The Undertaking Page 10

  The bank was busy. Many of her colleagues had left the city to live with relatives in the country so she had been moved from the back room to the front desk, answering questions from customers wondering whether their money was safe, whether it could be hit by British bombs. She reassured them, often the same person several times a month.

  When she got home, she went to Johannes. He was the same, but there was a sour smell in the room. She pulled back the sheets. He had wet himself, plastering the pyjamas to his skin.

  ‘My God, Johannes, what has happened to you?’

  She took off her coat, opened the window, drew a couple of deep breaths and lifted him upright, stripping him down, exposing what had been hidden from her for over a decade.

  In dry pyjamas, she led him to the living room and sat him on the sofa, in front of the fire.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said Mrs Spinell. ‘He’s supposed to be in bed.’

  ‘He wet himself.’

  ‘And you changed him?’

  ‘I’ll sort his bed out now.’

  ‘But, Katharina, you shouldn’t have done that. He’s your brother.’

  ‘Mother, I’m married and pregnant. I can manage.’

  She stripped the sheets, washed them in the bath, and mopped the mattress with a towel before propping it against the open window to catch the end of the cold spring day. She sat beside him, picked up her sewing, and caught the smell again.

  ‘No, Johannes.’

  She repeated the procedure, this time with her mother’s help.

  ‘He needs a nappy.’

  ‘He’s a grown man, Katharina. We can’t put him nappies.’

  ‘We need something, Mother.’

  ‘We’ll use towels.’

  They ate chicken, beetroot and potatoes as Johannes lay on the sofa, his muttering running in parallel to their table conversation.

  ‘Dr Weinart has promised to visit over the next couple of days,’ said Mr Spinell. ‘He says that he has seen plenty of cases like this.’

  ‘That’s kind of him,’ said Mrs Spinell.

  ‘What’s going to happen to Johannes, Father?’

  ‘Let’s wait and see, Katharina. In the meantime, we must keep him calm and rested.’

  She fell into a deep sleep early that night, unaware of the blustering wind that cut through the clouds and cleared the skies. The sirens blared and she groaned, resenting their harrying wail, their interruption of her sleep. She began to dress, methodically adopting a rhythm that would allow her to reach the shelter on time. Only when she was buckling her shoes did she remember her brother.

  Her parents were in his room, already dressed, trying to slip a sweater, the one with swastikas, over his head.

  ‘I’m sorry. I was fast asleep.’

  ‘Fetch his shoes and socks, Katharina,’ said her mother.

  They bundled him into his coat and into the hall. At the door, he wet himself.

  ‘Oh my God, Johannes,’ said Katharina. ‘Not again.’

  ‘I’ll get fresh clothes.’

  ‘No, Esther. We have no time.’

  ‘We can’t take him like this, Günther. The shelter will stink, and we’ll never be forgiven. Or forgotten.’

  Katharina stripped him and her parents dressed him, all three struggling to keep him upright. They steered him down the stairs and onto the street, relieved, as their eyes adjusted to the dark, to find others still there, women with young children and old parents. But Johannes sat down on the pavement, under a siren. The others were quickly gone.

  ‘Hurry, Johannes,’ said Mr Spinell. ‘They’ll shut the doors very soon.’

  Katharina could see the huge concrete shelter towering over the street, but it seemed miles away. They lifted Johannes to his feet and hurried him forward, his laces undone, his feet stumbling. Mr Spinell shouted at two men shutting the doors at the top of the concrete staircase. They didn’t hear him, and the bombs started to fall on the outskirts of the city, far to the west, but falling nonetheless. Mr Spinell shouted louder. At his son. At the men. He waved the arm that was not holding Johannes and the two men caught sight of him. They grabbed Johannes under his arms and dragged him up the steps. Katharina and her parents followed and the doors slammed shut, heavy bolts and bars thrown across their width.

  ‘Thank God,’ said Mr Spinell. ‘And thank you, gentlemen.’

  ‘Don’t do that again,’ said one of the men.

  ‘No. No, we won’t. We’re hoping he’ll improve soon.’

