The Undertaking Read online

  Her parents were by the living room fire, reading newspapers. She showed them the empty plate.

  ‘He liked the cake.’

  ‘How is he?’ said Mrs Spinell.

  ‘Asleep.’

  ‘We left some cake for you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Katharina.

  She extended her legs along the sofa.

  ‘Dr Weinart is obviously more used to cake than we are.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Mr Spinell.

  ‘He left half of his on his plate.’

  ‘He’s a very important man, Katharina, and that brings its privileges.’

  Mr Spinell ate dinner and left the apartment, leaving the women to bathe Johannes.

  ‘We should get him to bed early,’ said Mrs Spinell. ‘It’s a perfect night for the English.’

  When the siren sounded, Katharina snapped awake. Her parents were already in the doorway, her mother clutching a pack of cards as she would an evening bag.

  ‘Will you be all right, Katharina?’

  ‘Just go, Mother.’

  She pushed the door tightly behind them, shutting out any bombs that might land in the hall, and twice checked that the windows were shuttered and the curtains fully drawn. Johannnes was asleep. She heard planes, to the west of the city.

  ‘Please God, let them stay there.’

  She tried to read her American book, but it was boring. She was bored. And safer than she had expected. She stood up.

  ‘I know I shouldn’t do this, Johannes.’

  She switched off the light, drew open the curtains, opened the shutters, raised the window and looked out. The air was cold, exhilarating, the street dark and still, emptied of everything but feral cats evicted from homes that no longer had food for them.

  The sky was a chalky orange, a mixture of fire and dust. She could see the planes, little black dots waltzing over houses and shops, over people; swirling and twisting around each other in a dance of incongruous beauty. She closed the window, shutters and curtains, sat down on the chair beside Johannes’ bed and pulled the blanket over her shoulders and chest, her feet against her brother’s hand, her hands over her womb.

  She didn’t hear the plane until it was overhead, a single one, straying from the pack, its engine quiet and light. She begged it to move on. It didn’t. It released a bomb, a sharp, single whistle, an exhilarated child rushing down a slide. She dived under her brother’s bed, pleading for his protection. He slept on. The house shook and the windows rattled. She remained under the bed, listening to the lightness of her brother’s breath until her mother returned.

  ‘He slept through it all,’ said Katharina.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ said Mrs Spinell. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You look exhausted. Go to bed. I’ll warm some milk for you.’

  ‘Where’s Father?’

  ‘He has gone to help. A house three streets away was hit by a bomb.’

  ‘It sounded so much closer. I thought they were going to kill us.’

  ‘Go on, Katharina. Go to bed.’

  Under the covers, still in her clothes, she cupped her belly, mumbling apologies over and over to the baby. Mrs Spinell sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing her back through the blankets.

  ‘Drink your milk while it’s still warm.’

  ‘I’ll get it in a minute. Leave it on the table.’

  Mrs Spinell remained where she was until Katharina emerged.

  ‘I can’t believe that Johannes slept through it, Mother.’

  ‘Maybe Dr Weinart is right and it will do him some good.’

  ‘It was the machine guns that upset him the last time, wasn’t it? I wonder if something happened with machine guns when he was in Russia.’

  ‘I can’t bear to think about it, Katharina.’

  ‘I have to think about it because what if Peter comes back like that? His brain turned to mush? Or without arms or legs? What happens then? What type of life do I have then?’

  ‘You should sleep. I’m sure Peter’s fine.’

  ‘You don’t know that. You can’t know that. The whole damned thing goes on and on, with no end.’

  ‘There is an end. The summer.’

  ‘They said Christmas. Now it’s summer. How long are we supposed to wait? I am sick of it all.’

  ‘It will all be over soon. You heard Dr Weinart.’

  ‘And you believe him?’

  ‘I have to, Katharina.’

  20

  Russia, March 4th, 1942

  My darling Katharina,

  I am jealous. There. I have admitted it. Johannes is home with you. I am not. He is in clean clothes, sitting down each evening to have dinner with you. I am still in this fleapit, no closer to being home than I was when we set off down these godforsaken roads.

