Audrey Magee - The Undertaking

‘It’s so damn good to be here, Katharina.’

‘How hard was it, Peter?’

‘Terrible, but another time. Not now.’

She ran her hands over his face, her fingers lingering in the crevices.

‘You’re so thin.’

‘I thought you liked me skinny.’

‘Not like this. We’ll have to feed you up.’

‘I find it hard to eat a lot.’

‘We’ll go gently.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Eat now. The bread.’

He sat down on the end of the bed. She stayed by the window, sipping her coffee, looking down at the street, at a German man stepping off the pavement as Russian soldiers approached him.

Faber finished eating and lay down on the bed. She lay beside him and drew a blanket over both of them. He kissed her, on the lips.

‘I missed you, Katharina.’

‘How did you get through it?’

‘I don’t know. I had you and Johannes. That helped. Enormously.’

She kissed his lips, his cheeks.

‘And how was it here, Katharina?’

‘Awful. But you’re here now. I knew you would be. One day.’

He ran his fingers over her lips, over her thinner face, and kissed her. She was crying, tears quietly sliding down her face.

‘Why did you cut your hair?’

‘I wanted to, Peter.’

‘Will you grow it again? For me?’

‘No.’

‘But I like it long. It’s how I think of you.’

‘You’ll have to think of me differently, Peter.’

He removed the blanket and sat up. He lit a cigarette. She took it. He lit a second.

‘The room looks the same,’ he said.

‘I share it with Johannes.’

‘He’s a fine boy, Katharina.’

‘He’s a good child.’

‘I lived to see him, you know. To hold him.’

She stood and looked again down at the street, at the Russians surrounding a woman, checking her papers.

‘He’s not yours, Peter.’

‘Who isn’t?’

‘The boy. In the kitchen. He’s not your son.’

‘Of course he is.’

‘No. He’s not. Our son died. Of meningitis. When he was two.’

Faber stretched his bony hands across his thighs.

‘So who is he? The child in the kitchen?’

‘His actual name is Peter Johannes. But we call him Johannes. It’s easier for us all.’

‘No, Katharina, who is he? Who is his father?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know?’

‘Russian.’

‘You went with those bastards?’

She drank the last of her coffee.

‘I was raped, Peter.’

He closed his eyes, his lips moving in an almost silent whisper.

‘No, Katharina. No. Not that.’

He was silent then. She sat beside him and held his hand, stroking his skin.

‘When, Katharina? When did it happen?’

‘April. When they won. Eight years ago.’

Tears fell down his face, and he took his hand from hers.

‘That’s too hard for me, Katharina.’

‘It was terrible, Peter.’

He was nodding.

‘No. It’s too hard.’

He wiped his eyes and lifted his plate and cup. He handed them to her.

‘Is there any more?’

‘What?’

‘Is there any more food?’

‘Yes. Of course. I’ll fetch you some.’

She poured coffee and cut two more slices of bread. Her son wanted some too.

‘You’ll be having dinner soon, darling.’

‘But I’m hungry.’

She cut another slice for the child, and spread it too with honey, a little more than she had given to Faber.

‘Who is that man, Mummy?’

‘An old friend.’

‘He looks strange.’

‘He’s been away a long time. Now, back to your homework.’

She returned to the bedroom and he took the plate and cup.

‘Why didn’t you pretend that he was mine, Katharina? Make it easier for me.’

‘No more lies, Peter. Only the truth.’

‘I’ve had enough of truth.’

He ate and drank. Slowly.

‘How could you go with them, Katharina? Have you any idea how they treated me?’

‘I had no choice.’

‘We all have choices, Katharina.’

‘Do we?’

‘You could have hidden from them.’

She looked again down at the street. The Russians let the woman go.

‘There were four of them, Peter.’

He sucked on the bread, as chewing hurt too much.

‘Mrs Sachs advised me never to tell you.’

‘So why are you telling me?’

‘You need to know the truth.’

‘Why do I need to know the truth?’

‘Because I need you to know the truth.’

He lit two more cigarettes. She took the one he offered her.

‘Why did you keep him?’

‘I had nothing left. He gave me something to live for.’

‘You had me to live for. I told you I would be back.’

‘I didn’t know, Peter. I couldn’t be sure.’

He stared at her.

‘You gave up on me, Katharina.’

‘I didn’t, Peter. I waited here for you, as I promised.’

‘You gave up on me, and had somebody else’s child.’

She shook her head and stared back at him, her arms tight across her chest.

‘I was raped, Peter, because I stayed in Berlin waiting for you.’

‘So it’s my fault that you were raped?’

‘No, that’s not what I said, Peter.’

‘So what did you say? What are you saying?’

‘I need you to accept me as I am, my son as he is.’

‘No. I can’t do that. I want you to be the way you were, the mother of my son.’

‘That can’t be, Peter.’

He ran his fingers through his hair.

‘Maybe we can start again, Katharina? Have another child?’

‘A sibling for Johannes?’

‘No. Not him. Just us. Starting again.’

She wiped her eyes with her sleeve and straightened her skirt.

‘How are your parents, Peter?’

‘I don’t know. I’ll go there next.’

‘Are you staying for dinner?’

‘If you have enough.’

‘Father will bring something back.’

‘How is he?’

‘Fine, though he has some arthritis.’

‘And your mother?’

‘She lives in her room. Johannes’ old room.’

He pressed his fingertips into his temples.

‘What did you expect of me, Katharina?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Did you expect me to want him?’

‘He’s a good child, Peter.’

‘He’s a Russian bastard.’

She walked to the door.

‘Are you here for dinner, Peter?’

‘You asked me that already.’

‘I’m asking again.’

‘I don’t know whether I want dinner.’

Peter looked at her, at her short, cropped hair, at her broken teeth. He walked to the window and saw the Russians.

‘How can you live here, Katharina? With them everywhere?’

‘Where should I go, Peter?’

‘To the west. The Americans, the British, even the French would be better than this.’

‘They’ve been good to us, Peter. They give enough food. Medicine when we need it. And Father has some work with them.’

‘He works for the Russians?’

‘Didn’t you?’

‘I had no choice, Katharina.’

‘We all have choices, don’t we Peter?’

‘He can choose not to.’

‘You work for the Russians or for the Americans, that’s your choice.’

‘The Americans are better people.’

‘Are they? The Russians fed us before the Americans. The Russians gave me antibiotics when mother had pneumonia. No one else did.’

He lit another cigarette. Only one.

‘I can’t stay here,’ he said. ‘With them. After all they have done.’

‘We did it first, Peter.’

‘We’re not as bad as they are.’

‘Aren’t we?’

‘You should move, Katharina. Get away.’

‘My son is half Russian, Peter. It’s easier here. And there are other women like me here.’