The Undertaking Page 18

  I am so looking forward to seeing you.

  Yours in love,

  Katharina

  47

  They crawled to the rear and found Gunkel in the schoolyard, an emaciated horse tethered beside him.

  ‘He’s a scrawny fucker, boys. I’ll get off him what I can.’

  ‘Many left?’ said Faustmann.

  ‘One more after this lad.’

  Gunkel dug into his pocket and pulled out a handful of boiled sweets. He gave them to the men. Faber sucked on two sweets at once, the sugar rushing into his blood.

  ‘Now let me do my job,’ said Gunkel. ‘Before this creature gets any skinnier.’

  He shot the animal and set to work before it had finished twitching and kicking, before the hide froze to the flesh. An older soldier stood by the horse’s head, a gun in his hand, gesturing intermittently at the crowd that appeared, a vulturous circle fixed first on Gunkel, then on the old soldier as a mound of meat grew at his feet. Gunkel put away his knives. The men surged forward, Faber and Faustmann among them. Gunkel took out his pistol.

  ‘Line up boys,’ he said.

  They did, their bandaged, gloved, frostbitten hands cupped and begging as they moved up the queue. He gave a piece of meat to each man. Two to Faber and Faustmann.

  ‘The kitchen is closed, lads,’ said Gunkel. ‘You may fend for yourselves.’

  ‘Where’s Stockhoff?’ said Faber.

  ‘Shot himself in the leg and got on a plane.’

  ‘Bastard,’ said Faber.

  They hunkered down in the snow, against the school wall, and built fires from scraps of a tree. They boiled water and threw in the meat, sucking on sweets as they waited.

  ‘What about the other men working back here, the cobbler, the tailor?’ said Faustmann.

  ‘Sent up front. Old and fat. They hadn’t a chance.’

  Faber peered into the pot, watching as each bubble wound its way to the surface, turning the meat from red to grey. He poked at it with his spoon, as though that might hurry the process.

  ‘Where’s Kraus?’ said Gunkel.

  ‘Back in the bunker.’

  ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ said Faustmann. ‘He’s sweating and shivering.’

  ‘Any infection?’

  ‘On his hand where he has a cut. A bit of frostbite too.’

  ‘So, he’s done for.’

  Faber scooped the meat out of the pot and began to eat, burning his mouth but unable to wait any longer. It was chewy and dull, but it was food. He began to shiver. His stomach cramped.

  ‘It’ll settle, Faber,’ said Gunkel.

  He slept then, in the schoolhouse, beside a fire set in a punctured artillery shell, glad of the warmth and the company of other men. The following day, it was too cold to go outside. They kept the fire burning and looked out the window, at the last horse, shivering.

  ‘We should bring him in,’ said Faustmann.

  ‘No point,’ said Gunkel. ‘Not enough on him.’

  ‘But there’s something,’ said Faber.

  ‘You’d use more trying to get him in here.’

  They watched the horse, its legs locked, paralyzed by the cold that spread through its body until it was frozen, until a gust of wind tipped it to the ground.

  ‘We’re fucked,’ said Faustmann.

  ‘So it seems,’ said Faber.

  The bombardment began in the early morning darkness, while they were still asleep, most of it from the west; thousands and thousands of guns and rockets pounded them for almost an hour. Faber curled himself up, the blanket over his head, and sobbed. He wanted to go home. To kiss his wife and hold his child. Faustmann and Gunkel dragged him to his feet.

  ‘We can’t stay here,’ said Faustmann.

  ‘But where is there to go?’ said Faber.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  They staggered out of the school and stumbled towards the centre of the city, across the wasteland, past bunkers blasted open, heads severed from torsos, thighs wrenched from hips, the snow stained by blood. The three men ran faster, scrambling over what had once been streets, until they found an opening into the basement of a department store, its darkness alleviated by candles and oil lamps. Hundreds of emaciated men lay in neat rows, their faces gaunt, their eyes elsewhere.

  ‘Is it a morgue?’ said Faber.

  He could hear their breathing. Just. And pick out the orange, red hair and mottled skin of the starving, of those closest to death. The room stank of faeces and contagion, of gangrenous flesh.

