Audrey Magee - The Undertaking

‘A fine tradition, but you can break free if you want to.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Decide for yourself. It is your life, Mr Faber. Not your father’s. Or your grandfather’s.’

Faber drew from his tankard.

‘Have you anything in mind?’

‘Berlin will soon be the centre of the world, Mr Faber.’

‘Indeed it will, Dr Weinart,’ said Mr Spinell.

‘We will need to educate our new empire, to communicate to our new citizens what it is to be a true German.’

‘So not farming?’

Dr Weinart laughed.

‘You don’t look like a farmer to me.’

‘Mr Spinell thought that I could be turned into one.’

‘I doubt it.’

‘I still hold out hope, Dr Weinart.’

They all laughed.

‘Will I be well paid?’

‘You’ll be looked after.’

‘Enough for a house and garden?’

‘We take good care of our own, Mr Faber.’

The speeches began and Faber moved away to stand by the wall. Dr Weinart, his black uniform impeccably pressed, came and stood beside him.

‘You need some more time with us, Faber. I’ll have your leave extended.’

‘You can do that?’

‘I’ll get you another week. Ten days, maybe, so that you can come out with us. Let me buy more beer.’

Faber toasted Dr Weinart, drank and joined in the singing, and the shouting.

They took the train to the Darmstadt house hidden from the road by a dense laurel hedge. His mother rushed at him, hugging him and chiding him for the surprise. She straightened her skirt and hair when she caught sight of Katharina.

‘Excuse me, I’m Peter’s mother. I had no idea that he was home.’

‘Mother, this is my wife, Katharina Spinell.’

Mrs Faber snorted.

‘Is this a joke, Peter?’

‘No.’

‘You’d better come in. I’ll make some coffee. Your father will be home soon.’

‘Good.’

‘We’ll use the living room.’

She went before them, hurrying to open the curtains.

‘It’s a beautiful room,’ said Katharina.

‘Thank you.’

‘My mother keeps the curtains drawn to protect the furniture from the sun.’

‘And the books, Peter,’ said his mother.

‘It works,’ said Katharina. ‘Everything’s perfect.’

‘Like a museum,’ said Faber.

‘You’re being rude,’ said his mother.

‘Don’t think of doing this in our house, Katharina. I want the sun in every room.’

Faber looked around. Nothing had changed. It never did. He led Katharina to the sofa, sat her down, kissed her, and followed his mother into the kitchen.

‘You should have told us, Peter. Warned us.’

‘It was all very sudden, Mother.’

She stood on the tips of her toes to take down the fine china.

‘But who is she? How do you know her?’

‘I met her through a marriage bureau.’

‘What? Have you gone mad, Peter?’

‘It meant I got leave. To come home. To be here.’

‘And you married for that? A complete stranger?’

‘I really like her.’

‘Oh, thank God. Your father’s home.’

His father put his satchel on the counter as he always did, and hugged his son. Mrs Faber talked quietly to her husband.

‘It’s a stunt, Peter,’ he said. ‘A Nazi breeding stunt.’

‘It’s a deal, Father. Nothing more. And it’s worked out. You’ll really like her.’

Mr Faber picked up the tray and carried it into the living room, followed by Mrs Faber holding the coffee pot and their son carrying a plate of still-warm shortbread. Katharina stood as they walked in, saluted, and reached out her hand. His parents shook it, but sat down before their guest.

‘Katharina lives in Berlin,’ he said. ‘I think that I’ll move there after the war.’

Mr Faber’s two large, soft hands rose to his face, hovered momentarily in front of his eyes, but moved on through his hair.

‘Your job is here, Peter. Your life. Your career. What would you do in Berlin?’

‘Katharina’s father will help find me a job. He has contacts. Good political ones.’

‘You don’t need the help of politicians to be a good teacher, Peter,’ said Mr Faber.

‘I might not teach any more. Not conventionally, anyway.’

Mr Faber’s derisive laugh startled even his wife.

‘All teaching is conventional, Peter. That’s how it works.’

‘It’ll be different from classroom teaching. I’ll be teaching the nation.’

‘About what?’

‘I don’t know. Germany. Its future.’

His father sat back into his chair, silent as he drank his coffee.

‘Excuse me, young lady – I’m sorry I don’t even know your name,’ said Mr Faber.

‘Katharina. Katharina Spinell.’

‘Miss Spinell, my son—’

‘Mrs Faber, Father. Mrs Faber.’

‘Katharina. My son appears to have lost his way. It can happen. War can challenge the mind as vigorously as it can the body.’

‘I don’t think that applies here, Father.’

‘Since he was a child, Peter has wanted to be a teacher, to work in the same school as his father and grandfather.’

‘That has all changed now,’ said Peter, kissing his wife’s hand.

‘I don’t see why. Did something happen, Peter?’

‘I’m married, Father. I have a different life ahead.’

‘I married, Peter, and it changed nothing.’

‘My wife is very beautiful.’

‘And your mother wasn’t?’

The train back was almost empty, so she stretched across the seat and placed her head on his lap. He draped his coat over her and stroked her hair until she fell asleep. When they reached Berlin, he nuzzled at her ear, whispering her awake.

Her mother had kept dinner for them, potato and vegetable soup, which they ate in the kitchen until her father came home.

‘Where’s your mother?’

‘Bed.’

‘Fine. You may go, too, Katharina. I need your husband tonight.’

‘What for?’ said Katharina.

‘Dr Weinart wants him.’

Faber jumped into the back of a truck filled with men in brown uniform. They passed a uniform to him. It was too short, but he pulled it on anyway and sat as silently as the other men. The truck stopped at the top of a wide tree-lined street and the men got out, the doctor emerging from the front cab. He shook Faber’s hand.

‘Thank you for joining us, Mr Faber.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You take that house over there. Number seventy-one.’

‘What do I do with it?’

‘Just get in.’

Faber went, knocked at the door and pushed the doorbell. He received no reply, and returned to Dr Weinart.

‘There’s nobody home.’

‘They’re in there, Faber.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

He lifted the brass knocker and slammed it heavily against the door. He shouted through the keyhole, but the house inside remained still.

‘Maybe they’ve gone out, Dr Weinart.’

‘There’s nowhere for them to go, Faber.’

‘We could come back later.’

The doctor snorted.

‘Get in there, Faber.’

‘How?’

‘Jesus Christ, you’re a soldier, aren’t you?’

‘Not this kind of soldier.’

‘Move, or I’ll ship you out with those fucking Jews.’

The doctor blew his whistle. Six men carrying a telegraph pole charged the width of the street and battered at the door until it splintered, cracked and finally imploded. Faber stepped over the debris and hurried up the stairs after the doctor and his father-in-law.

‘Do as I do, Faber,’ said Mr Spinell. ‘And make sure the doctor sees you doing it.’

They found them, two old men, three women and four children behind a false wall under the stairs. Faber put his gun to their backs and marched them into a truck parked under darkened street lamps.