The Undertaking Read online

  The Undertaking

  First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Atlantic Books, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

  Copyright © Audrey Magee, 2014

  The moral right of Audrey Magee to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination and not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

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  A CIP catalogue record is available from the British Library

  Hardback ISBN: 978 1 78239 102 9

  Trade paperback ISBN: 978 1 78239 103 6

  E-book ISBN: 978 1 78239 104 3

  Printed in Great Britain

  Atlantic Books

  An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

  Ormond House

  26–27 Boswell Street

  London WC1N 3JZ

  www.atlantic-books.co.uk

  For Johnny

  Contents

  The Undertaking

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Acknowledgements

  Note on the Author

  The Undertaking

  1

  He dragged barbed wire away from the post, clearing a space on the parched earth, and took the photograph from the pocket of his tunic. He pressed the picture against the post and held it in place with string, covering the woman’s hair and neck, but not her face. He could still see that, still see her sullen eyes and sulking lips. He tied a knot, and spat at the ground. She would have to do.

  He lay down to soak up the last of the summer sun, indifferent to the swirling dust and grit, wanting only to rest, to experience the momentary nothingness of waiting. But he sat up again. The ground was too hard, the sun too hot. He lit a cigarette and stared into the shimmering heat until he located a rotund figure, its arms and legs working furiously, but generating little speed. The man arrived eventually, grumbling and panting, sweat dribbling onto the white of his clerical collar.

  ‘Why are you so bloody far away?’ he said.

  ‘I wanted privacy.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got that. Is everything ready?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let’s get on with it, then,’ said the chaplain. ‘We should make it just in time.’

  He drew a pencil and piece of crumpled paper from his pocket.

  ‘Who is the groom, Private?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘And your name?’

  ‘Peter Faber.’

  ‘And the witnesses?’ said the chaplain.

  ‘Over there,’ said Faber, pointing at three men curled up in sleep.

  The chaplain walked over and kicked at them.

  ‘They’re drunk.’

  Faber blew rings of smoke at the blue sky.

  ‘Are you drunk too, Faber?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  The chaplain kicked harder. The men moved, grudgingly.

  ‘Right, we’re doing this now. Put your cigarette out, Faber. Stand up. Show a little respect.’

  Faber stubbed the cigarette into the soil, pressed his long, narrow hands against the earth and slowly got to his feet.

  ‘Hair out of your eyes, man,’ said the chaplain. ‘Who is it you’re marrying?’

  ‘Katharina Spinell.’

  ‘Is that her there? In the photograph?’

  ‘As far as I know.’

  ‘As far as you know?’

  ‘I’ve never met her.’

  ‘But you want to marry her?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘You’re keen.’

  ‘To escape this stinking hellhole.’

  The priest wrote briefly, and returned the pen and paper to his pocket.

  ‘We can begin,’ he said. ‘Your helmet, Faber?’

  ‘That’s it. On the ground. Next to the photograph.’

  ‘Gather round, men,’ said the priest. ‘Right hands on the helmet.’

  They squatted in a small circle around the dirty, dented helmet, knees and elbows tumbling into each other.

  ‘Groom first.’

  Faber placed his hand on the metal, but quickly took it off again.

  ‘It’s too bloody hot.’

  ‘Get on with it,’ said the chaplain. ‘It’s a minute to twelve at home.’

  Faber pulled his sleeve over his hand.

  ‘The flesh of your hand, Faber. Not the sleeve.’

  The priest picked up a fistful of earth and scattered it over the helmet.

  ‘There.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Faber replaced his hand, and the other men followed. The chaplain spoke, and within minutes Faber was married to a woman in Berlin he had never met. A thousand miles away, at exactly the same moment, she took part in a similar ceremony witnessed by her father and mother; her part in a war pact that ensured honeymoon leave for him and a widow’s pension for her in the event of his death.

  ‘That’s it,’ said the chaplain. ‘You’re now a married man.’

  Each of the men shook his hand.

  ‘I need a drink,’ said Faber.

  He picked up his helmet, but left the photograph and walked back to camp.

  2

  He stared, for longer than was polite, and then spoke.

  ‘I’m Peter Faber.’

  ‘I know. I recognize you from your photograph.’

  ‘You’re Katharina?’

  She nodded and he shook her hand, surprised by the softness of her flesh, by the tumble of dark hair over her shoulders. She tugged at him.

  ‘My hand,’ she said. ‘May I have it back?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He dropped it and stepped back onto the pavement, to stand beside his pack and gun. She stayed where she was, her hip leaning into the ha
lf-opened door.