  ‘We can’t stay here,’ he said.

  ‘There’s nowhere else,’ said Faustmann.

  ‘Be grateful,’ said Gunkel. ‘You’re not as dead as they are.’

  Faber picked a space between two sleeping men, one of them stick thin and lying on a mattress with the price tag still on, the second difficult to identify under a scattering of children’s clothes. He unfolded his tent, flattened the edges and lay down, his blanket over him. Gunkel was right. He wasn’t as dead as they were. Not yet, anyway.

  He slept but woke in the thinning darkness to the sound of the man on the mattress, groaning as he soiled himself in a spurt of shit.

  ‘Are you all right?’ said Faber.

  There was no response, but the man on the other side spoke.

  ‘It’s what happens at the end. You shit out your insides.’

  Faber squeezed his eyes tight, curled his legs and lay still, focused on his breath, its movement in and out through his nose, over the stubble and across the filth of his face, drifting close to sleep until the man shit himself again. Faber sat up. Gunkel was heading for the door. Faber followed.

  ‘I’m coming too. It’s disgusting in here.’

  They pulled scarves over their mouths and noses and went out into the grey dawn light. Faber inhaled, relieved at his relative strength.

  ‘They’re in a bad way in there, Gunkel.’

  ‘They haven’t had me to look after them, Faber.’

  They slipped down towards the river, hunting for an animal looking for water. The Russians slept on because the Germans were dying anyway.

  ‘There’s nothing to hunt, Gunkel.’

  ‘We’ll find something.’

  ‘Let’s at least wait till the sun rises a bit more. Until it’s warmer.’

  ‘Then somebody else might eat it.’

  Faber crouched as he walked, hiding from the sleeping Russians, his lungs and limbs struggling for energy, his back bent over. Gunkel was almost upright.

  ‘The further down you go, Faber, the harder it is to get back up.’

  ‘Fuck off, Gunkel.’

  ‘Stay positive, Faber.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Life.’

  ‘This isn’t life, Gunkel. It’s death. Death on legs.’

  ‘As long as you’re breathing, it’s life.’

  They reached the river.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ said Faber. ‘There’s nothing alive out here.’

  ‘Except us.’

  ‘We’re half-dead, Gunkel.’

  ‘Or half-alive, Faber.’

  In a yard close to the river, under a tree that had no leaves, they found a pony, shivering, its ribs protruding through its sagging skin. It didn’t move as they approached. Gunkel walked up to the barely conscious animal, held it by the ear and shot it through the temple.

  ‘Put it out of its misery,’ he said.

  ‘Cut it, Gunkel. Cut it up.’

  ‘There’s nothing on it, Faber. The poor bastard was hungrier than we are.’

  He walked on and Faber followed, picking his way through frozen corpses. Gunkel whistled.

  ‘Be quiet.’

  ‘There’s nobody up. They’re hung over, celebrating their victory.’

  ‘How the fuck can you whistle?’

  ‘What else should I do, Faber? Weep?’

  Gunkel spotted a dog, thin but alive, and more alert than the horse.

  ‘I’ll tr
y him,’ he said.

  Gunkel shot the animal and rushed over, his knife and steel already out as he fell to his knees beside it. He started to cut, furiously, still whistling, but the blood froze faster than he could cut. He fell silent, and still. Faber tugged at his sleeve.

  ‘Come on, Gunkel. We should go.’

  ‘It’s my job to feed you, Faber. It’s what I do.’

  ‘Get up. They’ll be awake soon.’

  ‘I can’t feed you any more.’

  Faber led Gunkel back up the bank, aware of their vulnerability as the sun stretched its light across the snow. In about an hour, the smell of stewing beef would waft across the river, stirring the senses of those still able to feel hunger.

  ‘Would you take it, Gunkel?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Their soup.’

  ‘I like our soup.’

  ‘We don’t have any soup.’

  ‘We’ll be rescued soon, Faber.’

  ‘You can’t seriously believe that.’

  ‘They can’t just leave us here.’

  ‘They already have.’

