Audrey Magee - The Undertaking

‘How are you feeling, Kraus?’ said Faber.

‘Better.’

Kraus lit a cigarette.

‘We’ll go back out again tomorrow, lads.’

‘Is there any point, Sergeant?’ said Faber.

‘It’ll give us something to do,’ said Kraus. ‘I can’t look at the sky any longer.’

‘Shouldn’t we keep back our ammunition for the break-out?’ said Faber.

‘If there is one,’ said Faustmann.

‘What do you think, Kraus?’ said Faber.

Kraus drew on his cigarette.

‘Do you think they’re coming, Kraus?’

‘I don’t know, Faber.’

They fell asleep, but Faber woke in the middle of the night. He was hungry. He put his hand under his tunic and touched his ribs. He could feel each one. And his stomach was hollow. He found some crackers in Kraus’ pack, ate them and went back to sleep.

In the morning, Faustmann and Kraus prepared to return to the tractor factory.

‘Come with us, Faber,’ said Kraus.

‘There’s no point, Sergeant. Another dead Russian will do nothing for us.’

‘I could report you.’

‘Will you?’

‘Not today.’

They left and he stoked the fire, throwing on scraps of wood from an old table and staring at the flames. He was glad not to have to look at the two men, at their hunger.

He took out his pictures of Katharina and Johannes and attached them to rusty nails sticking out of the bunker wall, next to where he slept. He ran his fingers over the pictures and kissed his wife on the lips. She smiled at him. At his flaking skin and thinning legs. Three and a half weeks.

He tried not to think about it. Three and a half weeks and nobody had come. The planes that flew in always left with a heavier load, captains, first lieutenants, majors, their faces coloured yellow as though they had jaundice. But he saw that their eyes were white, and healthy.

He stabbed at the fire, stirring sparks. He wasn’t going to fight any more, to risk his life for officers too cowardly to stay, expose his belly to the Russian rockets now bouncing off the icy ground, fragmenting and gouging ever bigger holes in German bodies. No. He would keep himself safe, so that he could be a father to his son.

He lay down by the fire, curled up in a ball and closed his eyes. He liked the snow. It muffled the sound of battle so that he could no longer hear the men to the north of the city fighting to hold back the Russians. He appreciated their effort, but didn’t want to listen to it. He fell asleep, woke and read until the others returned. Kraus had a small cut on his hand.

‘Probably from a knife,’ he said. ‘Maybe even my own.’

They went to the trench and ate horse sausage. Stockhoff told them to prepare for the break-out.

‘They’re coming for us from the south,’ he said.

‘Anything official?’ said Kraus.

‘Not yet,’ said Stockhoff. ‘We just have to wait. And be ready.’

‘He hasn’t abandoned us,’ said Kraus.

‘I knew he wouldn’t,’ said Faber.

They waited in the bunker, their guns, bullets and grenades ready. Faber tucked his photographs back into his pocket, beside his wife’s hair. They waited a second day. And a third. A bitter thin wind cut across the steppe, delving into clothing and skin. It was impossible to be outside.

‘We’ll miss it,’ said Faber. ‘They’ll leave without us.’

‘They won’t,’ said Kraus. ‘Nobody can move in that.’

Thunder echoed across the city.

‘That’s it,’ said Kraus. ‘We’re on.’

They rushed outside, into the darkness, ready to head south, but found the noise was coming from the east, from the river. It was freezing over, huge ice floes crashing into each other, fusing under a fall of fresh snow. They were surrounded from every direction, north, south, west, and now east. They returned to their bunker.

‘We’re done for,’ said Faustmann. ‘They’ll be able to bring over everything they need to finish us off.’

‘We can bomb holes in the ice,’ said Faber.

‘We can’t,’ said Kraus. ‘No artillery left.’

Faber fiddled with his gun.

‘They have to get us out of here,’ he said.

They went back to Stockhoff and drank donkey soup.

‘They’re not coming,’ he said. ‘It’s been called off.’

‘Why?’ said Kraus.

‘Don’t know. No reason given.’

Katharina raised the skirt of her crushed velvet gown and walked up the marble staircase of the Weinart house, her path lit by candles and shimmering light from the enormous Christmas tree decorated with bows of silver silk.

Her parents went in front of her, her father in a crisp, black suit with a hand-tied bowtie, her mother in green chiffon, a fox fur draped across her shoulders, its head and feet still attached.

They turned right at the top of the stairs to join the queue waiting to greet the doctor and his wife, Mrs Weinart in a silver lamé dress that shimmered in the candlelight. She kissed Katharina’s mother on both cheeks.

‘Mrs Spinell, I am so, so glad that you came.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Weinart. It’s lovely to be here.’

‘It is a difficult time for you. The first Christmas. I know that one day you will understand the significance of your son’s sacrifice. And here is Katharina. How beautiful you look!’

Katharina stepped forward, her royal purple dress curving around her hips and breasts and cascading to the floor.

‘Thank you.’

‘I can only agree with my wife, Mrs Faber.’

‘Thank you, Dr Weinart.’

‘Go in, Katharina. Have some champagne. We’ll dine after we have heard from our soldiers.’

Katharina took champagne from the waiter’s tray and handed a glass to her mother who took it without a word and walked towards a woman in a floral dress. Her father hesitated momentarily, but left her for a man in party uniform staring into the coal fire, his face reddened by the heat, their conversation immediately intense. Katharina sipped from her glass. Embarrassed at her sudden isolation, she turned her back on the guests and stepped towards a tree, smaller than the one in the hall but also covered in silver bows. Beneath the branches was a hill of presents, each beautifully wrapped. Theirs was with the butler downstairs.

She took a deep breath, turned back into the room and walked towards a gathering of women, most of them her age, a circle of silk, lace, velvet, bodices and bows. They made space for her, as they exchanged tales of their Russian housemaids, suitable schools and holiday homes. One woman, a blonde in a ruby silk dress with matching jewels, wore a blue and gold enamel cross on the strap of her dress. Katharina nodded towards it.

‘Congratulations. That’s quite an honour.’

‘Thank you. I am very proud of it.’

‘Did the Führer present it to you himself?’

‘He did. Only six weeks ago, so it’s still exciting for me.’

‘How many children do you have?’

‘Eight.’

‘That’s very impressive. You’re so young.’

‘I’ve been married for seven years. And you?’

‘I married last year. I have only the one child.’

‘You have plenty of time, then. I’m Elizabeth Bäker, by the way.’

‘Katharina Faber. A pleasure to meet you.’

Dr Weinart turned up the radio.

‘It’s from Stalingrad,’ he said.

The room fell silent. They heard men singing carols and hymns, in strong, confident voices. They sounded warm and well fed. Katharina bowed her head and tried to catch a tear with her finger before it stained her make-up. The woman in the ruby dress passed her a handkerchief.

‘I wonder if it’s my husband,’ said Katharina. ‘He has a very good voice. He was in his school choir.’

When it was over, Katharina composed herself, and promised to return the handkerchief.