The Undertaking Page 14

  ‘And freeze your balls off,’ said Faustmann.

  They laughed.

  They sang and marched all day. That night Stockhoff fed them beef and carrot stew, the meat so tender that even Gunkel was pleased.

  ‘It’s almost as good as what you’d get in my shop,’ he said.

  Kraus told them to rest, to prepare for the next day when they would move towards the north of the city. Kraft drank, more than he should have.

  ‘You’re lucky, Faber, to have a wife and son,’ he said.

  ‘Why’s that, Kraft?’

  ‘It’s something to fight for, Faber.’

  ‘You have your mother.’

  ‘She never wants me to leave her. To go out on my own.’

  ‘She’ll have got used to being without you now. You’ve been away so long.’

  ‘I have no life. Nothing of my own.’

  ‘Kraft, you’re not even twenty-five. Something will turn up.’

  ‘Maybe. She’s ill, you know.’

  ‘I know, Kraft.’

  ‘No, really ill. I got a letter from a neighbour.’

  ‘She’ll be fine. She always is.’

  ‘Kraus won’t let me go home. To see her.’

  ‘This won’t take long.’

  ‘I hate it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Killing. Watching people die. I hate it.’

  ‘You’ll be fine.’

  ‘I’ve always hated it. Killing. Hunting. My father called me a coward.’

  ‘I have a photograph of my son.’

  ‘He was always mocking me. Maybe he was right. That’s what I am.’

  ‘Do you want to see it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The photograph of my son?’

  ‘I should sleep, Faber.’

  Faber reached into the inside of his tunic for the picture that had been taken not long after the birth, his son asleep, a loose fist resting against his right cheek. He kissed the child, and his wife’s hair.

  At dawn, they began their march towards the city, hundreds of thousands of them.

  ‘This is it, Faber,’ said Weiss.

  ‘Home by Christmas, Weiss?’

  They both laughed.

  ‘We’ll be heroes, Faber. Feted for generations to come.’

  They stamped their feet into the ground, claiming it as their own. The planes rolled and dived over their heads, owning the sky, thrilling the soldiers underneath, schoolboys on the winning team. They fell quieter on the outskirts of the city, silent but for their steps and breath as they moved along streets of mud and wooden houses, past neatly curtained windows. Inside, the tables were set for breakfast, but everyone was gone. Shoes and bags littered the roads.

  They turned left onto a boulevard, its tar blasted and cratered, concrete strewn across the middle of the road, fires smouldering, apartments razed, shops blackened and burned, a thick veil of smoke and dust hanging over it all. He could now identify the smells of death – the initial stench of copper and shit, followed by the suffocating sweetness of rotting blood that lingered for days. He pressed on, past the infant boy, his body charred, only his fingernails still white. He found Kraus, crouched behind a chimneystack that no longer had its house. Weiss, Kraft, Gunkel and Faustmann were with him.

  ‘We’ve walked into hell, Sergeant,’ said Faber.

  ‘There’s a school close by that will serve as our company base. We’ll move across the city from there.’

  ‘How long will it take, Sergeant?’

  ‘Not long, Faber.’

  ‘You always say that.’

  ‘So stop fucking asking.’

  The school still had most of its roof and all of its desks, though no longer in neat rows. The men went down into the basement, and found an extensive network of passages and rooms. Stockhoff was already there, preparing his kitchen. Queues had formed for the barber, tailor and cobbler, and small amounts of hot water were being dispensed for washing. The doctor was busy with blistered feet. Faber went there first.

  ‘I prefer the way my wife does it,’ said Faber. ‘Letting them soak in hot water first.’

  ‘I presume she only has one husband. Go on, out of here.’

  Washed, shaved, his hair and nails cut, he settled down to clean his gun, stripping it back to dust and oil each part, his fingers practised in the routine. He slept well, despite the barrage of tank and artillery fire that continued through the night. It was not his problem. He was safe.

  31

  Katharina went to her mother and opened the curtains.

  ‘Up you get, Mother. We’re going to Mrs Weinart’s today.’

  Mrs Spinell groaned.

  ‘Go without me, Katharina.’

