Audrey Magee - The Undertaking

On Sundays, he attended classes on the merits of communism, the instruction given by prison guards doubling as teachers. The room was warm and he was given a hot drink. Sometimes chocolate, or a biscuit. He sat near the fire, even in summer when the grate was empty so that he retained his place, feigning interest in their ranting, their insistence on one philosophy over another. He understood much of what they said, because they said the same thing over and over in Russian and pidgin German, underscoring their points with newspaper pictures of a shattered Berlin, shouting that they would prevail because they were right. He never sought an argument. Only warmth and extra food.

He heard the other men moving out of the yard to begin their slow walk to the forest, to resume the cutting of the day before. Fir and pine trees. He preferred cutting rowan, oak and spruce because it was warmer where they grew, and the animals were less threatening – foxes, deer and squirrels rather than wolves and bears. It was brighter too, the light able to penetrate the leaves, to reach the forest floor. For he hated the dark. Men went mad in the darkness, walking naked through the snow, Russian and German alike; they were left behind when the camp moved on, abandoned, feral.

His legs began to cramp. He banged at the shed door, but nobody came. It was silent. He could not even hear the guards. Maybe they had gone, moved to a new camp. It never took long to leave; they had nothing to carry except a few tools for chopping and cooking. The men he loathed had left him. He banged harder. Somebody banged back, the butt of a gun pounding the roof.

‘Shut up, you German bastard. Stalin will never let you out.’

They could do what they liked now. There would be no retaliation.

He slept until he heard the prisoners return, legs heavy with fatigue. They would wash, cursorily, and queue for food. Suddenly the door was opened, and he reached towards the light, the fresh air, but it was shut off again, a bowl of soup and cup of water at his feet. It had potato and traces of some fowl, probably turkey. The prisoners again started their evening duties, indifferent to his light taps against the wood, his yearning for contact.

What had he done? He was a soldier fighting in a war. It was his duty. He had done only what was asked of him. He had done nothing wrong, but they would leave him locked in a box, dying of hunger and thirst, leave him until only his bones remained, until nobody could tell it was him, nobody could tell Katharina how hard he had tried to live for her.

He started to shout, demanding to be let out. They banged on the box with their guns and fired bullets. He crouched and fell silent. He had been through worse. Stalingrad was worse.

When it was dark, they gathered around the shed and pounded on the roof. Dozens of them. Laughing. Shaking the box. Rattling it.

They left and he fell asleep until they returned to taunt him again. Three more times during the night, and again at dawn, whispering through the cracks in broken German.

‘We’ll fuck your wife, Faber.’

Faber shouted at them, screamed.

‘Leave my wife alone.’

Again they banged their guns against the shed and laughed.

‘It’s our turn now, Faber. Our turn with your women.’

‘I never went near your women. Never touched them.’

They shouted at him again, something he didn’t understand, and left. There was silence. It was the hour when the wolves retreat and the birds emerge. He was sobbing, at the pain in his back, his hips, his knees, at the injustice. He had never raped, never even touched a Russian woman. He was a married man.

He slept then, waking when he heard the men at breakfast. He started shaking, his body a knot of pain, fatigue, hunger and loneliness. He banged at the door.

‘Leave my wife alone.’

Nobody came near him. He rested his forehead on his knees and cradled his legs. A child in a broom cupboard. He passed the laurel hedge and went into his parents’ living room. He sat on the sofa. His mother came in, drew back the curtains and set down a cup of tea for him, a matching cup and saucer, and a side plate from the same service, with freshly baked biscuits.

‘Thank you, Mother.’

She kissed his head.

‘You’re welcome, darling.’

He drank and ate and gazed at the shelves, at the books lined up alphabetically and the ornaments still clean from their weekly dusting: the ballerina, pink, dainty porcelain in a house with no girls; the carriage clock as old as the marriage; the plates on display; and his gifts to her from his youth movement trips: a little blue bus from Bonn, a red ceramic train from Dusseldorf; she kept everything, every gift he had given her was dusted every Tuesday. He wondered what day it was. Was it Tuesday? Was she dusting? Would they bring him breakfast?

They didn’t. He screamed at them, screamed for food. A guard came, banged on the shed, and walked away.

Faber crawled back onto the sofa and picked up the blue bus. He rocked back and forth. Toe to heel, heel to toe. The blue bus had always been his favourite. Hers too. He started to cry, calling for his mother. They hammered at the shed again. He screamed. They battered the wood, splinters flying at his face. He screamed louder. They fired a shot into the hut, over his head. He fell silent. They walked away. He buried his head in his hands. He wanted Faustmann. Faustmann would know what to do, how to help him through. Or Weiss. Or Fuchs. Even Kraus. They’d keep him straight. A boot in front to focus on, a path to follow. But he had no one. He was alone, dependent on himself, with only splinters of daylight to break the darkness.

He rocked harder, heel to toe, toe to heel. He buried his face in Katharina’s hair. Shutting his eyes harder, shutting out Weiss’ spilling stomach, Kraft’s shit, his shit, everybody’s shit. He didn’t want it any more. Any of it. All he wanted was his wife. A man can survive anything when his wife is faithful to him. That’s what the Russians say. He would survive if she was faithful, if she was waiting for him.

They brought him soup and water. He wolfed both, but didn’t ask for more. He fell into a deep sleep. They let him out the following morning, in time for breakfast, in time for the march to the forest.

Her father knocked, pushing open her bedroom door. She was still in her nightclothes, smoking.

‘We should leave, Katharina.’

‘Why?’

‘One day, two days at most, and they’ll be in the city.’

‘What about those barricades you built, Father? Won’t they stop them?’

‘Don’t, Katharina.’

‘Kitchen tables and sofas. That should do it.’

‘You’re being rude. Get dressed.’

‘I’m not going.’

‘You’re as bad as your mother.’

‘I’m staying here. I keep telling you that.’

‘I’m not leaving without you.’

‘Of course you are.’

She lit another cigarette, from the one still burning.

‘Where will you go, Father?’

‘West. Try to cross the bridge.’

She closed her eyes. He left. She went to sleep. When she woke, she heard a banging, but not the sound of shelling. She walked down the hall. Her mother was in the kitchen. Banging the cupboard doors.

‘There’s nothing to eat, Katharina.’

‘Not for some time, Mother.’

‘And to drink?’

‘I’ll heat some water.’

The two of them, the mothers of dead sons, sat at the kitchen table, with cups of hot water and cigarettes.

‘What will happen, Katharina?’

‘We’ll run out of cigarettes.’

‘And then?’

‘Do you care, Mother?’

‘Not a lot, no.’

‘Well then, why bother asking?’

‘It hasn’t gone very well for us, has it, Katharina?’