  Katharina and her parents normally sat on the ground floor during the raids, with a little bag of books, cushions, puzzles and sewing. This time all the lower floors were full and they had nothing with them.

  ‘You’ll have to go towards the top,’ said the man at the door.

  They followed the trail of fluorescent paint that led to the staircase and began to climb. Johannes moved easily, as though more compliant when sheltered from the outside, from the cold, the wind. The first, second and third floors were full. They found space on the fourth, close to the flak towers on the roof.

  ‘I don’t like being so high,’ said Katharina. ‘We’re nearer to them.’

  ‘These towers are indestructible, Katharina. The Führer designed them himself.’

  ‘I know that, Father, but I still prefer to be lower down.’

  They walked through rooms full of people already settled into their routines as they waited for it all to be over. Mothers and grandmothers sitting on wooden benches were reading to young children while old men scraped out pipes and talked quietly to one another. The older children knew to behave, knew to resume sleep or unfinished schoolwork. They looked at Johannes, but then looked away. It was rude to stare.

  In the last room on the fourth floor, they found a space next to a group of families with young children. Mrs Spinell guided Johannes to the bench and sat him down, tilting his back towards the dusty concrete wall. She smoothed his hair.

  ‘Now, my love, we’re here, and you’re safe.’

  Katharina’s parents sat either side of her brother. She flopped down beside her mother, sighed and laughed.

  ‘What is it?’ said her mother.

  ‘Look, he’s wearing odd shoes.’

  ‘We’ll get it right next time,’ said Mrs Spinell.

  One of the anti-aircraft guns on the roof kicked off, closer than Katharina was used to, and noisier. She decided to ignore it, to drift off towards sleep, but her mother’s movements were agitated.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s trembling.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll settle in a minute.’

  A second, then a third gun started firing. Katharina put her hands to her ears, then to her belly, which was becoming round and firm. Her mother sat forward. Johannes was shaking, his arms and legs rattling in time to the weapons. Mrs Spinell tried to rock him, to sway him as though he were back in her arms, her troubled infant, whispering into his ear. He settled a little. Katharina sat back against the wall, but a blast pushed her forward. A single bomb. People screamed, but only briefly, regaining their composure when they realized that the walls and ceiling were intact.

  But Johannes’ breathing did not settle, and the emptiness of his eyes was gone, displaced by a vivid, frantic blue. Katharina slid to the floor and rubbed his legs. Her mother pulled at her.

  ‘Get up, child. People are looking at you.’

  ‘Mother, we need to keep him calm.’

  ‘Get up. You’re pregnant. You look ridiculous.’

  She got up, and sat beside her father, nestling into her brother, the tremor of his limbs passing into hers.

  ‘Sssh. It’ll soon be over.’

  Another bomb fell. Then another. Four of them, six, battering at the people’s calm and confidence. The children wailed. The adults ordered them to be quiet, told them it would soon be over. They obeyed, but Johannes was on the floor, rolled in a ball, his hands over his ears, his eyes shut tight, his mouth wide open in a scream that made no
sound. Katharina tried to lift him up.

  ‘Come on, Johannes. It’s not that bad.’

  Johannes remained on the floor, still curled up.

  ‘Come on, son,’ said Mr Spinell, ‘you don’t want to worry people.’

  ‘Maybe you should leave him there, Father. Let him recover. He’s not doing any harm.’

  ‘It’s shameful, Katharina. Help your father.’

  She bent down, but lost her balance and toppled onto her brother’s chest and head, throwing him into darkness. He shrieked, so piercingly that the children began to cry. In time they responded to their mothers’ soothing. But Johannes fought off all attempts to soothe him, and continued screaming. The mothers carried their children to another part of the shelter, away from Johannes, the man made mad by war.

  19

  Dr Weinart came, carrying a cake box.

  ‘For you, Mrs Spinell.’

  She received it awkwardly, almost with a curtsey.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Dr Weinart. Thank you.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  She shifted the box from one hand to the other.

  ‘Let me help, Mother.’

  ‘I’m fine, Katharina. People don’t really give cakes any more, do they, Dr Weinart?’

