The Undertaking Read online

  ‘Anything official?’ said Kraus.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Stockhoff. ‘We just have to wait. And be ready.’

  ‘He hasn’t abandoned us,’ said Kraus.

  ‘I knew he wouldn’t,’ said Faber.

  They waited in the bunker, their guns, bullets and grenades ready. Faber tucked his photographs back into his pocket, beside his wife’s hair. They waited a second day. And a third. A bitter thin wind cut across the steppe, delving into clothing and skin. It was impossible to be outside.

  ‘We’ll miss it,’ said Faber. ‘They’ll leave without us.’

  ‘They won’t,’ said Kraus. ‘Nobody can move in that.’

  Thunder echoed across the city.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Kraus. ‘We’re on.’

  They rushed outside, into the darkness, ready to head south, but found the noise was coming from the east, from the river. It was freezing over, huge ice floes crashing into each other, fusing under a fall of fresh snow. They were surrounded from every direction, north, south, west, and now east. They returned to their bunker.

  ‘We’re done for,’ said Faustmann. ‘They’ll be able to bring over everything they need to finish us off.’

  ‘We can bomb holes in the ice,’ said Faber.

  ‘We can’t,’ said Kraus. ‘No artillery left.’

  Faber fiddled with his gun.

  ‘They have to get us out of here,’ he said.

  They went back to Stockhoff and drank donkey soup.

  ‘They’re not coming,’ he said. ‘It’s been called off.’

  ‘Why?’ said Kraus.

  ‘Don’t know. No reason given.’

  44

  Katharina raised the skirt of her crushed velvet gown and walked up the marble staircase of the Weinart house, her path lit by candles and shimmering light from the enormous Christmas tree decorated with bows of silver silk.

  Her parents went in front of her, her father in a crisp, black suit with a hand-tied bowtie, her mother in green chiffon, a fox fur draped across her shoulders, its head and feet still attached.

  They turned right at the top of the stairs to join the queue waiting to greet the doctor and his wife, Mrs Weinart in a silver lamé dress that shimmered in the candlelight. She kissed Katharina’s mother on both cheeks.

  ‘Mrs Spinell, I am so, so glad that you came.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Weinart. It’s lovely to be here.’

  ‘It is a difficult time for you. The first Christmas. I know that one day you will understand the significance of your son’s sacrifice. And here is Katharina. How beautiful you look!’

  Katharina stepped forward, her royal purple dress curving around her hips and breasts and cascading to the floor.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I can only agree with my wife, Mrs Faber.’

  ‘Thank you, Dr Weinart.’

  ‘Go in, Katharina. Have some champagne. We’ll dine after we have heard from our soldiers.’

  Katharina took champagne from the waiter’s tray and handed a glass to her mother who took it without a word and walked towards a woman in a floral dress. Her father hesitated momentarily, but left her for a man in party uniform staring into the coal fire, his face reddened by the heat, their conversation immediately intense. Katharina sipped from her glass. Embarrassed at her sudden isolation, she turned her back on the guests and stepped towards a tree, smaller than the one in the hall but also covered in silver bows. Beneath the branches was a hill of presents, each beautifully wrapped. Theirs was with the butler downstairs.

  She took a deep breath, turned back into the room and walked towards a gathering of women, most of them her age, a circle of silk, lace, velvet, bodices and bows. They made space for her, as they exchanged tales of their Russian housemaids, suitable schools and holiday homes. One woman, a blonde in a ruby silk dress with matching jewels, wore a blue and gold enamel cross on the strap of her dress. Katharina nodded towards it.

  ‘Congratulations. That’s quite an honour.’

  ‘Thank you. I am very proud of it.’

  ‘Did the Führer present it to you himself?’

  ‘He did. Only six weeks ago, so it’s still exciting for me.’

  ‘How many children do you have?’

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘That’s very impressive. You’re so young.’

  ‘I’ve been married for seven years. And you?’

  ‘I married last year. I have only the one child.’

  ‘You have plenty of time, then. I’m Elizabeth Bäker, by the way.’