  ‘Was it a long journey, Mr Faber?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, it was. Very.’

  She raised her hand against the sun and stared at him.

  ‘How long are you staying?’

  ‘Ten days.’

  She pulled back the door.

  ‘You should come in.’

  He picked up his kit and stepped into the dark, windowless hall. She put her hand over her nose and mouth. He stank. She moved away from him and set off up the stairs.

  ‘We’re on the second floor.’

  ‘Who’s we?’

  ‘My parents.’

  ‘I didn’t know you lived with them.’

  ‘I’m not paid enough to live by myself.’

  ‘I suppose not. What do you do?’

  ‘I told you in my letter. I work in a bank. As a typist.’

  ‘Oh yes, I forgot.’

  He followed her up the frayed linoleum steps, watching each plump buttock as it shifted her skirt from side to side. She looked back at him.

  ‘Do you need any help?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said.

  ‘They’re looking forward to meeting you.’

  She pushed open the door to the apartment. He slid the pack off his shoulder.

  ‘Let me take it,’ she said.

  ‘It’s too heavy.’

  ‘I’ll manage.’

  She dragged the bag to a room behind the door, and returned for his rifle.

  ‘I’ll hang on to that,’ he said.

  ‘You’re in Berlin now.’

  ‘I prefer having it with me.’

  He followed her along a narrow corridor to a small kitchen shimmering with condensation. Her parents got to their feet and saluted, each movement brisk with enthusiasm.

  ‘I’m Günther Spinell,’ said the man. ‘Katharina’s father.’

  Faber shook his hand.

  ‘We are extremely proud to have a second soldier in our family.’

  Faber looked down at the table. Four places were set, the crockery mismatched and chipped.

  ‘My son is to the north of you, Mr Faber. Somewhere outside Moscow.’

  ‘The poor sod.’

  ‘Johannes is a very brave man, Mr Faber.’

  Katharina’s mother, her greying hair tightly curled, pointed to a chair.

  ‘Do sit down, Mr Faber.’

  He unhooked his helmet, ammunition pouches and bread bag from his belts, and heaped them on a narrow counter beside the cooker. He sat down and scratched his back against the wood.

  ‘Are you comfortable?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Did you have a good journey?’ said Mrs Spinell.

  ‘Nights in the train were cold.’

  ‘You don’t have a winter coat? No gloves?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Do you think Johannes has any?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Mrs Spinell took a handkerchief from her sleeve and held it over her mouth and nose. She coughed, and cleared her throat.

  ‘Open the window, Katharina.’

  He watched her push at the glass and lean out, her bottom sticking back into the room. She remained there, breathing the cold October air. He stared at her broad, fleshy hips.

  ‘Mr Ewald is stacking his crates,’ she said.

  Faber heard wood slapping against wood.

  ‘That’s our grocer, Mr Faber,’ said her father. ‘A remarkably loyal man.’

  ‘He’s finishing early,’ said Mrs Spinell.

  ‘There wasn’t much today,’ said Katharina.

  She turned back into the room.

  ‘Come on, Mother. We should make coffee.’

  Faber lit a cigarette. Mrs Spinell placed an ashtray on the table. It was shaped as a swastika.

  ‘It belongs to Johannes, Mr Faber, but you can use it.’

  The two women, without talking, set to work.

  ‘Have you been to Berlin before, Mr Faber?’ asked Mr Spinell.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Katharina will show you the city later.’

  Mrs Spinell poured coffee and Katharina slid a slice of cake onto his plate.

  ‘It’s lemon.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He lifted the coffee to his nose, put it down and took up the cake. He let out a little sigh. They laughed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s been a long time.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Mrs Spinell. ‘Eat.’

  He slipped the sponge into his mouth and chased it with the coffee, a rush of sweet and bitter. He did it again. They laughed again.

  ‘It’s so good, Mrs Spinell.’

  ‘It’s real coffee,’ said Mr Spinell. ‘From Dr Weinart, a friend of mine.’

  ‘And a neighbour gave us the eggs for the cake,’ said Mrs Spinell. ‘As a wedding present.’

  ‘She’s a communist,’ said Mr Spinell.

  ‘Mrs Sachs is a good person, Günther.’

  ‘That’s how they disguise themselves, Esther. That neighbourly sharing.’

  Katharina sipped at her coffee, but nudged her cake towards Faber.

  ‘You have it. You want it more than I do.’

  He ate her cake and a third slice, then sat back into his chair and lit another cigarette.

  ‘What do you teach, Mr Faber?’

