Audrey Magee - The Undertaking

They went back up into the sky, and it ended. Slowly, the people over her got to their feet and returned to their places. She sat up and rested momentarily on her knees, her hair and neck wet with other people’s saliva and tears. She wiped them away, straightened her hair and her clothes, and went to her son. He was falling asleep again, but she picked him up anyway, his body leaden, and carried him to her seat, opening her coat so that his right ear was against her heart, her lips and right hand on his head, stroking, kissing, whispering, rocking.

‘Your father will be home soon, my love. He’ll stop all this.’

The all-clear came and they filed quietly out of the bunker, into a city on fire, a carnival of red and orange flames, of explosions and chaos. She started to run, hearing nothing of her neighbours’ wails or the screams of ambulances, nothing but the sound of her own heavy breath along the cratered streets, over the mounds of rubble and fallen lime trees. She refused to see the vanished houses. She didn’t want to know. She wanted only to be home.

Her house was intact. Not a blemish. She raced up the stairs, put Johannes in his cot, fell to her knees and thrust her arms into the back of her wardrobe. Into the sheets. She buried her face in them, smelling him, smelling them, rocking back and forth, sobbing into the fabric, wanting it all to be over, wanting him home and everything to be normal again. Although she didn’t know what normal was any more. She had forgotten. Lost all trace of it.

She stood up, opened a drawer and pulled out her gift for him, his name still on the clip, waiting to be claimed. She lay on her bed, still in her clothes, holding the sheets and the pen, waiting for her parents, but fell asleep and woke the following morning to the sound of her son. He was demanding food. She called to Natasha.

‘She’s gone,’ said her father. ‘The basement’s empty.’

‘It must have been terrifying for her.’

‘No backbone, that’s all. Typical Russian.’

‘It was horrendous, Father.’

‘They got lucky, that’s all.’

‘Have you slept?’

‘Not yet. It was a long night.’

‘I can imagine.’

She lit a fire, made coffee and fed Johannes. Her mother slept on, leaving Katharina to pick up Natasha’s routine. She was glad of it. It gave her a reason to go out and see the city.

The butcher’s shop was gone, pulverized, but still women queued outside. Katharina joined them, unsure why. Nobody told her and she never asked. She waited half an hour, concluded that nothing would happen and abandoned the queue, a loud cheer rising as she walked away. The butcher had arrived and was setting up a stall on the street. She rushed to retrieve her place, shoving at their ankles with her pram. Nobody looked at her, nobody moved. They would not let her in. She adjusted her fur hat and left.

She headed towards the city centre where she found carrots, bread, some apples, but no meat. At the pawnshop, she chose a dress suitable for the Weinart party. Grass-green velvet. He agreed to hold it for her.

‘I need to think about it.’

‘We all do, Mrs Faber.’

The city’s soldiers and its older men were sifting through the rubble as she went home, looking for those who had survived and those who hadn’t. Fires were still burning in parts of buildings too high to reach.

She stoked the cinders and fed lunch to her son. Her mother was still in bed, but awake. Smoking.

‘Are you all right, Mother?’

‘Fine.’

‘It was horrible, wasn’t it?’

‘It was worse for Johannes.’

Her father returned, covered in dust, without any meat. They had bread and vegetable soup, eating in silence. Katharina put Johannes to bed and packed a suitcase with her papers, Peter’s letters, his pen and their sheets. She added food, clothes and nappies for her son and put the case by the hall door, ready for the next air raid.

‘You won’t need all that, Katharina.’

‘I believe I will, Father.’

She put on the green velvet dress and waited for Meyer to arrive to take her to the Weinarts’ Christmas party. Her parents had already left, and Johannes had been at the house since mid-afternoon, playing with their children and nanny.

She looked in the mirror and traced her fingers across the lines dug into her brow, over the large purple circles under her eyes, showing through the make-up, seemingly permanent, indelible, a lifelong reminder of terror. Even Johannes had dark shadows, though he was not yet two, and little worry lines etched between his eyes.

The doorbell rang. She opened it wide, and smiled at Meyer. He was holding flowers, an assortment of carnations and roses, and a small box of milk chocolates. She kissed him and thanked him. She invited him in, and poured him some whisky. He stood with his back to the fire.

‘It’s a lovely place, Katharina.’

‘We like it.’

‘Maybe we can find somewhere else for your parents, and we could live here.’

‘Maybe. Do you want ice?’

‘Please.’

She moved to the kitchen, the underskirts rustling, the velvet silent. She spooned ice into his glass.

‘You look lovely, Katharina.’

‘Thank you.’

She set the drink on the table.

‘Where’s Johannes?’

‘Already there. If there’s a raid, I want him with me.’

‘That was clever thinking.’

‘It was Mrs Weinart’s idea.’

‘She’s a clever woman.’

‘She’s very fond of him. And he adores her children.’

‘Everybody’s happy then.’

‘So it seems.’

He put down his glass, took her arms and began to kiss her neck.

‘We should go,’ she said. ‘They’re starting earlier, remember.’

‘I want you. Now. Here.’

‘Not here. Not until we’re married.’

‘I can’t wait that long, Katharina.’

She slipped out from under him and moved towards the door.

‘You’ll just have to.’

She picked up her suitcase.

‘Why are you taking that?’

‘It’s for Johannes. In case there’s a raid. The things I need for him.’

‘Let me carry it for you.’

‘It’s fine. It’s light.’

‘It doesn’t suit your dress.’

‘It’s only to the car.’

‘You’re a funny woman, Katharina Spinell.’

‘Faber.’

‘Meyer.’

At the party, she and Meyer were seated on the first floor, at the same table as Elizabeth, her husband and other men in black uniform and their wives, who wore large diamonds around their necks and on their fingers. Her parents remained upstairs, in the same room as the previous year. There was no sign of the baron or baroness.

To start, there were prawns and pink champagne. Katharina took a prawn, pulled off the head and yanked apart the shell. She glanced down at Meyer’s watch and at the sandbags packed against the windows. It was half past six and already dark; the bombers had never come this early. She tried to slow her eating, to still her nerves, but she swallowed the prawn, and quickly started a second. Elizabeth was on her third, her head bent, obscuring the diamonds at her throat. Katharina drank the champagne and leaned towards her.

‘How are the children?’

‘They’re at home and I’m here.’

‘It’s not far, Elizabeth.’

‘I know and so far we’ve escaped. We’ve been lucky.’

‘So have we.’

‘Where’s Johannes?’

‘Here, in the house. Preparing for bed, I hope.’

‘That helps.’

‘A little, yes.’

‘It’s been awful, Katharina. I find it terrifying. Night after night. Last night was horrible.’

Elizabeth’s husband whispered, briefly but forcefully. She nodded.

‘Your dress is very beautiful, Katharina. I like the green. Did you find it locally?’