  ‘Katharina Faber. A pleasure to meet you.’

  Dr Weinart turned up the radio.

  ‘It’s from Stalingrad,’ he said.

  The room fell silent. They heard men singing carols and hymns, in strong, confident voices. They sounded warm and well fed. Katharina bowed her head and tried to catch a tear with her finger before it stained her make-up. The woman in the ruby dress passed her a handkerchief.

  ‘I wonder if it’s my husband,’ said Katharina. ‘He has a very good voice. He was in his school choir.’

  When it was over, Katharina composed herself, and promised to return the handkerchief.

  ‘Keep it.’

  ‘No, no. My Russian girl will wash and iron it, and return it to your home.’

  ‘Bring it yourself, Katharina, for lunch on New Year’s Eve. And bring your son.’

  ‘I’d be delighted, Elizabeth.’

  Katharina tucked the address and handkerchief into her black clutch bag. The gong sounded for dinner. Elizabeth remained on the first floor, Katharina went to the second, again trailing her parents. They were sent to a front room overlooking the street, she to a rear room that looked out onto a courtyard lit by candles. Others were still climbing the stairs, towards rooms on the third floor.

  Her room was duller than the one downstairs, with only two windows instead of four and a plainer ceiling. But it was still handsome and large enough for five tables of ten people, a plate at each place holding four oysters on a bed of ice, still in their shells. Panic rushed through her. She smiled nervously at the other people in the room. She had never eaten oysters before. She wanted to go home. But she also wanted to stay. She would copy someone else. Do as they did.

  The men gathered at the table and waited for the women to sit. An old man helped her with her chair, waiting until she was settled in front of her name perfectly written in rich, black ink, the thick cream card matching the napkins, the tablecloth and the three tall roses at the centre of the table. He sat down. He was a baron. Mrs Weinart had seated her between a baron and a baroness, elderly and frail, but aristocrats nonetheless. She smiled and nodded at the other people at her table, most of them the age of her parents. There was only one young couple, the woman’s hand firmly on the man’s arm.

  Two waiters appeared, one with white wine, the second with water. She thanked them. The baroness coughed lightly and raised an oyster in her left hand, a three-pronged fork in her right. She speared the fish and lifted it to her mouth. Katharina was about to do the same until the baron lifted a shell with his right hand and tipped its contents into his mouth. A light sweat broke out on her palms. She feigned a cough, buying time, unsure whether there was a male and a female way of eating oysters. She decided to copy the baroness, and cold, salty fish slipped down her throat. She thought she would vomit, but ate the remaining three nonetheless, relieved when the next course was warm carrot soup.

  ‘Where is your husband, Mrs Faber?’

  It was the baron.

  ‘He is at Stalingrad.’

  ‘An officer?’

  ‘No. Infantry.’

  ‘So, how did you come to be here?’

  ‘My father works with Dr Weinart.’

  ‘Is he a doctor, too?’

  ‘Oh goodness, no,’ laughed Katharina. ‘He works with him on other matters. He was in Russia with him in the autumn. Protecting the harvest.’

  ‘I see. And you?’

  ‘I look
after my son, but I used to work in a bank. As a typist. Then helping customers.’

  ‘Germany is a changed place, Mrs Faber.’

  ‘Indeed, Baron. We must hope that this war ends soon and we can return to normal.’

  ‘I am not sure that I know what normal is any more.’

  There was an explosion of clapping from the downstairs rooms.

  ‘The main course has arrived,’ said the baron.

  ‘But not yet for us peasants upstairs,’ said the baroness.

  ‘I’m sure it will be here soon,’ said Katharina.

  She checked her hair, ensuring that no strands or rhinestone pins had come loose.

  ‘Do you live in Berlin, Baroness?’ she asked.

  ‘We used to, but we prefer to live now on our estate. We understand things there.’