  Gunkel fell back.

  ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘I want to piss.’

  Faber took a couple of steps and stopped. He turned.

  ‘How can you piss? You haven’t drunk.’

  Gunkel’s pistol was raised to his head. He pulled the trigger and crumpled at the knees. Faber ran back and fell into the snow beside him, rifling his pockets as he twitched and jerked his way to stillness. Faber found two boiled sweets. He stuffed one into his mouth and fled.

  He sat on a stone, his back against a fragment of wall, and stared at the sky, at the white clouds travelling west. He put the second sweet in his mouth and took off his hats, his scarves. He wanted Russia to freeze his brain, to cauterize it so that he could no longer think. No longer feel. He wanted only numbness.

  They had started cooking. He could smell the beef frying on pans and the bread baking in ovens just beyond his reach. He looked over the wall. He could see the Russians winding up gramophones, pouring drinks for themselves, shouting invitations at them in broken German to come over, to join them.

  They banged on pots, shouting that soup was ready. His stomach cramped. He put his hats and scarves back on. He was emaciated. The muscles in his arms and legs were disappearing. His skin was dry and flaking; his lips bleeding. Much longer and he would be like the man on the mattress. He stood up and went back to the basement. He would tell Faustmann. About Gunkel.

  ‘They won’t give you any, Faber,’ said Faustmann. ‘Even if you go.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘They won’t.’

  ‘But they’re offering.’

  ‘You won’t get it.’

  ‘How can you be so sure, Faustmann?’

  ‘They starve their own people, Faber.’

  ‘But we’re German. They wouldn’t starve us.’

  ‘What are they doing now?’

  He slept again but not for long; hunger woke him. He lay still, his legs tucked into his chest, his eyes staring at the dying man’s shit-stained trousers.

  Others had already gone over. He had seen them walking across the river to the cheering Russians. He rubbed his fingers over his hand. His skin was itchy. And quick to bleed. More hospitable for the lice. And other infections, lethal ones. He could desert, wait for the war to end and then go home. Be a father to his son. A husband to his wife.

  But would she want him like that? A man who had surrendered. Would she forgive him and explain it fairly to their son? Tell him that his father had been starving to death in the Russian snow, abandoned. That nobody was coming. No Führer. No general. His chest tightened and he dug his hand under his tunic to massage the skin over his heart, in light circles, his fingers dipping between each rib, tears running from his eyes. After all he had done. His shoulders heaved in the flickering darkness.

  He slept for a while, woke, and went outside. He took off his hats again, his scarves. Freezing his head. Freezing his thoughts. Everything white. No blame. No guilt. A bright white nothingness. No past. No future. He pulled on his hats, went back inside and sat beside Faustmann.

  ‘I’m going to get some soup.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Are you coming?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We’re dying here.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘And you hate this war. This regime.’

  ‘I hate that one too.’

  ‘But you’re a communist.’

  ‘Wrong again, Faber.’

  ‘So what are you?’

  ‘Like you said. Dying.’

  ‘But politically?’

  ‘What’s the point, Faber? There is no point.’

  Faber started to cry.

  ‘I have to. For my wife and son.’

  ‘You fought for them, and now you’ll surrender for them. They’re lucky to have you.’

  ‘I want to be a father.’

  ‘Good luck, then. Just don’t expect soup.’

  ‘They said they’ve got soup for us.’

  ‘That’s what Hitler said, and you believed him too.’

  ‘You’re a very cynical man.’

  ‘I’m a dying man, Faber.’

  ‘You can save yourself.’

  ‘Run along, Faber. I’m better off here.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They’ll shoot me.’

  ‘They won’t.’

  ‘To them, I’m Russian in a German uniform.’

  ‘They’ll find a use for you.’

  ‘A traitor’s bullet, Faber.’

  ‘Maybe not. Come with me, Faustmann.’

  ‘I’ll wait here. It seems appropriate.’

  ‘How can any of this be appropriate?’

  ‘I can’t be a Russian in Germany any more, or a German in Russia. Here is as good a place as any other. A bit of Russia owned by Germany.’

