Audrey Magee - The Undertaking

‘They’ll come today,’ said Faber.

‘They’d better,’ said Faustmann.

Faber lit a cigarette and inhaled, deeply to blur his hunger, to warm his lungs.

‘The weather is perfect,’ he said.

‘It was perfect yesterday.’

He inhaled a second time, still deeper, and held his breath, waiting for the nicotine rush. It didn’t come. Nothing but the swirl of acid in his stomach.

‘I wonder why they didn’t come yesterday,’ said Faber.

‘They’d better come today.’

Wrapped in coats, blankets and scarves, the two men pressed against each other. Not for warmth. There was none.

‘This will test your theory, Faustmann.’

‘Which one? I have many.’

‘That we’re cannon fodder.’

‘Are we, Faber?’

‘There’s been almost nothing. No supplies, no men, no food. It’s as though they’re not interested. They don’t care.’

‘They’re telling us to wait, Faber. That’s all. To hold on.’

‘And you believe them?’

‘Do I have any choice?’

She squealed when she saw them. The white envelopes with gold trimming. One for her parents. One for her. She opened it, still in the hall. An invitation to the dinner. The Weinarts’ dinner. She hugged herself and ran upstairs to tell her mother.

Gunkel led a chestnut horse into the shell of an apartment block and shot it. He sharpened his knives and set to work, his wrists moving habitually. Stockhoff stood at his side.

‘Find something else to do, gentlemen,’ said Stockhoff. ‘This will be served later.’

They drifted off, back to the bunker. Kraus was asleep.

‘We should see how Kraft is,’ said Faustmann.

They moved through the snow, a shroud over the dead, over the flies and their maggots. Faber was glad of it.

The cellar stank of shit; there were large mounds in the corner under the stairs, amid scatterings of torn newspaper. Kraft sat on a chair, combing his hair and humming, the table set for food.

‘Jesus, Kraft. It’s disgusting in here.’

‘Is it?’

‘You shit under the stairs.’

‘There’s no bathroom, Faber.’

‘Go outside, you bastard.’

‘No.’

‘What do you mean, no?’

‘I’m not going out there. It’s too noisy. I don’t like it.’

Faber looked at him, at his cracked, bleeding lips and papery skin.

‘Are you all right, Kraft?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Have you eaten? Drunk anything?’

‘I had a little water. My stomach hurts, though. It keeps cramping.’

‘I’ll clean up.’

Faber opened up his shovel, wrapped his scarf over his mouth and scooped up the excrement, his face turned away, his eyes half closed, his stomach curdling. He climbed the stairs, opened the hatch and hurled it as far as he could, then scraped his shovel across the snow. He went back down the stairs, but left the hatch open.

‘The bombs will come in,’ said Kraft. ‘They’ll find us.’

‘We’ll be dead anyway if we have to inhale that smell. Next time, shit outside.’

‘It’s terrifying out there, Faber.’

‘It’s terrifying in here.’

Faustmann took the dusting sock, rinsed it in water from his can and began to clean Kraft’s face and hands.

‘You stink, Kraft. You need to eat, drink and build a fire. It’s freezing in here.’

‘Is it? Let me make some coffee.’

He pushed the chair away from the table and stood up. Shit stains ran the length of his trousers, both legs. Faber retched. There was nothing in his stomach to vomit.

‘I’m sorry. How forgetful of me. I have no coffee.’

He picked up the photograph of his mother and stared at it.

‘You’re so lucky to have your wife and child waiting for you, Faber. So fortunate.’

‘You should sleep,’ said Faber.

‘I’m not tired.’

‘You are. You’re exhausted.’

‘Stop telling me what I am, Faber. I’m not exhausted.’

‘What are you then?’

‘I’m nothing. A nothing with nobody.’

‘You’ve got us.’

‘You’ll all move on once this is over. Back to your homes. Your families. I’ll go back to an empty house, a big empty house to be on my own.’

‘You’ll find someone. The women will be queuing up to live with you, to be lady of the manor.’

‘That was my mother, Faber. Nobody else can be my mother.’

‘Just get some sleep, Kraft. You’ll feel better.’

‘I’ll never feel better. It’ll always be like this.’

‘Wars end, Kraft.’

‘Its ending won’t bring back my mother, Faber.’

‘But at least you’ll be able to go home.’

‘I have no home. Not any more.’

‘You should sleep.’

‘So you keep saying.’

Kraft bent over.

‘Are you all right?’ said Faber.

‘I need to shit.’

‘Not in here. Go outside.’

Kraft climbed the staircase, shit seeping down his leg, his arm across his stomach. He went through the open hatch. They heard him sigh as he released his bowel at the top of the staircase.

‘I need paper,’ he said.

Faber passed up a Russian newspaper.

‘What are they saying about us, anyway?’ said Faber.

‘Who?’ said Faustmann.

‘The Russians. In the paper.’

‘Oh, that we’re fucked. That they’ll blow us to oblivion.’

‘They probably will,’ said Faber.

‘Probably.’

They listened as Kraft tore and crumpled the newspaper.

‘Clean yourself properly,’ shouted Faber.

They heard him buckle his belt, but not his footstep on the staircase.

‘What’s he doing now?’ said Faber.

He climbed a few steps, enough to see Kraft’s shit, but not Kraft himself. He climbed further and saw the man scrambling up the snowbank.

‘What are you doing, Kraft?’

The bullet hit him in the neck, his larynx, so that he was silent as he fell backwards, blood bubbling and spurting from the freshly made hole. Faber fell back down the stairs, away from Kraft, tumbling into Faustmann.

‘The bastard, the mad bloody bastard,’ said Faber.

‘What happened?’

‘They shot him. He let them shoot him.’

Faustmann pulled the hatch shut. Artillery fire followed, tracking the sniper’s victory over Kraft.

‘The bloody idiot has given us away. We’re stuck here till night-fall.’

‘We’ll miss the horsemeat,’ said Faber.

They waited until dusk and crawled out on their stomachs, through Kraft’s faeces and over his body. They reached the trench in time, their smell no different to anybody else’s.

‘Where were you?’ said Kraus.

‘Looking for food,’ said Faustmann.

‘Find any?’

‘No.’

Stockhoff had distributed the horsemeat through vats of turnip soup. He gave them each two portions and four pieces of bread.

‘Rations are being cut tomorrow, lads.’

‘It’s too cold, Stockhoff,’ said Kraus. ‘The men need more food, not less.’

‘Nothing to be done. Nothing’s coming through.’

‘The planes?’ said Faustmann.

‘We’ve seen canisters fall,’ said Faber.

‘Almost none of it is food,’ said Stockhoff. ‘Or it has fallen behind Russian lines.’

‘By how much?’ said Kraus.

‘What?’ said Stockhoff.

‘Cut by how much?’

‘By more than half.’

‘How much more than half?’

‘By almost two thirds.’

Faber buried his head in his hands.

‘But I’ll do what I can for you, lads. Gunkel and I will find a way.’

They shook the hands of the cook and butcher, thanking them for their effort, their commitment to them. Faber, Faustmann and Kraus went back to their bunker and stoked the fire.