Audrey Magee - The Undertaking

They fell silent, listening to Kraus’ breathing.

‘It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Faustmann.’

‘What wasn’t?’

‘The war. The Russian front.’

‘How was it supposed to be?’

Faber knocked his boot against the barrel once used for fires, spilling the cold cinders.

‘Simple. Quick. Like France. Belgium. Roll over and let us in.’

‘My grandmother’s stubborn. Always was.’

‘What? We’re fighting a nation of grandmothers?’

‘It feels like that.’

‘Does it bother you?’

‘What?’

‘Fighting Russia?’

‘I don’t see the point. Never have.’

‘Because of your grandmother?’

‘No. We should have consolidated our hold on the West first. Taken England.’

‘We have control of all that.’

‘Do we?’

‘You just don’t want to fight against your own people, Faustmann.’

‘Whether I fight or not makes no difference.’

‘So why are you doing it?’

‘Because they’ll shoot me if I don’t.’

‘That’s hardly a noble cause.’

‘I can think of none more noble. Why are you fighting, Faber?’

‘To protect my wife and child. To secure their future.’

‘Bullshit. You didn’t have them when the war started. I need a real reason.’

‘That is a real reason.’

‘That’s a bullshit reason.’

Faber stared at him, but saw nothing in the darkness.

‘It’s the only one I have.’

‘Is that why you married? So that you had an excuse to kill?’

‘I married because I wanted leave.’

‘You stab your leg to get leave. Not marry.’

‘I married because I married.’

‘Most soldiers fight for a leader, for country or for God. But you chose a wife and then a child. Why?’

‘Jesus, I married a woman. I had a child. It happens to most men.’

‘You needed a reason, didn’t you? Something outside yourself. Exactly what Kraft needed.’

‘And?’

‘It wrecks your head a little less, doesn’t it, when you say that you’re killing a man to protect your wife, that you’re evicting a child so yours can stay home?’

‘Does it? I hadn’t noticed.’

‘You stare at those pictures of your wife and child, Faber, as though your life depended on them. They give you purpose. And an excuse. That’s all.’

‘And what excuse do you have, Faustmann?’

‘That’s the trouble. I don’t have any. I have no illusions. I know exactly why I’m here.’

‘Why are you here?’

‘Cannon fodder for that lot in Berlin.’

‘Not that again.’

‘It’s all there is. You can hide behind your wife and child, kill all around you for your wife and child, but you’re really not doing it for them. You’re doing it for the fat bastards in Berlin.’

‘I’m doing it for our future.’

‘So, Fuchs, Weiss and Kraft all died for your future? For the future of your wife and child?’

Faber pressed his hands against his ears.

‘I can’t listen to any more of your bullshit, Faustmann.’

‘No. Nor can I, Faber.’

Berlin, January 3rd, 1943

My darling Peter,

I have just this minute received your letter wishing me a Merry Christmas and of course, of course, I will wait for you. Forgive me for my past few letters, I have just been a little strained by home life.

We are all thinking of you, imagining how frightened you are as you wait to be rescued. But it will happen. My father tells me that intense preparations are under way to take you all out of there. I understand that planes and soldiers are being commandeered from across Europe. Those Russians will be very shocked when they feel the full force of German might across their backs.

Your son is well and awaiting your return. He is, at last, sleeping a little more easily at night, although I see no sign of any teeth so I am not sure if that is what had been troubling him. No matter, he is well now.

Mother, Father and I attended the most marvellous Christmas party at the Weinarts. They have been so good to us all, and I am very excited to see what job Dr Weinart finds for you on your return to Berlin. I am sure that it will be a splendid one, as they think so highly of my father and the work that you did while here with me.

I am sorry for suggesting that you were having affairs with other women when you were obviously fıghting so hard against our hateful Bolshevik enemy. I do know how much you love me and I promise that I will wait for you, right here, in this house, in Berlin.

I have enclosed some more chocolate, and some sausage that I hope will still be fresh by the time it reaches you in Stalingrad. Or maybe you’ll be home before it arrives and those Russian peasants can eat it with my compliments.

I am so looking forward to seeing you.

They crawled to the rear and found Gunkel in the schoolyard, an emaciated horse tethered beside him.

‘He’s a scrawny fucker, boys. I’ll get off him what I can.’

‘Many left?’ said Faustmann.

‘One more after this lad.’

Gunkel dug into his pocket and pulled out a handful of boiled sweets. He gave them to the men. Faber sucked on two sweets at once, the sugar rushing into his blood.

‘Now let me do my job,’ said Gunkel. ‘Before this creature gets any skinnier.’

He shot the animal and set to work before it had finished twitching and kicking, before the hide froze to the flesh. An older soldier stood by the horse’s head, a gun in his hand, gesturing intermittently at the crowd that appeared, a vulturous circle fixed first on Gunkel, then on the old soldier as a mound of meat grew at his feet. Gunkel put away his knives. The men surged forward, Faber and Faustmann among them. Gunkel took out his pistol.

‘Line up boys,’ he said.

They did, their bandaged, gloved, frostbitten hands cupped and begging as they moved up the queue. He gave a piece of meat to each man. Two to Faber and Faustmann.

‘The kitchen is closed, lads,’ said Gunkel. ‘You may fend for yourselves.’

‘Where’s Stockhoff?’ said Faber.

‘Shot himself in the leg and got on a plane.’

‘Bastard,’ said Faber.

They hunkered down in the snow, against the school wall, and built fires from scraps of a tree. They boiled water and threw in the meat, sucking on sweets as they waited.

‘What about the other men working back here, the cobbler, the tailor?’ said Faustmann.

‘Sent up front. Old and fat. They hadn’t a chance.’

Faber peered into the pot, watching as each bubble wound its way to the surface, turning the meat from red to grey. He poked at it with his spoon, as though that might hurry the process.

‘Where’s Kraus?’ said Gunkel.

‘Back in the bunker.’

‘Is he all right?’

‘Don’t know,’ said Faustmann. ‘He’s sweating and shivering.’

‘Any infection?’

‘On his hand where he has a cut. A bit of frostbite too.’

‘So, he’s done for.’

Faber scooped the meat out of the pot and began to eat, burning his mouth but unable to wait any longer. It was chewy and dull, but it was food. He began to shiver. His stomach cramped.

‘It’ll settle, Faber,’ said Gunkel.

He slept then, in the schoolhouse, beside a fire set in a punctured artillery shell, glad of the warmth and the company of other men. The following day, it was too cold to go outside. They kept the fire burning and looked out the window, at the last horse, shivering.

‘We should bring him in,’ said Faustmann.

‘No point,’ said Gunkel. ‘Not enough on him.’

‘But there’s something,’ said Faber.

‘You’d use more trying to get him in here.’