Audrey Magee - The Undertaking

‘I’ll wash you, Katharina.’

She struggled to open her eyes, her mouth. Her voice rose only to a whisper.

‘Where’s my mother?’

‘In the cellar. She’s not able, Katharina.’

‘She was able when it was Johannes.’

‘It was a different time, Katharina.’

‘I’ll do it myself.’

‘It’s a big job, Katharina. You’ll need some help.’

‘I needed help earlier, Mrs Sachs. Not now.’

Mrs Sachs left. Katharina fell back to sleep. When she woke again it was daylight. Mrs Sachs was again beside her.

‘Do you think Peter did that? He was a soldier.’

‘A German soldier, Katharina. Properly behaved. A good man.’

‘He hated being a soldier. I didn’t understand then, Mrs Sachs. But I do now.’

‘What, Katharina?’

‘That they mould them to be like each other. As mad as each other. As vicious. That’s what armies do.’

‘Not the German army, Katharina.’

‘Pillagers. Rapists. That’s what all armies are, Mrs Sachs. What they become.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘Those Russians hated me.’

‘Come on, let’s clean you up, Katharina.’

Mrs Sachs helped her sit up and began to wash her face, her body, the water cold, the tears streaming quietly from Katharina’s eyes, both women silent. Three of her teeth were broken, and her nose, eyes and lips were badly bruised. Her vagina was torn, her breasts and stomach covered in deep purple bruising. Mrs Sachs handed her some hot tea with a little sugar and covered the worst of her wounds with home-made poultices, the herbs older than they should have been.

‘Thankfully you don’t appear to need antibiotics.’

Katharina sobbed then.

‘What am I going to tell Peter, Mrs Sachs?’

‘I doubt, Katharina, that you will ever have to explain anything to him.’

‘But what if he comes back? What do I tell him?’

Mrs Sachs leaned into her.

‘You tell him nothing, Katharina. You tell nobody about this.’

‘Won’t people find out?’

‘We won’t tell them. You’ve been through enough already.’

‘What if there’s a child, Mrs Sachs? How will I explain that?’

‘We’ll deal with that when it arises.’

‘You know somebody.’

‘I do, Katharina. He’s good. And safe.’

‘Thank you.’

Her parents stayed in the cellar until the Russians stopped drinking and began serving soup to those still in the city. They took the soup and moved back into their bedrooms.

‘You’ll feel better soon, Katharina.’

‘Will I, Father?’

‘I’m sure of it.’

She went to her bedroom and locked the door. She looked at herself in the mirror, at her bruises and her broken teeth. She lifted her scissors and cut her hair. Piece after piece falling down her back, to the floor.

The other men in the carriage had written. He had decided against it.

He stared through the window, silently watching the landscape change and shift, relieved when the enormous forests fell out of view.

He looked for Katharina at the station, even though he knew she would not be there. The women who were, wives and mothers, sobbed when they saw their men, running fingers over hollowed cheeks, setting their heads against the men’s bony chests. He moved away from them, towards the back of the station, through a horde of old men and women pushing photographs into his face, pictures of strong-shouldered sons, clean uniforms and smiling faces. He shook his head. Over and over. No, he knew none of them.

He went to a clinic where they washed and fed him, and treated him for lice, gum infection and scabies. They let him sleep for several days and, when he wanted to go, dressed him in a second-hand suit. They gave him money too, and a brown paper parcel that he could tuck under his arm.

‘I’m going to see my wife and child,’ he said.

‘Good luck, Mr Faber.’

‘Thank you.’

He pressed the doorbell and stepped back onto the pavement. He nodded at the grocer stacking his stall with bright, red tomatoes. Nobody came to the door. Faber went into the shop, paid for a tomato and ate it, licking at the juice dribbling down his chin, his mouth thrilling at its sweetness.

‘You enjoyed that, Sir,’ said the grocer.

‘Are the Spinells still living here?’

‘I’ve only just opened. I don’t know the neighbours yet.’

‘Do you have any dark chocolate? Any white flowers?’

‘No Sir, those things are still hard to come by.’

‘Thank you.’

Faber pushed at the door. It was unlocked. He went into the dark hallway and up the staircase, covered still in fraying linoleum. He stopped outside the door and listened, but heard nothing. He knocked. Lightly. A second time, with a little more force. She opened the door as he turned to leave. Spoke to him. Whispered.

‘Peter.’

She reached out her hand, and he took it, wrapping it in both of his.

‘You’re still here, Katharina. You waited for me.’

She nodded, her lips and eyes closing. He stepped towards her. She buried her head in his chest. He kissed the top of her head.

‘But your hair?’

‘It’s more practical this way, Peter.’

‘I liked it long.’

‘It’s short now.’

A door opened. It was Mrs Spinell, her grey hair long and unkempt.

‘Johannes?’

‘No, Mother. It’s Peter.’

The old woman closed the door again.

‘Come in,’ said Katharina.

He bowed his head, and stepped inside.

‘I tried you first at the other address.’

‘We moved back here a long time ago.’

‘There is nothing of the house. Nothing left.’

‘No. Nothing. Would you like coffee?’

‘Please.’

She started to walk down the corridor. He pulled her back to him.

‘It’s good to see you again, Katharina.’

‘And you, Peter. Come on, I’ll make coffee.’

She turned to go, but he held her still.

‘What happened to your teeth, Katharina?’

She hesitated.

‘I fell,’ she said. ‘During an air raid. In the dark.’

‘We can fix them.’

‘I’ve learned to live with them as they are.’

He let her go and followed her down the hall, staring at the shortness of her hair, the narrowness of her hips. Her shoulders were bent forward, rounding her spine. She was different. But then so was he.

‘Are you all right, Katharina?’

‘I’m all right. And you?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

He went into the kitchen, condensation still shimmering on the walls. A child was sitting at the table, his schoolbooks in front of him. Faber hunkered down beside the chair and touched the boy’s arm.

‘Johannes.’

‘Hello. I’m doing my homework.’

‘So I see.’

‘I’m not supposed to talk. I’m supposed to concentrate.’

Faber smiled and stood up again, stemming his tears.

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll let you get on. We can talk when you’re finished.’

The child nodded.

‘It’s good to see you, Johannes. To meet you at last.’

‘Thank you,’ said the boy.

He returned to his homework.

Katharina had her back to them, slowly taking cups from the cupboard.

‘We’ll go to another room,’ she said. ‘Are you hungry?’

‘Probably. I have learned not to be.’

She cut two pieces of bread and spread them with honey. She slid them onto a plate and poured coffee into the cups. There were no saucers. She led him to the room at the end of the hall, her bedroom.

‘I remember this so well, Katharina.’

‘You smell better this time.’

He smiled, briefly. She set down the cups and plate. He wrapped his arms around her, kissed her on the cheek and left his lips there, his eyes closed.