  Five waiters came into the room, each carrying a silver platter of roast goose and sugared, syrupy oranges, the fat and juice swirling one into the other as it was set down on the table. Katharina clapped furiously, determined that her appreciation should carry down the stairs. The baron and baroness’ hands remained in their laps, their palms together.

  She cut into the large roast potato on her plate, its skin crisp and golden, its flesh soft and crumbling. As she waited for the steam to escape, she dipped her fork into the puree of carrot and parsnip. It was sweet but not watery, and the goose was perfect, moist but thoroughly cooked.

  ‘Your jewellery is very fine, Mrs Faber,’ said the baroness.

  ‘Thank you, Baroness. It was a gift from my father.’

  ‘It must have cost him a lot of money.’

  ‘I’m not sure it did.’

  She took a little of all the desserts, lemon tart, raspberry sorbet and chocolate mousse with slices of candied orange. Coffee followed, served downstairs with handmade chocolates. She joined her mother and the doctor’s wife by the fireplace. Both women were laughing. They stopped but did not explain.

  ‘How did you find the Baroness, Katharina?’ said Mrs Weinart.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘For some people change is very difficult.’

  ‘She says she prefers to live on their estate.’

  ‘So she can remember things as they were. When she was in charge. When she didn’t have to mix with ordinary people.’

  Katharina sipped her coffee.

  ‘I adore your dress, Mrs Weinart.’

  ‘Do you? Thank you.’

  ‘Where is it from?’

  ‘I got it in Paris.’

  ‘Is it Chanel?’

  ‘Oh no, dear, no. I wore Chanel when we took Paris. This is from Ardanse, a quaint little house run by a petty Russian aristocrat and her sister. It seemed more appropriate than anything French.’

  Katharina and her mother stayed until most other people had left. At three, they climbed into a taxi, Mr Spinell between them, his arms round their shoulders.

  ‘Ladies, you were splendid tonight. Both of you. Tremendous ambassadors.’

  ‘For what?’ said Mrs Spinell.

  ‘This family, Esther.’

  She removed his arm from her shoulder.

  ‘This isn’t a family any more, Günther.’

  Katharina babbled on about the dresses, the food, the decorations. But her mother’s eyes were closed, her face shut tight. She was silent. She climbed the stairs to the apartment, leaning on the bannisters, went to her room and shut the door. Her father, silent too, went to his. Katharina looked at her son, asleep on his back, his arms outstretched. She bent over and kissed him, wobbling only a little.

  ‘It will all be worth it, Johannes.’

  45

  Faber inhaled and passed the cigarette to Faustmann.

  ‘Is there a moon?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Faustmann brought the smoke deep into his lungs. Still holding his breath, he inhaled a second time. Faber snatched the cigarette from his mouth.

  ‘It’s my turn.’

  Faber inhaled, once, twice and the cigarette went out. They were in darkness. Kraus was beside them, asleep, his head buried under his blanket.

  ‘And what day is it?’

  ‘I don’t know that either.’

  ‘Tomorrow is New Year’s Day.’

  ‘So I gather.’

  ‘What day was Christmas?’

  ‘Shut the fuck up, Faber. It’s a day. Another day. What difference does its name make?’

  ‘It’s important for me to know.’

  ‘Why? Why is it important?’

  ‘So I know where I am.’

  ‘You’re in a hole in the ground, starving to death.’

  ‘In time. Where I am in time.’

  ‘You’re close to death.’

  ‘Fuck off, Faustmann. Something will happen.’

  ‘Yes, you’ll surrender to the Russians.’

  ‘I’d never do that.’

  ‘You will.’

  ‘Hand myself over to those Bolshevik bastards? They treat people like shit.’

  ‘I know. We’re much kinder.’

  Faber buried his head in his knees.

  ‘It’s freezing. It’s impossible to stay down here, Faustmann.’

  ‘It’s better down here than out there. When the shelling stops, we’ll see if we can find somewhere else.’

  They fell silent, listening to Kraus’ breathing.

  ‘It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Faustmann.’

  ‘What wasn’t?’

  ‘The war. The Russian front.’

  ‘How was it supposed to be?’

