Audrey Magee - The Undertaking

The trench fell silent, but the Russian artillery continued firing, its tone gloating, mocking.

‘They can’t hold us all,’ said Faber. ‘We’ll break out.’

‘I’m sure they’ll come up with a plan,’ said Kraus. ‘Like they did at Kharkov. That worked well.’

‘You can’t supply three hundred thousand soldiers from the air,’ said Stockhoff.

‘Those airmen can do anything they put their minds to,’ said Faber.

‘When did you last have a proper meal, lads?’ said Stockhoff. ‘They can’t even supply us from the ground.’

‘They’ll come up with something,’ said Kraus.

Stockhoff stood up. ‘I’m going back to the kitchen. See what I can make for you lot.’

‘Let us know when it’s rat,’ said Faustmann.

Faber wanted to laugh, but didn’t. He went back to the bunker and fiddled with the fire, throwing on some still-damp wood, then sloshing petrol over it. A flame took hold.

‘What do you think, Kraus?’ said Faber. ‘A break-out?’

‘It’s hard because all the tanks have gone north. The horses too. It would be hard on our own. It’s easier if they come for us.’

They drew heavily on their cigarettes.

‘And what?’

‘Clear a passage out for us. Hold back the Russians until we’re through.’

Kraus fell asleep.

‘He looks awful,’ said Faustmann.

‘We should go and tell Kraft,’ said Faber.

They found Kraft humming and still dusting.

‘Gentlemen, I shall make coffee.’

His lips and skin were dry. Flaking.

‘Are you eating, Kraft?’ said Faber. ‘Drinking?’

‘I’ll do it now. Sometimes I forget.’

They drank his coffee. There was no chocolate.

‘We’re surrounded, Kraft,’ said Faustmann.

‘We are?’

‘You can’t really be here on your own any more.’

‘Why not? What’s the difference?’

‘We need you with us,’ said Faustmann. ‘For when the break-out comes. We won’t have time to come and get you.’

‘Where are you sleeping? You both stink.’

‘In a bunker,’ said Faber. ‘Near the tractor factory.’

‘I’m not going back there.’

‘But it’s dangerous for you to be here,’ said Faustmann. ‘On your own.’

‘I’ll take my chances.’

Faber ran his hands through his hair.

‘Will you at least bloody look after yourself, Kraft? Eat and drink properly.’

‘You don’t exactly look a picture of health, Faber. Or you, Faustmann.’

They shook his hand. Faber pressed him to his chest.

‘Mind yourself.’

‘You too. Both of you.’

They climbed again through the hatch, their exit hidden by a mound of soil and concrete. They scuttled east, back towards their bunker. Kraus woke as they barrelled in.

‘You look like shit, Kraus,’ said Faustmann.

‘I feel like shit.’

After soup and coffee in the trench, Kraus went to the rear with Stockhoff, to the medics. Faber and Faustmann went back to the bunker. To wait.

Katharina dressed for the food queue. The Russian usually went but Katharina had heard the rumours. Her father was silent. Her mother knew nothing. She walked onto the street. There was snow on the ground, but her feet were warm in fur-lined boots with a slight heel. And she finally had a mink coat that fastened across her chest. Her own.

She joined the queue outside the baker’s, behind a woman whose thin-soled shoes slapped against the icy ground each time she stepped forward. It was an irritating noise.

The women in front and behind her were deep in conversation. Hushed and fevered. She tried to join in, repeating their words, asking questions, but she was shut out, the women’s eyes on each other, away from her with her fur coat and well-fed hips. She stared ahead. They were skinny women anyway, in ragged clothing. She would find out some other way.

She headed further into the city, towards the east where she knew Mrs Sachs shopped. She waited outside a butcher. Mrs Sachs came out of the shop, a light weight at the bottom of her bag. She looked gaunt. Strained.

‘You look well, Katharina. How is your mother?’

‘Fine.’

‘I never see her out.’

‘She enjoys being at home.’

‘I was sorry to hear about your brother.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Sachs.’

‘You’ve heard the news? Your husband’s there, isn’t he?’

‘It can’t be true, though, Mrs Sachs. The Russians don’t have the capacity.’

‘So we were told.’

‘Do you believe it? There’s nothing about it in the newspaper.’

Mrs Sachs snorted.

‘It must be nice up there in your new apartment, Katharina.’

‘Yes, it is,’ she said, but Mrs Sachs had already gone along the road to join the queue for vegetables. Katharina waited, stamping her feet like the other women, although she was not cold. Then she gave up. She didn’t even need meat.

She went home and fed Johannes, scooping the food prepared by the Russian into his mouth. She put him to bed and sat on the sofa, waiting for her father to wake. A door opened, but it was her mother, still in her nightgown. She nodded at Katharina, and disappeared into the bathroom. Katharina picked up a magazine and turned its pages, crumpling them, irritated by the relentlessness of her mother’s grief, by the possibility that she was already a widow without ever having been a wife.

Her mother shut her bedroom door and her father emerged from his. Her brother’s old room.

‘Good morning, Katharina. How is my beautiful daughter today?’

‘It’s nearly afternoon, Father.’

‘Then I slept well.’

‘Was it a late night?’

‘More of an early morning.’

He sat beside her on the sofa, yawning and scratching his chest.

‘How is young Johannes?’

‘Fine. No air raid, so he slept through.’

‘I think they’re running out of bombs.’

‘What’s happening in Stalingrad, Father?’

‘Nothing our men can’t handle.’

‘Have they been surrounded?’

‘There’s talk of it, but it’s nothing serious. A few days more and they’ll have broken out of it.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘They’re German soldiers, Katharina.’

‘Am I going to be a widow?’

‘Your husband will be fine.’

‘That’s what you said about Johannes. About Mother. And look at them.’

He peered at her.

‘You’re beginning to sound more like your mother, Katharina. Trust me. Peter will be fine. They’re working on plans right at this moment.’

She put her head on his shoulder.

‘I’m just so worried about him. About Mother.’

‘She could stop if she wanted to, Katharina.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The hiding. The not eating.’

‘You think so?’

‘She’s trying to make me feel guilty, that’s what it’s about.’

‘And do you?’

‘What?’

‘Feel guilty, Father?’

‘He had to go back, Katharina. We had no choice.’

‘I feel guilty. All the time. I see him sometimes, alone on that train, no idea where he was going. Was it really necessary, Father?’

‘Wars cannot be won without sacrifices, Katharina.’

‘She has no interest in Johannes. She doesn’t even look at him, never holds him. Her own grandson.’

‘Grief is the morose indulgence of the idle.’

‘That sounds very pompous, Father.’

‘Dr Weinart said it. Now, let me see what Natasha can do for me. I’m hungry. Peter will be all right. They’ll all be all right.’

Faber and Faustmann sat in the early morning against a west-facing wall to stare at the sky, its clear, bright blueness and wisps of light cloud undisturbed by wind.