  I hate this place. I am worn out, Katharina. By the war, by being without you, by these stupid, ugly Russians who come at us with whatever weapons they can find, in whatever clothing. They are relentless.

  I am trying to focus on cheerful things, on the fact that spring is coming, that the wind is abating and that tiny little flowers are pushing their way up through the melting snow. But it is hard. I miss you so much and I miss my friend, Fuchs. He seems to have died so needlessly, Katharina. If we had been allowed to wait at our previous camp until the snows had melted, Fuchs would be alive now. As it is, we have made little difference to Kharkov. It still belongs to us. The Russians are too weak. It was all so bloody pointless. Except for Reinisch. He is to be promoted. For his good work in marching us through the snow.

  I don’t know if this letter will evade the censor, but if it does, forgive my grumpiness. It is only that I am fed up, worn out by the Russians and their scrawny, lice-ridden women who possess none of your beauty. They even send their women to fight, Katharina.

  I’m sorry, my love, to burden you in this way. I am, on the whole, quite well and safe, if a little tired. But I do miss you, terribly, and I fret in the darkness of night that this war will go on so long that you will forget me. By tomorrow morning, when the sun has warmed me a little, I will feel more positive, certain that it will all be over soon and that I will be back to you and our baby.

  I am looking forward to it very much, Katharina. To being with you and our child. I can’t decide if I want a boy or a girl. Have you a preference? Whatever it is, I know we will make it a happy and healthy child.

  I do miss and love you.

  Yours in love,

  Peter

  21

  Katharina stretched as she walked into the living room, chasing sleep from her limbs. Johannes was already there, upright on the sofa, awake. Mrs Spinell was beside him.

  ‘He got up by himself,’ she said.

  ‘Has he said anything?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Katharina lifted his hand and kissed skin that was still pale but softer. No longer paper dry.

  ‘Good morning, Johannes. It’s nice to see you up and about.’

  In the afternoon, he began to pick at things. His pyjamas. His dressing gown. Plucking threads, twisting and tugging, working them over and over until they were tiny balls of dense cotton.

  ‘Is he getting better, Mother?’

  ‘So far as we can tell.’

  The following day, he switched to newspaper, tearing long strips first, then shredding the war reports into tiny pieces, scattering black and grey confetti on the sofa and floor. Mrs Spinell reprimanded him, tidied up, washed the ink from his hands but then gave him a second newspaper.

  ‘I suppose it’s doing you some good,’ she said.

  But he wasn’t interested. He stood up, walked to the table and sat down, extending his large, elegant hands across the mahogany.

  ‘Are you hungry, Johannes?’ said Mrs Spinell. ‘Dinner will be in about an hour.’

  He remained there, still, even as Katharina worked around him, placing mats, cutlery and glasses on the table, chattering as she went. She put dow
n his napkin and he lifted it up, unfolded it and placed it across his knees.

  Mr Spinell came home, hesitated, and kissed the crown of his head.

  ‘Hello, son. Have these women not got your dinner ready yet?’

  They sat down and started with soup. Mrs Spinell ladled from a ceramic tureen, serving Johannes first.

  ‘You can start, Johannes,’ she said. ‘It’s vegetable.’

  He lifted his fork, dipped it into the bowl and brought it to his mouth. He sucked, but the orange soup dribbled to his chin, little bits of vegetable tumbling to his chest. He tried again, his mother’s ladle suspended over the blue and white tureen, his father and sister staring into bowls that had nothing in them. Mrs Spinell reached across the table.

  ‘Here, Johannes,’ she said, ‘let me help you.’

  She wiped his chin and chest, and gently prised the fork from his hand, replacing it with a spoon.

  ‘You might find this easier.’

  He became more dextrous with each movement of the spoon. He ate most of his soup, lifted the napkin, rubbed his chin and pushed back his chair.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, tipping his head into a small bow. ‘That was delicious.’