  Faber knocked his boot against the barrel once used for fires, spilling the cold cinders.

  ‘Simple. Quick. Like France. Belgium. Roll over and let us in.’

  ‘My grandmother’s stubborn. Always was.’

  ‘What? We’re fighting a nation of grandmothers?’

  ‘It feels like that.’

  ‘Does it bother you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Fighting Russia?’

  ‘I don’t see the point. Never have.’

  ‘Because of your grandmother?’

  ‘No. We should have consolidated our hold on the West first. Taken England.’

  ‘We have control of all that.’

  ‘Do we?’

  ‘You just don’t want to fight against your own people, Faustmann.’

  ‘Whether I fight or not makes no difference.’

  ‘So why are you doing it?’

  ‘Because they’ll shoot me if I don’t.’

  ‘That’s hardly a noble cause.’

  ‘I can think of none more noble. Why are you fighting, Faber?’

  ‘To protect my wife and child. To secure their future.’

  ‘Bullshit. You didn’t have them when the war started. I need a real reason.’

  ‘That is a real reason.’

  ‘That’s a bullshit reason.’

  Faber stared at him, but saw nothing in the darkness.

  ‘It’s the only one I have.’

  ‘Is that why you married? So that you had an excuse to kill?’

  ‘I married because I wanted leave.’

  ‘You stab your leg to get leave. Not marry.’

  ‘I married because I married.’

  ‘Most soldiers fight for a leader, for country or for God. But you chose a wife and then a child. Why?’

  ‘Jesus, I married a woman. I had a child. It happens to most men.’

  ‘You needed a reason, didn’t you? Something outside yourself. Exactly what Kraft needed.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It wrecks your head a little less, doesn’t it, when you say that you’re killing a man to protect your wife, that you’re evicting a child so yours can stay home?’

  ‘Does it? I hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘You stare at those pictures of your wife and child, Faber, as though your life depended on them. They give you purpose. And an excuse. That’s all.’

  ‘And what excuse do you have, Faustmann?’

&nbs
p; ‘That’s the trouble. I don’t have any. I have no illusions. I know exactly why I’m here.’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Cannon fodder for that lot in Berlin.’

  ‘Not that again.’

  ‘It’s all there is. You can hide behind your wife and child, kill all around you for your wife and child, but you’re really not doing it for them. You’re doing it for the fat bastards in Berlin.’

  ‘I’m doing it for our future.’

  ‘So, Fuchs, Weiss and Kraft all died for your future? For the future of your wife and child?’

  Faber pressed his hands against his ears.

  ‘I can’t listen to any more of your bullshit, Faustmann.’

  ‘No. Nor can I, Faber.’

  46

  Berlin, January 3rd, 1943

  My darling Peter,

  I have just this minute received your letter wishing me a Merry Christmas and of course, of course, I will wait for you. Forgive me for my past few letters, I have just been a little strained by home life.

  We are all thinking of you, imagining how frightened you are as you wait to be rescued. But it will happen. My father tells me that intense preparations are under way to take you all out of there. I understand that planes and soldiers are being commandeered from across Europe. Those Russians will be very shocked when they feel the full force of German might across their backs.

  Your son is well and awaiting your return. He is, at last, sleeping a little more easily at night, although I see no sign of any teeth so I am not sure if that is what had been troubling him. No matter, he is well now.

  Mother, Father and I attended the most marvellous Christmas party at the Weinarts. They have been so good to us all, and I am very excited to see what job Dr Weinart finds for you on your return to Berlin. I am sure that it will be a splendid one, as they think so highly of my father and the work that you did while here with me.

  I am sorry for suggesting that you were having affairs with other women when you were obviously fıghting so hard against our hateful Bolshevik enemy. I do know how much you love me and I promise that I will wait for you, right here, in this house, in Berlin.

  I have enclosed some more chocolate, and some sausage that I hope will still be fresh by the time it reaches you in Stalingrad. Or maybe you’ll be home before it arrives and those Russian peasants can eat it with my compliments.