  ‘Don’t they, Mrs Spinell? I hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘We must be very lucky.’

  She passed the cake to her daughter.

  ‘Günther, take the doctor’s coat.’

  Katharina balanced the cake evenly on her palms and walked towards the kitchen, salivating. She lifted the lid. It was a chocolate roulade filled with fresh cream and decorated with sifted icing sugar and mint, the sprig set perfectly in the centre of the cake. Mrs Spinell came in behind her.

  ‘Let me see it.’

  ‘It’s gorgeous, Mother.’

  Katharina transferred the cake onto a white rectangular gilt-edged plate and stood over it, inhaling the chocolate and mint.

  ‘I have to do this.’

  She dipped her finger into the cream and licked it, scraping her skin with her teeth to ensure none had been left behind. She rolled the cream over and under her tongue, and swallowed.

  ‘Heavenly.’

  ‘Let me.’

  Mrs Spinell took more than her daughter, a large blob that covered a third of her finger.

  ‘That’s not fair.’

  Katharina laughed and dug in a second time, using a teaspoon to smooth over the holes.

  ‘Why is Dr Weinart so kind to us, Mother?’

  ‘He and your father go back a long way. He was a lieutenant in the last war, very young but very gifted, and your father recognized that, accepting his youth when others wouldn’t.’

  ‘And they stayed in touch all this time?’

  ‘This war brought them back together.’

  Mrs Spinell carried the plate and coffee to the table. Katharina followed with a knife and cut into the cake, first serving the doctor, then her father, her mother and herself, sneaking the mint sprig onto her own plate, hidden from her mother’s view. They set their plates on the table and waited for Dr Weinart to stop talking, to start eating so that they could follow his lead. But he carried on, talking about the war, the eastern front, their triumphs, oblivious to the poured coffee and unfolded napkins, indifferent to their torment. Mr Spinell coughed; Mrs Spinell spoke.

  ‘Please, Dr Weinart, do start.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Spinell.’

  He raised his plate, allowing them to raise theirs, but his fork remained on the table.

  ‘It’ll all be ours by the summer. Once this spring campaign is under way, they are finished.’

  ‘That’s certain,’ said Mr Spinell.

  ‘We must concede that we were somewhat thwarted by their winter weather, but that is behind us now. We will again prove our strength.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Mr Spinell.

  ‘Please, Dr Weinart,’ said Mrs Spinell. ‘Your coffee will go cold.’

  He picked up his fork and poked at the edge of his cake. He didn’t eat, but the movement was sufficient for the others to start on the rich, dark and obviously expensive chocolate sponge.

  ‘This cake is marvellous,’ said Katharina, ‘where did you find it?’

  ‘I am glad you are enjoying it, Mrs Faber.’

  ‘Where can I find one? Is there a special bakery that you go to? I would use a week’s salary to buy one.’

  Dr Weinart cleared his throat. Mr Spinell echoed the polite cough.

  The doctor returned his plate to the table, half of the cake uneaten, and wiped his mouth with their best linen.

  ‘Mrs Faber, this is a cake made by one of the Führer’s bakers. It is not available to you.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Then I am honoured to eat it.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  The doctor finished his coffee and declined to take any more.

  ‘Now, Mrs Spinell, how is your son? Johannes.’

  ‘The same, Dr Weinart,’ said Mrs Spinell. ‘He lies all day staring at the ceiling. He moves his mouth less, though, and makes the occasional sound. An improvement of sorts, I suppose.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘His food intake is small but steady. Beyond that, there is little I can tell you.’

  ‘May I see him now?’

  ‘Of course.’

  They followed the doctor into the bedroom where Johannes lay awake but motionless on the mattress.

  ‘Johannes,’ said Mr Spinell. ‘This is Dr Weinart. He has come to examine you.’

  Dr Weinart sat on the edge of the bed. He picked up Johannes’ hand and shook it.

  ‘Hello, Johannes.’

  Johannes’ limp fingers slipped from the doctor’s and fell back onto the sheet. Dr Weinart checked his temperature and pulse. He clicked his fingers and clapped his hands beside each ear.