  He walked towards the sofa, his slippers slapping against the wooden floor. They stared after him, their own soup uneaten.

  ‘He spoke,’ said Mrs Spinell.

  ‘And ate,’ said Katharina. ‘By himself.’

  ‘Let’s not make a fuss of it,’ said Mr Spinell.

  Dr Weinart returned a couple of days later. Johannes was sitting on the sofa, staring at the pages of a newspaper, neither ripping nor reading.

  ‘It’s a miracle, Doctor,’ said Mrs Spinell.

  ‘Has he said much?’

  ‘Not a lot, no, but they were words.’

  ‘And used appropriately?’

  ‘Oh yes, Doctor.’

  Dr Weinart checked his pulse and temperature.

  ‘What is your name?’ he asked.

  ‘Johannes Spinell.’

  ‘Do you know the names of the people in this room?’

  Johannes said nothing, but stared again at the newspaper.

  ‘I have no wish to force him. Things are obviously improving. When is his leave due to end?’

  ‘In ten days,’ said Mr Spinell.

  ‘I will have them give him an extra week. There is no point in rushing him.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor,’ said Mrs Spinell. ‘We are very grateful.’

  ‘We have to look after our soldiers.’

  Johannes followed the doctor to the hall. He stopped in front of the mirror, ran his fingers over his hair, straightened the collar of his pyjamas and leaned into his reflection. He smiled at himself. A little laugh.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Dr Weinart, ‘he’s improving, although it is a strange journey for you all.’

  The doctor left.

  ‘Who was that?’ said Johannes.

  ‘It was Dr Weinart,’ said Katharina. ‘He has been looking after you.’

  ‘A doctor. Have I been unwell?’

  ‘Just a little,’ said Mrs Spinell. ‘But I think you are getting better.’

  ‘I feel fine. Although hungry.’

  Over an early lunch of meat and potato pie, he talked. Feverishly.

  ‘When did we move here? It’s very grand.’

  ‘Before Christmas,’ said Katharina. ‘We brought all your things with us.’

  ‘That’s very kind. You look like you’ve been eating well, Katharina.’

  ‘I’m pregnant, Johannes.’

  ‘Oh. A baby?’

  ‘I got married in August. To a soldier.’

  ‘A soldier.’

  ‘He’s in Russia.’

  ‘Why? Why does he want to be in Russia?’

  She looked at her parents. Her mother put her hand on her father’s arm.

  ‘He’s fighting in the war, Johannes,’ said Mrs Spinell.

  ‘The war?’

  ‘On the eastern front,’ said Mr Spinell. ‘You were there too, Johannes.’

  ‘I’ve never been to Russia, Father. It holds no interest for me.’

  They went for a walk and sat on a park bench, Johannes squeezed between his parents, Katharina against her father’s arm.

  ‘This is a good day, Father.’

  ‘It is, Katharina.’

  When the doorbell rang the following week, Johannes opened the door.

  ‘Hello, Dr Weinart,’ he said. ‘Come in.’

  ‘Oh, hello, Johannes. It’s a pleasure to meet you properly. How are you enjoying being home?’

  ‘Very much. It is a fine apartment.’

  ‘Can you tell me the names of the people in this room?’

  ‘The names? Of course I can. Over there, by the fireplace is my father, Günther Spinell. On the sofa, to the right, is my mother Esther Spinell and beside her is my sister, Katharina Faber. And you, should you need reassurance, are Dr Weinart.’

  ‘Thank you, Johannes. That’s excellent.’

  He held up his hand.

  ‘How many fingers can you see?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Good. And now?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Excellent. And what is the date?’

  ‘March the thirtieth, nineteen forty-two.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  Dr Weinart laughed, picked up Johannes’ hand and shook it.

  ‘Congratulations, young man. You have made an excellent recovery. Enjoy the rest of your leave.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor. Leave from what?’

  ‘What do you mean, Dr Weinart?’ asked Mrs Spinell.

  ‘I see no reason why he should not return to his unit.’