  ‘Elementary, Mrs Spinell.’

  ‘Do you have a job?’

  ‘Yes. At the school I attended as a boy.’

  ‘Are they keeping it for you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But a teacher’s salary is not much,’ said Mrs Spinell. ‘Can you provide properly for my daughter?’

  He felt their eyes on him. And then her father sniggered.

  ‘Katharina’s mother worries a lot,’ he said.

  ‘I am only trying to protect our daughter, Günther,’ she said. ‘To save her from what I had to go through at the end of the last war.’

  ‘Not now, Esther,’ said Mr Spinell.

  ‘Yes now. I had to scavenge for food, Mr Faber, rummage through bins to stop my children crying from hunger. Johannes howled and howled. He’s still hungry, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Johannes is fine, Mother.’

  ‘You don’t understand, Katharina. And won’t until it’s your children suffering at the end of this war.’

  ‘It’ll be different this time, Esther,’ said Mr Spinell. ‘Everyone is afraid of us now. Victory will be swift.’

  ‘But he’ll still only be a teacher,’ said Mrs Spinell.

  The sweating walls, hard chair and chipped crockery suddenly irritated Faber. He sat forward.

  ‘My father has been a teacher all his life, and has provided perfectly well for us,’ he said.

  ‘But will that be enough?’

  ‘It has been enough for my mother.’

  ‘Is she a modest woman?’

  ‘She is like any other woman, Mrs Spinell, who has dedicated her life to her husband and children.’

  ‘You can expect the same of Katharina,’ said Mr Spinell. ‘She will make a fine wife. And a fine mother.’

  ‘To be that she needs a husband with a good job, Günther.’

  ‘Teaching in our new world will be a very respected profession, Esther. Now, young man, tell us about the front. About Kiev.’

  Faber lit a third cigarette, dragging the smoke deep into his lungs, silently absorbing its kick before slowly, evenly, releasing it into the room. He flicked the ash and cleared his throat.

  ‘The Russians are tenacious, Mr Spinell, but useless against our modern weaponry.’

  ‘It will all be ours by Christmas,’ said Mr Spinell. ‘Only three hundred kilometres from Moscow – we are invincible.’

  ‘We are doing well.’

  ‘I am very proud of you, and of all German soldiers,’ said Mr Spinell.

  Faber inhaled again and nodded his head as he blew smoke towards the ceiling.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Spinell.’

  ‘When this war is over, we will h
ave enough space, food, water and oil to last for centuries. You and my daughter can take all the land you need.’

  ‘Will we do that?’ said Katharina.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Take land? Move to the east and set up home there?’

  He stared at her. He was sweating, even though the weather was cool.

  ‘Russia is poor, filthy and full of peasants living in houses made of mud. I’m here because I can’t stand the place.’

  ‘They will work for you,’ said Mr Spinell. ‘You can tear down their huts, clean up the landscape and build a beautiful German house. Imagine, your own farm.’

  ‘I know nothing about farming.’

  ‘There will be training. After the war, young men will be taught how to become farmers, how to grow food for Germany.’

  ‘I am happy to serve my country, but once the war is over I will return to Darmstadt to resume my life as a teacher.’

  ‘You could do other things. Earn more money.’

  ‘I like being a teacher.’

  ‘You seem such a capable man.’

  ‘I am a capable teacher.’

  ‘But there are so many other things to do, especially in Berlin. You can always teach when you are older, after you have made your money.’

  Faber ground his cigarette into the ashtray and looked slowly around the room.

  ‘As you have done, Mr Spinell.’

  Katharina began to clear the dishes.

  ‘Let me show you the city,’ she said. ‘Before it’s too dark.’

  ‘My fortunes are about to change, Mr Faber. And yours could too.’

  ‘I am happy with my life, Mr Spinell.’

  ‘Let me introduce you to Dr Weinart. He is a man of great integrity and connections.’

  Faber stood.

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  He picked up his rifle.

  ‘You should leave that here,’ said Katharina.

  ‘I prefer to have it with me.’

  ‘It’s better left at home. We’re going to the park.’

  ‘I’ll take it with me.’

  He moved towards the door.

  ‘You could at least wait for me,’ she said. ‘I have to get my coat.’

  He left without her, going down the stairs and onto the street where the grocer was dismantling the stall at the front of his shop. The two men nodded at each other. Faber bounced up and down on his toes and rubbed at the sleeves of his tunic, buffeting his arms against the chilling wind. Katharina arrived on the doorstep, buttoning a coat too short for her skirt.

  ‘Should I go back to fetch you my brother’s coat?’