Audrey Magee - The Undertaking

‘Keep it.’

‘No, no. My Russian girl will wash and iron it, and return it to your home.’

‘Bring it yourself, Katharina, for lunch on New Year’s Eve. And bring your son.’

‘I’d be delighted, Elizabeth.’

Katharina tucked the address and handkerchief into her black clutch bag. The gong sounded for dinner. Elizabeth remained on the first floor, Katharina went to the second, again trailing her parents. They were sent to a front room overlooking the street, she to a rear room that looked out onto a courtyard lit by candles. Others were still climbing the stairs, towards rooms on the third floor.

Her room was duller than the one downstairs, with only two windows instead of four and a plainer ceiling. But it was still handsome and large enough for five tables of ten people, a plate at each place holding four oysters on a bed of ice, still in their shells. Panic rushed through her. She smiled nervously at the other people in the room. She had never eaten oysters before. She wanted to go home. But she also wanted to stay. She would copy someone else. Do as they did.

The men gathered at the table and waited for the women to sit. An old man helped her with her chair, waiting until she was settled in front of her name perfectly written in rich, black ink, the thick cream card matching the napkins, the tablecloth and the three tall roses at the centre of the table. He sat down. He was a baron. Mrs Weinart had seated her between a baron and a baroness, elderly and frail, but aristocrats nonetheless. She smiled and nodded at the other people at her table, most of them the age of her parents. There was only one young couple, the woman’s hand firmly on the man’s arm.

Two waiters appeared, one with white wine, the second with water. She thanked them. The baroness coughed lightly and raised an oyster in her left hand, a three-pronged fork in her right. She speared the fish and lifted it to her mouth. Katharina was about to do the same until the baron lifted a shell with his right hand and tipped its contents into his mouth. A light sweat broke out on her palms. She feigned a cough, buying time, unsure whether there was a male and a female way of eating oysters. She decided to copy the baroness, and cold, salty fish slipped down her throat. She thought she would vomit, but ate the remaining three nonetheless, relieved when the next course was warm carrot soup.

‘Where is your husband, Mrs Faber?’

It was the baron.

‘He is at Stalingrad.’

‘An officer?’

‘No. Infantry.’

‘So, how did you come to be here?’

‘My father works with Dr Weinart.’

‘Is he a doctor, too?’

‘Oh goodness, no,’ laughed Katharina. ‘He works with him on other matters. He was in Russia with him in the autumn. Protecting the harvest.’

‘I see. And you?’

‘I look after my son, but I used to work in a bank. As a typist. Then helping customers.’

‘Germany is a changed place, Mrs Faber.’

‘Indeed, Baron. We must hope that this war ends soon and we can return to normal.’

‘I am not sure that I know what normal is any more.’

There was an explosion of clapping from the downstairs rooms.

‘The main course has arrived,’ said the baron.

‘But not yet for us peasants upstairs,’ said the baroness.

‘I’m sure it will be here soon,’ said Katharina.

She checked her hair, ensuring that no strands or rhinestone pins had come loose.

‘Do you live in Berlin, Baroness?’ she asked.

‘We used to, but we prefer to live now on our estate. We understand things there.’

Five waiters came into the room, each carrying a silver platter of roast goose and sugared, syrupy oranges, the fat and juice swirling one into the other as it was set down on the table. Katharina clapped furiously, determined that her appreciation should carry down the stairs. The baron and baroness’ hands remained in their laps, their palms together.

She cut into the large roast potato on her plate, its skin crisp and golden, its flesh soft and crumbling. As she waited for the steam to escape, she dipped her fork into the puree of carrot and parsnip. It was sweet but not watery, and the goose was perfect, moist but thoroughly cooked.

‘Your jewellery is very fine, Mrs Faber,’ said the baroness.

‘Thank you, Baroness. It was a gift from my father.’

‘It must have cost him a lot of money.’

‘I’m not sure it did.’

She took a little of all the desserts, lemon tart, raspberry sorbet and chocolate mousse with slices of candied orange. Coffee followed, served downstairs with handmade chocolates. She joined her mother and the doctor’s wife by the fireplace. Both women were laughing. They stopped but did not explain.

‘How did you find the Baroness, Katharina?’ said Mrs Weinart.

‘Fine.’

‘For some people change is very difficult.’

‘She says she prefers to live on their estate.’

‘So she can remember things as they were. When she was in charge. When she didn’t have to mix with ordinary people.’

Katharina sipped her coffee.

‘I adore your dress, Mrs Weinart.’

‘Do you? Thank you.’

‘Where is it from?’

‘I got it in Paris.’

‘Is it Chanel?’

‘Oh no, dear, no. I wore Chanel when we took Paris. This is from Ardanse, a quaint little house run by a petty Russian aristocrat and her sister. It seemed more appropriate than anything French.’

Katharina and her mother stayed until most other people had left. At three, they climbed into a taxi, Mr Spinell between them, his arms round their shoulders.

‘Ladies, you were splendid tonight. Both of you. Tremendous ambassadors.’

‘For what?’ said Mrs Spinell.

‘This family, Esther.’

She removed his arm from her shoulder.

‘This isn’t a family any more, Günther.’

Katharina babbled on about the dresses, the food, the decorations. But her mother’s eyes were closed, her face shut tight. She was silent. She climbed the stairs to the apartment, leaning on the bannisters, went to her room and shut the door. Her father, silent too, went to his. Katharina looked at her son, asleep on his back, his arms outstretched. She bent over and kissed him, wobbling only a little.

‘It will all be worth it, Johannes.’

Faber inhaled and passed the cigarette to Faustmann.

‘Is there a moon?’

‘I don’t know.’

Faustmann brought the smoke deep into his lungs. Still holding his breath, he inhaled a second time. Faber snatched the cigarette from his mouth.

‘It’s my turn.’

Faber inhaled, once, twice and the cigarette went out. They were in darkness. Kraus was beside them, asleep, his head buried under his blanket.

‘And what day is it?’

‘I don’t know that either.’

‘Tomorrow is New Year’s Day.’

‘So I gather.’

‘What day was Christmas?’

‘Shut the fuck up, Faber. It’s a day. Another day. What difference does its name make?’

‘It’s important for me to know.’

‘Why? Why is it important?’

‘So I know where I am.’

‘You’re in a hole in the ground, starving to death.’

‘In time. Where I am in time.’

‘You’re close to death.’

‘Fuck off, Faustmann. Something will happen.’

‘Yes, you’ll surrender to the Russians.’

‘I’d never do that.’

‘You will.’

‘Hand myself over to those Bolshevik bastards? They treat people like shit.’

‘I know. We’re much kinder.’

Faber buried his head in his knees.

‘It’s freezing. It’s impossible to stay down here, Faustmann.’

‘It’s better down here than out there. When the shelling stops, we’ll see if we can find somewhere else.’