The Undertaking Page 4

  Mrs Spinell gave him a package of brown paper and white string.

  ‘It should keep you going for a bit.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Give some to Johannes if you see him.’

  ‘I will, Mrs Spinell. I’ll look out for him.’

  The train station teemed with men in uniform. Katharina pressed against her husband.

  ‘You’re shivering, Peter.’

  ‘I hate going back there, Katharina. The noise. The smells. I hate it all.’

  ‘It won’t be for long, my love.’

  She buried herself into his chest and wrapped her arms around him.

  ‘You’ll be all right, Peter.’

  The younger men, the new recruits in fresh uniforms, marched around the station, singing.

  ‘Bloody fools,’ said Faber.

  ‘They’re excited, Peter.’

  ‘About what? Dying.’

  ‘It’s not that bad.’

  ‘You’re not there.’

  ‘You’re doing very well. It’ll soon be over. One last push.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, Katharina.’

  She stepped away from him and turned to the crowd, to the men playing cards in huddles on the ground.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to go.’

  He hugged her, and held her, stroking her hair, until his unit was called.

  ‘It’s time,’ she said.

  He kissed her.

  ‘I will be back. You understand that, don’t you, Katharina?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You understand that no matter what happens I will come back to you.’

  ‘I know that, my love.’

  ‘I need you here for me, Katharina. I need to know you’re waiting for me.’

  ‘I’ll be here, Peter. I promise.’

  ‘I’ll be back. No matter what.’

  He hugged her tightly, as though trying to absorb her.

  ‘You should go,’ she said. ‘Get a seat.’

  The train ground its wheels into the metal track, inching forward until it gathered pace and carried him out of the station, away into the morning light. The other women left, went back to their homes and children, but Katharina lingered in the dusky anonymity of the station, warding off the moment when she would return to being a daughter. She sat on a bench, silent among the men, until the cold wind whipping at her legs made it too uncomfortable to stay. She began the walk home, but stopped at a café, remaining for as long as she could, for as long as seemed decent for a woman on her own.

  Her mother hurtled towards her as she opened the door.

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘At the station, with Peter.’

  ‘But his train left hours ago. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. You’re here now. Hurry up, pack your things. We’re leaving.’

  Mrs Spinell picked up a bundle of clothes from the floor.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We have to leave here. Pack. Quickly.’

  ‘Mother, stop. I have no idea what is going on.’

  She dropped the clothes and put her hands on her daughter’s shoulders.

  ‘Katharina, it has finally happened.’

  ‘What has?’

  ‘The apartment. We have a new apartment! A huge one. With its own living room! And three double bedrooms!’

  ‘That’s marvellous. But I can’t go.’

  ‘What do you mean? You hate your bedroom, and the smallness of this place.’

  ‘I promised Peter that I would wait for him. Here.’

  ‘For God’s sake, write to him. Give him the new address. And Johannes too.’

  ‘But this was his home, our home. I’ll wait here, move into your room.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘I’m not ridiculous. I’ll live here by myself until Peter comes back.’

  ‘And how will you live? Pay the rent? Anyway, somebody else will be coming here.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Oh God, Katharina. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It matters to me.’

  ‘Stop it, Katharina. Just pack. We have to move today. It’s our big chance.’

  She turned her back on her mother and walked into her parents’ bedroom. The bed had been stripped. She ran back into the hall.

  ‘Where are the sheets? Where did you put the sheets?’

  ‘In the bath. I was washing them when your father came with the news.’

  Katharina raced down the hall, her coat slipping from her shoulders as she fell to her knees in front of the bath. She picked at the folds of sheet that rose above the water, at the coils of black, wiry hair floating on the surface, then plunged her arms into the bath, soaking her clothes in the traces of their time together. She lifted the sheets to her face, and rubbed them across her lips, cheeks, forehead and eyes, soaking her skin with what remained of him.

  Mrs Spinell walked by the bathroom door.

  ‘Katharina, what are you doing?’

  ‘Washing the sheets.’

  ‘Oh, leave them. The Jews have much better sheets than those.’

  Katharina dropped her hands and arms back into the water.

  ‘You’re soaked, Katharina. You’ll catch cold. Just leave them.’

  ‘I’m taking them.’

  ‘Do as you please. But we have to leave today. Before somebody else gets it.’

  ‘So you keep saying.’

  She rinsed the sheets in cold, clean water, squeezed and folded them, and left them on the side of the bath. She went to find her father, who was packing Johannes’ medals and trophies.

  ‘So you’ve heard the news,’ he said.

  ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘Dr Weinart organized it. It’s on the other side of the city, on the second floor and very big, with lots of furniture to dust. It should keep your mother happy.’