  ‘But what are you waiting for? You’ll die, Faustmann.’

  ‘And you won’t, Faber?’

  ‘I might not.’

  ‘You’ll wish you had.’

  Faber wiped his eyes and pulled his knees to his chest.

  ‘Do you feel guilt, Faustmann?’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For turning on your own people.’

  ‘Which are my own people, Faber?’

  ‘I feel guilt.’

  ‘The self-indulgence of the loser. You never felt guilt when you were winning.’

  ‘I didn’t have time.’

  ‘But you start to lose and you feel sentimental.’

  ‘Is that all guilt is, Faustmann? Sentimentality?’

  ‘No, not for you, Faber. It’s worse for you. You want the guilt to absolve you. Just like you want your wife and child to absolve you. Once absolved, you can kill or take soup.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what is?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You’d better go. Get that soup.’

  Faber reached his hand out to Faustmann. They shook.

  ‘Goodbye, Faustmann. Good luck.’

  ‘Good luck, Faber. I hope they give you soup.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Just find a way to survive without it.’

  Faber wore all the blankets and coats he could find, even those covered in shit, and left, his back close to straight as he moved through the rubble to the river, to a walkway of branches frozen into the ice. His feet slipped, threatening to tumble him, but he remained upright, the air crisp and clean, purged of death and decay.

  He realized that there were men on either side of him, shuffling, heads down, staring at the ice, refusing to look at each other, to observe each other’s surrender. A shot cut through the air. The man on Faber’s right fell forward, blood gushing from the back of his head. Faber stopped, registered the direction of the bullet, and ran, forcing the stiffness from his limbs as he fled east, tea
rs streaming down his face. He wanted soup. That was all. And to see his son. To hold his wife. He ran faster, away from them, towards the laughing Russians banging spoons against metal bowls, cheering him on. He laughed too and reached his arms higher into the air, smiling in response to their smiles as he approached a large, black cooking pot. They beckoned him forward. He looked in. Chunks of meat and vegetables were simmering at the surface. He dropped his arms and cupped his hands, begging for their food. They laughed even harder, gold teeth flashing in the afternoon sun, and took his belts and wristwatch. He let them, and begged again. They put a gun to his back and steered him away from the pot, away from the smell of simmering beef. Away from the soup.

  48

  They pushed him to a post and barbed-wire pen erected on an open plain of snow. The guards rolled back a section of the fence. He hesitated. They pressed guns against his back, and he moved forward, staring at the snow covering his boots, declining to look at the other Germans, the huddle of frosted eyelashes, stooped shoulders and sunken faces encased in fraying army blankets, each appearing more like a woman at the end of her life than a man at the beginning of his.

  He stood apart, detached, certain that his reason for surrender, his wife and child, was more valid than theirs, almost heroic rather than cowardly, maintaining a distance from them until the snow and wind arrived, until he needed their warmth.

  He wormed his way into the huddle and remained there for several hours, motionless, almost indifferent to death or salvation but wishing for one or the other to silence the noise in his head, the terrible realization that Faustmann had been right.

  He wanted to cry, but decided that required too much energy and fell asleep instead, on his feet, until the prisoners shuffled, slowly at first, then frantically, rushing at the fence, at the guard who banged his gun against a metal bucket, shouting ‘bread, bread’. It was dark, but the camp light illuminated the arc of his arm as he catapulted the bread over the fence, a pig farmer doling out the scraps from his table. Faber surged forward and threw himself on top of the other men, punched and kicked as hard as they did, bit too, and secured four pieces, one of them quite large, all of them hard. He stuffed them into his pockets and scurried, rat-like, to a quiet part of the pen to spit saliva on the crust, to suck and soften, ignoring the pain in his teeth, his cramping stomach, the sobbing of men left without any, relishing instead the surge of heat through his blood that made him sleepy and giddy until his temperature plummeted and he shivered, suddenly furiously hungry, desperate for something hot, the promised soup, anything to push away the cold and hunger, to push away the moans of the dying, the bodies of the already dead, to push away the realization that he was next, that he was standing in that grey space between death and life.