  ‘She’s expecting all of us.’

  ‘There is no all of us.’

  ‘Stop it, Mother.’

  ‘I don’t want to go.’

  ‘I’ll help you choose something to wear.’

  She held up dresses, one in each hand.

  ‘Either of these?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Mother, you can’t stay in bed for ever. You’ll rot.’

  ‘I already have rotted.’

  ‘Oh, get up. Natasha is making breakfast. Eggs and toast.’

  ‘Don’t let her have any.’

  ‘No, Mother.’

  The Russian had a heavier hand in the kitchen than either Katharina or her mother, so that her cooking was not always successful. But she was good with clothes; cleaning too, and Johannes liked her.

  Katharina took the baby from the Russian and fed him, running her fingers over his fontanelles, willing the gaps to close. They had to be at the doctor’s house at ten, and her mother would require all her attention.

  Mrs Weinart had a selection of cakes ready for them in her living room. She took Johannes immediately, fussing over his tiny hands and nose.

  ‘He must bring you so much pleasure, Mrs Spinell. Your own grandchild.’

  ‘Oh, I enjoy him thoroughly, Mrs Weinart.’

  Katharina wanted to sit down.

  ‘Do, Mrs Faber, do. First-time motherhood is exhausting. But you have help, I hear.’

  ‘Indeed, Mrs Weinart,’ said her mother. ‘She is settling in well. We are lucky to have her.’

  The doctor’s wife passed Johannes to Mrs Spinell, and poured coffee.

  ‘We’ll let your daughter rest, Mrs Spinell.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Katharina looked at her mother, who smiled down at her grandson and held out a finger for him to hold. He took it.

  ‘Have you heard from your husband, Mrs Weinart?’

  ‘I was talking to him on the telephone last night, Mrs Faber. He is well. They both are, but the work is hard as the partisans keep setting fire to the crop. Can you believe it? Such wanton destruction.’

  ‘It seems to be a very hard place, Mrs Weinart. They are a hard people.’

  ‘True, Mrs Faber. But we’ll sort them out soon enough. How is your husband?’

  ‘He is at Stalingrad. I am very proud of him.’

  ‘You should be.’

  They ate and drank, and Mrs Weinart took charge of Johannes again, playing with him, singing to him, and calling on her own children to come and see the baby. They played gently with the infant and sang when their mother asked them to. The girls danced too. Katharina laughed.

  ‘They’re gorgeous children, Mrs Weinart.’

  ‘I’m sure your son will grow up to be just like them, Mrs Faber.’

  32

  Kraus woke them at five and Stockhoff fed them hot coffee and warm bread with jam. At six they left, moving north-east towards the factory district, the sky lightening and clearing, promising heat, a last surge of summer sun. Tanks, machine guns and heavy artillery announced the start of the assault and Faber ran down a boulevard, scurrying from one fragment of wall to the next, barely able to hear the weapons over the sound of his own breath and pounding heart.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ said Faber.

&n
bsp; ‘Nor do I,’ said Faustmann. ‘It’s not what we’re used to.’

  Snipers fired towards them from the right. Faber saw three men go down, each shot through the head.

  ‘Training wasn’t like this,’ said Weiss.

  A captain circled his arm through the air, pressing them forward.

  ‘Keep going,’ he shouted. ‘They can’t get all of us.’

  ‘Fuck that,’ said Kraus. ‘This way, boys.’

  He pushed through a door and Faber followed, turning to let Weiss know, but he was already behind him, followed by Kraft, Faustmann and Gunkel. Faber focused on Kraus’ boots, on the leather fraying over the heels, as they clambered over rubble, across tables, beds, dressers, along bullet-punctured walls sieving dust and smoke; his trousers were wet with urine, and sweat poured from his cold, clammy skin. Sniper fire dissected the air, slicing through gaps between walls and doors, between one building and another, one street and the next. Faber grabbed Kraus’ boot and pinned him to the rubble. He shouted at his sergeant.

  ‘I want to go back.’

  ‘You can’t.’

  ‘I can’t do this, Kraus.’

