take it.’

Faber found crackers and six tins of meat.

‘And nobody notices?’ said Faustmann.

‘I put on my helmet. My kit. Take the rations. Come back. Nobody cares.’

They finished their coffee.

‘We should get back,’ said Faustmann.

‘Stay. Please. Just one night. I don’t want to be on my own.’

‘We might be caught,’ said Faber.

‘I haven’t been,’ said Kraft.

They lay down either side of him, each with an arm over him as he wept.

Stalingrad, November 19th, 1942

My darling Katharina,

I laughed at your suggesting I might be having an affair. If only you could see how I live. I am so riddled with lice again that no woman would come near me. I promise I will clean up before I come home!!

I am still waiting to hear about my application for Christmas leave. Faustmann has applied too, and may receive it before me as he has not been home once since we were in France. Kraus has said that he will remain to hold the tractor factory. I imagine that he will be by himself, as everybody else is madly keen to get home.

I hope things have settled a little between your parents. And don’t worry, I’ll whisk you and Johannes out of there as soon as this war is over. Which must be very soon. We are so close to the Volga that I could dip my toe in it from here, although they still come at us, hurling whatever weaponry they have. And they are still fighting furiously in the northern and southern sectors. But don’t worry, I am perfectly safe, if filthy, bitterly cold and hungry. I am quite a good soldier now, Katharina. A winter suit would be nice, but I don’t intend on being around here long enough to need it.

Please find some chocolate for me. And meat. Beef. They are the only two things I want. Apart from you. But no more crackers. Never do I want to see a cracker again. Or snow. It is beginning to fall again. I have had enough snow to last me a lifetime.

I love you and our son very deeply.

Wait for me. It will not be long.

Faustmann turned his head towards the west.

‘What’s wrong?’ said Kraus.

‘I don’t know. Something’s happened. Back there. At the trench.’

They packed up their gun and moved back, even though it was long before nightfall. The trench was full of men, ashen-faced and staring at Stockhoff.

‘We’re surrounded, lads,’ he said.

‘Bullshit,’ said Faber. ‘They’re not capable.’

‘Well, they’ve done it, Faber. They took out the Romanians to the north, then the lads in the south. Zip. We’re locked in.’

‘Those fucking Romanians,’ said Kraus.

‘They were on their own up there, Kraus,’ said Stockhoff. ‘It’s not their fault.’

‘Well, it’s not my bloody fault,’ said Kraus.

He slumped to the trench floor. Faber hunkered down beside him.

‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m just tired, Faber. I’ll be fine.’

‘It won’t last,’ said Faber. ‘They did it at Kharkov and it only lasted a few days.’

‘That was only a few hundred of us,’ said Stockhoff.

‘Why?’ said Faustmann. ‘How many are you talking about here?’

‘All of us.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The entire Sixth Army. Almost three hundred thousand of us.’