  Katharina tapped her toe against the door into her brother’s room.

  ‘He got away, then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’ll be back. Sooner than you think.’

  ‘I hope so,’ she said.

  ‘He’s a good young man. There’ll be space in the apartment for him until we find you somewhere of your own.’

  ‘I’d rather stay here, to wait for him.’

  ‘It’s not practical, Katharina. They wouldn’t let me keep two apartments. Anyway, you’ll change your mind when you see this place.’

  Katharina fell silent.

  ‘I’d better go and pack,’ she said.

  ‘Good girl.’

  She closed her bedroom door and pushed against it, locking out her parents. She was twenty-two years of age. A married woman. When would they accept that and stop calling her girl? He had to come back to take her away from them, because she couldn’t bear it any longer. Being their daughter. The good girl.

  She packed her things quickly, easily, into a small suitcase, covering everything with the wet, dripping sheets taken from the side of the bath. She placed the case by the hall door and returned to her mother in the kitchen.

  ‘What are we taking from here?’ asked Katharina. ‘Plates? Cutlery? Saucepans?’

  ‘Only saucepans. The rest they leave behind. They are allowed only one suitcase. What remains is for us.’

  ‘Where have they gone?’

  ‘I don’t know. East, I think. Out, anyway. Here, take this.’

  She handed over Johannes’ favourite mug, dark brown with a heavily moustached man etched into its side.

  ‘He would never forgive us if we left it behind. And take his ashtray too.’

  The hall filled quickly with boxes and suitcases.

  ‘I think we’re ready,’ said Mrs Spinell. ‘Mr Ewald is lending us his cart.’

  ‘Will you miss it, Mother?’

  ‘No. Not a bit.’

  They stacked the grocer’s cart and pushed it until the streets grew quieter and wider.

  ‘The trees are beautiful,’ sa
id Katharina. ‘They’re huge.’

  Mr Spinell stopped the cart behind a car, in front of two enormous and elaborately carved wooden doors.

  ‘Is this it?’ said Mrs Spinell. ‘It can’t be.’

  ‘It is, my love.’

  They stepped into a large hall, its ceiling heavy with white sculpted plaster. Mr Spinell rubbed his shoes against the back of his legs and stepped onto the red patterned carpet covering the staircase. The women followed. Katharina squealed at its softness; her mother bent down to touch the rails and rods.

  ‘Solid brass, Günther.’

  They climbed, three abreast, to the second floor, uncertain whether to turn left or right.

  ‘The key is in the door,’ said Mr Spinell.

  ‘I can see it,’ said Katharina. ‘We’re on the right.’

  She turned the key and they entered a square hallway with a gilt-edged mirror and a white marble bust. Two glass doors led to the living room with polished wooden floors, a grand piano, sofas, rugs, paintings and alcoves lined with leather-bound books.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ said Katharina.

  ‘Finally,’ said Mrs Spinell. ‘A proper home.’

  The two women threw off their shoes and rushed around the apartment, laughing as they opened doors onto enormous bedrooms and balconies. The kitchen drawers were stacked with equipment for slicing and beating, and cupboards filled with starched linen sheets, tablecloths, napkins, and huge soft towels, still perfectly white.

  ‘They had everything,’ said Katharina.

  ‘While we had nothing,’ said Mrs Spinell.

  They converged again on the living room, telling Mr Spinell about the bathtub big enough for two, but he was focused on the alcoves, cursing loudly and throwing books onto the floor.

  ‘Rubbish, rubbish. These will have to go before we can sleep a night in this house.’

  Katharina chose the bedroom furthest from the kitchen, with a balcony overlooking the small but richly planted courtyard. She opened the large mahogany wardrobe and tried on the silk dresses and linen skirts, but none would fit. The shoes were also too small, so she settled for some cardigans, shawls and a long fur coat with matching hat that she wore into the living room.

  ‘Any jewellery?’ asked Mr Spinell.

  ‘No,’ said Katharina. ‘Not that I can see.’

  ‘Bloody thieves, the lot of them. They swallow it, you know. To hide it from us.’

  He piled his arms with books and headed for the front door. ‘Take your things off the cart. I need it,’ he said.

  He dumped the books into the cart, their covers splaying as they fell.

  ‘Wait here. I’ll fetch the rest. Make sure nobody takes any of them. They’re corrosive. Every one of them.’

  He disappeared back up the stairs, and returned with more books and the marble bust.

  ‘Not the statue, Günther,’ said Mrs Spinell. ‘It suits the hall.’

  ‘It’s Mendelssohn, Esther.’

  Katharina carried her suitcase to her room and unpacked, draping the wet sheets across the balcony and hanging her dull, limp clothes alongside the fur coat. On her way to the linen cupboard, she caught sight of her mother in a red, woollen dress.