  ‘You have to. You’re a fucking soldier, Faber.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m a schoolteacher. A fucking provincial school-teacher.’

  ‘Act like a soldier, Faber, or you’ll never be a schoolteacher again.’

  Faber followed him, crawling on his belly when Kraus did, tracking the heels and soles of his boots to places snipers could not reach. But mortars could. And grenades. They scrambled behind a piece of corrugated iron, their backs against a west-facing wall, sweating and panting, separated from the rest of the group.

  ‘It’s harder than I expected,’ said Kraus.

  ‘They’re bastards.’

  They waited until it was dark and crawled back to the school. The others were already there. They all shook hands.

  ‘We didn’t see any point in staying out there, Sergeant,’ said Weiss.

  ‘We’ll try again tomorrow when we’re a bit more familiar with the territory,’ said Kraus.

  Stockhoff soothed them with bacon and potato.

  ‘It might take a bit longer than Kharkov, lads,’ said Kraus.

  ‘How many dead, Sergeant?’ said Kraft.

  ‘Six. All sniper fire. No wounded.’

  ‘We’re not used to this, Sir.’

  ‘I know, Faustmann.’

  ‘We know trenches and open spaces. Not this.’

  ‘I know. But we’re going to have to find a way.’

  The following morning, when it was still dark, they raced through the streets, moving before the sun rose, before the snipers could see them. They reached so far forward that they could no longer go back. They settled behind a wall that hid them from the east, and Faustmann set up his gun. They waited, still and silent, until the sun began to move towards the west, revealing a sniper they had not been able to see in the morning. Faustmann took him out. They moved on again, found a cellar, moved in, and waited for Stockhoff to find them. The cook brought soup, rations for the next day and a letter for Faber from his wife.

  ‘She sent me two bars of chocolate, lads.’

  He passed them round. The third he slipped back into his pocket with the envelope.

  33

  Katharina went to the pawnbroker. He always managed to find things that interested her.

  She bought a winter suit for Johannes and a bead necklace for her mother. Under a bundle of watches, she saw a pen, black with gold trimmings, the name ‘Samuel’ etched into the clip.

  ‘I can remove the name,’ he said.

  ‘Then it would be perfect.’

  ‘Would you like another name instead?’

  ‘Peter.’

  She would give it to him at Christmas.

  34

  Faber was awake at five. He had an hour. He drank coffee, ate bread, and sat down to write to Katharina. His hand was still. What would he say? That he loved her? Loved their child? That he missed her? He tore the paper. It was all pathetic and pointless.

  Why did they want a tractor factory anyway? It was a wreck. The roof and walls were already gone, the complex decimated. The planes and tanks should carry on until there was nothing left, nowhere to hide, just a mound of rubble running down to the river. He hated going in after them, picking through the remains. The more often he did it, the harder it became. And Kraft kept crying. For no reason.

  At six the order came as usual. They moved out of their cellars, rats emerging from the sewers, and scrambled forward into the darkness, the carcass of the factory looming in front of them.

  ‘We’re heading for the southern end,’ said Kraus. ‘Stick together and we’ll be fine.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Faber.

  ‘As sure as I always am.’

  He fell in behind the sergeant, again focusing on the heels of Kraus’ boots. The fraying had been neatly stitched – the gaps closed, the leather gathered, all of it reinforced and repaired. He liked that expertise. His army’s attention to detail. He let out a deep sigh. It would be all right. They knew what they were doing.

  The planes came, the tanks rolled in and the explosions shook every fragment of his body. Kraus ordered them to catch up with the tanks, walking behind them, close enough for protection, but not too close to be a target. And in they went, into an enormous cavern of collapsed roofs and tumbled pillars, the floor buried under tank and tractor parts, conveyor belts, screws, spanners, twisted fenders, and bodies, dozens of them, bloated and black, riddled with maggots.

  ‘I don’t know why we want it,’ said Faber. ‘Any of it.’

  ‘For your great German Empire,’ said Faustmann.

  ‘Fuck off, Faustmann.’