  ‘But he has been so ill.’

  ‘He is well now, Mrs Spinell. You can see it yourself.’

  ‘He needs more time,’ she said. ‘He talks to himself in the mirror every day, preening himself, fixing his collar, telling himself that he is off out. He’s not better yet.’

  ‘I have already given him an extra week. He must return.’

  ‘Even another week, Doctor?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Spinell.’

  ‘He has improved so much over the last few days. One week more will not make any difference to the army.’

  ‘Esther.’

  Mr Spinell took his wife’s hand.

  ‘This is always hard for a mother, Dr Weinart,’ he said.

  ‘I understand.’

  Mrs Spinell took her hand from her husband.

  ‘He can’t go back, Doctor,’ she said. ‘I won’t let it happen.’

  ‘Mrs Spinell, he is a soldier. We need him for our decisive spring campaign. The sooner he goes, the sooner we bring this war to an end.’

  ‘Doctor, he might be a soldier, but he is also my son. I tell you that he is still too weak to go anywhere.’

  Mr Spinell took his wife’s arm.

  ‘Esther, please.’

  ‘Günther, please, talk to Dr Weinart.’

  Her husband walked away, towards the tall windows coated with rich, glossy, white paint. He placed his hands on the oval brass handle and looked down at the street.

  ‘What about a second opinion?’ said his wife. ‘An army doctor?’

  ‘Mrs Spinell, my judgement is final. Your son will return next week.’

  ‘Günther, please, say something.’

  Mr Spinell continued to stare into the street.

  ‘Mrs Spinell, your husband understands the army’s position.’

  ‘Günther.’

  He turned back to his wife.

  ‘There is nothing to be done, Esther.’

  ‘The matter is settled then,’ said Dr Weinart. ‘Good man, Günther. Keep well, Johannes, and good luck.’

  ‘Goodbye, Doctor,’ said Johannes.

  Dr Weinart left. Mr Spinell went with him. The two women sank into the sofa.

  ‘His own son.’

  ‘There must be something we can do,’ said Katharina.

&nbs
p; ‘How could he?’

  Johannes sat between them.

  ‘What’s wrong with Mother, Katharina? She looks a bit pale. Is she ill?’

  ‘Johannes, did you understand what Dr Weinart said?’

  ‘I’m afraid I stopped listening, Katharina. I hate it when Mother is emotional.’

  ‘They want to send you back.’

  ‘Who does? Back where?’

  ‘The army. To the front.’

  ‘Oh. I had quite a good time there, considering.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘France. When I was in France.’

  ‘No, they want to send you back to Russia.’

  ‘Katharina, as I have never been there, it is surely hard to send me back.’

  ‘You were there, Johannes. Outside Moscow.’

  ‘Must be a different brother, Katharina. I was in France.’

  ‘But after France?’

  ‘I came here. To Berlin.’

  She rubbed his thigh and dropped her head onto his shoulder.

  Mrs Spinell started to shiver, her teeth to chatter.

  ‘You need to rest, Mother.’

  She covered her mother with two woollen blankets and went to the kitchen, to bake, to create something warm, something soft and sugary. But there were no eggs. She began to peel and chop vegetables. She would make soup. Johannes came from the living room.

  ‘Let me help.’

  She handed him a carrot, already peeled.

  ‘The knives are in that top drawer,’ she said.

  He picked his way through every piece of equipment, testing each one before settling on a small, wooden-handled knife.

  ‘This will do.’

  He placed the carrot on a round chopping board and set to work, moving the knife slowly but meticulously along its length. He measured one piece against the next, matching their widths.

  ‘Is this all right?’

  ‘Perfect, Johannes. You’re doing a fine job.’

  She diced two onions, a turnip and two parsnips in the time it took him to cut one carrot.

  ‘Johannes?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you remember using a gun?’

  ‘Of course. I used one in France. Why?’

  ‘But what about in Russia? Did you use your gun in Russia?’

  ‘You must miss your husband very much, Katharina.’