  ‘We shall just have to wait. I will come back in a week unless something changes and you need me sooner.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor,’ said Mrs Spinell.

  ‘And he hasn’t made any sounds at all, Mrs Spinell?’

  They trailed behind him as he walked to the hall door.

  ‘Only at the bomb shelter. He became a little upset there.’

  ‘Ah yes, I heard about that.’

  Dr Weinart wrapped his scarf around his neck and began to fasten his coat, which was made of fine dark wool. He stopped at the third button.

  ‘I think it is better not to take Johannes to the shelter in future.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Mrs Spinell.

  ‘In the interests of German science, I want to see if Johannes can sleep through a bombing raid, to find out if his subconscious will allow him to rest.’

  ‘We can’t do that to him, Dr Weinart,’ said Mrs Spinell.

  ‘Keep him in bed, Mr Spinell. Without sedation.’

  ‘He shouldn’t be left like that,’ said Katharina.

  ‘One of you, unfortunately, will have to sit with him.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mr Spinell.

  ‘I think it is for the best. For him. And, indeed, for your neighbours.’

  ‘Our neighbours?’ said Katharina.

  ‘We don’t want them seeing a soldier frightened of bombs. It’s bad for morale.’

  ‘Why would it be bad for morale?’ she said. ‘It’s just the truth.’

  ‘I’m sure your parents understand, Mrs Faber.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Mr Spinell.

  Mrs Spinell wrapped her arms tightly across her chest as the doctor resumed buttoning his coat.

  Her husband spoke again.

  ‘I will arrange it, Doctor.’

  ‘Thank you, Günther. And thank you for your hospitality.’

  ‘Thank you for the cake,’ said Mr Spinell.

  Mrs Spinell closed the door, listened until she could no longer hear the doctor’s shoes on the stairs, and turned on her husband.

  ‘How could you, Günther?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Pand
er to him like that?’

  ‘Esther, that man has been very kind to us.’

  ‘So kind that we have to stay here during a bombing raid.’

  ‘That’s enough. It might help Johannes.’

  ‘Or kill him. Kill us all.’

  ‘Stop it, Esther. We have to do what he says.’

  ‘“We have to do what he says.”’

  ‘Stop it.’

  ‘Good old Günther Spinell. Always does what the big boys say.’

  ‘That’s enough. It’s done now.’

  She slumped into the sofa.

  ‘What if the house is hit?’

  ‘That’s very unlikely, Esther.’

  ‘You can’t be sure. You don’t know.’

  Katharina sat down beside her mother.

  ‘I’ll stay with him,’ she said.

  ‘You?’ said Mrs Spinell. ‘You’re pregnant. You can’t.’

  ‘I’ll be fine, Mother.’

  ‘What would people think of us, Katharina?’

  ‘Who will know?’

  ‘It’s out of the question. Your father and I will do it. Günther will do the first night.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said.

  ‘Let me do it,’ said Katharina.

  ‘If you’re sure,’ said Mr Spinell. ‘I should really be with your mother.’

  ‘Günther, that’s your pregnant daughter. You can’t let her do it.’

  ‘I’ll be fine, Mother. You’ll frighten Johannes if you stay with him. You’ll be too nervous.’

  ‘And you won’t?’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Let her do it, Esther. She can rest on our return.’

  ‘How can you do this? You’re a coward, Günther Spinell.’

  Katharina returned the cups and plates to the kitchen, cut a piece of cake for Johannes and sat on his bed to tuck the chocolate into his mouth.

  ‘Taste it, Johannes. It’s by the Führer’s baker. And it’s far better than Mother’s.’

  She stroked his hair, kissed his forehead and ran her hand over his cheeks, still hollow despite a week of mashed potatoes and vegetables, the weight of his head and body making barely a dent on the bed linen.

  ‘Come back to us, Johannes.’

  She sat down in a chair, covered her knees with a blanket, and stared at him, the stillness enhanced by the quiet rhythm of his breathing and the occasional flutter in her belly. She ate what remained of the cake and read for a short while from an American detective novel that was being passed around the women at work. Her father disapproved, so she read it out of his sight.