  They set up their gun behind a wall, its barrel peering through a gap. They began firing, taking turns loading, reloading, throwing grenades, defending, attacking; but they ended the day as they had started, cowering behind the same wall. They ate and slept there, starting again in the morning with new rations and more ammunition, the same pattern day after day, but none of it ever enough to thwart the waves of men that came at them, the colour of their skin and hair shifting from pale to dark, from west Russia to further and further east. An endless stream of men. Kraft began to scream. He was shaking. They laid him down and covered him with Weiss’ large coat. Kraus pointed at a doorway.

  ‘There must be an opening on the other side of that door. We need to seal it off.’

  Faustmann went out in front, his gun spraying from left to right, the others behind him. They reached the door and hurtled through, into a building that scarcely had walls. They could see the river. And then the Russians. Dozens of them rising from the rubble and charging at the four men. Faustmann unfolded the tripod and set up the gun. Kraus fed him. Faber and Faustmann threw grenades but still they came. Faber used his gun, but it was too slow. Loading. Reloading. They were too close. And there were too many of them. He used his bayonet, their warm blood running over his hands and thighs, splashing his face. He preferred his gun. He stuck his knife in a man’s neck, left it there, and ran back out the door after Faustmann, back to the wall where Kraft lay quietly, his eyes open.

  ‘There’s no end to these bastards,’ said Faber.

  ‘It’s a big country, Faber.’

  Kraus shoved Kraft.

  ‘We’re out of here. I’ll go back and organize support to block that opening.’

  They went to the cellar, but Kraus kept on going, back to the school. Faber, Weiss and Faustmann lay on the floor to sleep. Kraft began to tidy, to arrange the shelving, table and chairs.

  ‘Why are you bothering?’ said Faber.

  ‘I may as well make it comfortable.’

  ‘We’re not staying. We’ll be out of here soon.’

  It was night when he woke, the dark sky lit intermittently by bursts of Russian phosphorescence.

  Stockhoff sent soup, carried by two fresh recruits, their faces pale.

  ‘How is it
looking, boys?’ said Weiss. ‘How are the other sectors faring?’

  ‘We are not really sure, Sir,’ said the older of the two. ‘But there are a lot of bodies.’

  ‘Russian or German?’

  ‘Both, Sir.’

  ‘They’re easy to trip over,’ said the younger one. ‘And we spill the soup. Burn our hands.’

  ‘Stop spilling the soup,’ said Faustmann. ‘We’re hungry.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  They slept until morning. Kraus woke them.

  ‘Right. You’re rested. We need to take over that building. We’re kicking off in half an hour.’

  They gathered behind their wall and waited with Kraus and twenty other men.

  ‘We need more than this, Kraus,’ said Weiss.

  ‘It’s coming.’

  Just before the half-hour was up, four men emerged from the west, pushing a six-barrelled rocket launcher. Faber cheered. They all cheered.

  ‘That should sort them out,’ said Faustmann.

  The launcher blasted through the walls and its operators forced it on towards the river, its rubber wheels bouncing over the rubble. The men followed, firing guns, hurling grenades, forcing the Russians from the southern end of the factory. They were winning. It was easy. Thrilling. Faber was chuckling at the simplicity of victory, so triumphant that he didn’t hear the hiss of the mortar gun, only the landing of each shell on top of their rocket launcher, on top of their men, scattering body parts. He ran from the building, back behind the wall.

  ‘Nothing’s working, Kraus,’ said Faber. ‘Our guns are too big and heavy. Nothing’s agile enough. Fast enough.’

  ‘I can see that, Faber.’

  After an hour, they went back into the building. Just infantry. Some went upstairs. Faber and Weiss stayed down, moving along what was left of the walls to the end of the building overlooking the river. Down below them, in the distance, they could see hundreds and hundreds of men leaving boats and running up the riverbank into the city.

  ‘We’ll never beat them like this, Weiss.’

  ‘Of course we will. We just have to be clever about it.’

  ‘I need to eat.’

  They crawled under the staircase and pulled a sheet of corrugated iron over them. They ate crackers and tinned meat, and drank water. Weiss looked out, saw nobody and lit a cigarette. He inhaled and passed it to Faber.