  ‘You look lovely, Mother.’

  ‘But it’s Jewish. I can’t possibly wear it.’

  ‘Take it. It suits you.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You deserve it.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  She looked at herself in the mirror again. And smiled.

  ‘I suppose I do. But I’ll wash it first. And disinfect it.’

  When Mr Spinell returned, the three of them sat at the polished dining room table.

  ‘It’s our turn now,’ said Mrs Spinell. ‘Our turn at the good life.’

  ‘I think I’ll take piano lessons,’ said Katharina.

  ‘A fine idea,’ said her father. ‘It’s about time we had a musician in the family.’

  7

  Faber found them picking over the remains of a tractor, its bulletpocked bonnet folded back to allow them to scrutinize what was left of the engine. He bellowed at them.

  ‘Get back! That’s Russian property.’

  Weiss turned, his rifle already cocked.

  ‘You bastard, Faber.’

  He dropped his weapon.

  ‘So, how was she?’

  ‘Better than expected. You should try it.’

  ‘I have all the woman I need here, without the burden of a wife.’

  ‘It was no burden.’

  ‘It will be.’

  They all laughed, slapped him on the back and shook his hand. Faustmann passed around his cigarettes.

  ‘You’ve been gone a long time, Faber,’ he said.

  ‘Did you miss me, Faustmann? They extended my leave.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I was working in Berlin.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Working with my father-in-law. Nothing much. What are you doing with the tractor?’

  ‘Building a shower,’ said Weiss.

  ‘Still at that?’ said Faber.

  ‘We’ve regulated the flow, but not the temperature,’ said Weiss. ‘Sit, sir, and tell us about this woman.’

  Faber climbed into the cold metal seat that curved to the shape of his bottom, his legs either side of the broken steering shaft. Weiss, Faustmann and Kraft sat on the rear mudguards.

  ‘How is my mother, Faber?’ said Kraft.

  Faber exhaled slowly, relishing their curiosity.

  ‘She looked after me well, boys. That’s all I can tell you.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ said Weiss. ‘We need more than that.’

  ‘It’s private, Weiss.’

  ‘It was never private before.’

  ‘Well, it is now.’

  ‘Oh, come on. We’re starved of all sensation.’

  ‘You look pretty healthy to me.’

  ‘What about Berlin?’ said Faustmann. ‘Is there much damage?’

  ‘Some to houses, but people are getting by. The food is dull, though. Heavily rationed.’

  ‘It’s been good here,’ said Weiss. ‘Lots to eat and lots to buy.’

  ‘And what about Darmstadt?’ asked Kraft. ‘How is my mother?’

  ‘I never got to see her, Kraft. But I posted your letters.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Faber. You said you would.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I ran out of time.’

  ‘You’ve been gone for three weeks. You got extra time.’

  ‘It went by very quickly.’

  ‘But you promised.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Kraft.’

  ‘You’re fucking useless, Faber.’

  Kraft slid down the mudguard and walked away. Faber cleared his throat and spat at the ground.

  ‘I was busy with my wife.’

  ‘You did promise,’ said Faustmann.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘He thinks she’s dying,’ said Weiss.

  ‘I only saw my own mother for a couple of hours.’

  ‘She’s not dying.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, I just didn’t go home much. That’s all there is to it.’

  ‘But you could have,’ said Faustmann. ‘Even for a day.’

  ‘I didn’t have a day to spare.’

  ‘An afternoon, then,’ said Weiss. ‘You could have taken your wife, just to check on everyone.’

  ‘I took her for one afternoon. That’s all the time there was.’

  ‘You had three weeks!’

  ‘It was busy.’

  ‘My parents were looking forward to seeing you,’ said Weiss.

  ‘I barely saw my own, Weiss. Anyway, it was my leave. Kraft should have organized his own.’

  ‘Like you did?’ said Faustmann.

  ‘Yes, Faustmann. Like I did.’

  Faber finished his cigarette, dropped it to the tractor floor and ground it into the metal with the toe of his boot. He lit another.

  ‘They must be disappointed,’ said Weis
s.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your parents. Your father, especially. His teacher son.’

  ‘Damn it, Weiss, leave me alone. I’ve already done my penance.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I never collected my mother’s food parcel. I was bloody starving on the train.’

  ‘Nothing from your wife?’ said Faustmann.

  ‘Scraps from a mother-in-law who has a son of her own.’

  Weiss laughed.

  ‘Serves you right for putting your dick first.’

  ‘Let’s hope she was worth it,’ said Faustmann.

  ‘She’s much more beautiful than her photograph. The one you saw.’

  ‘I can’t remember it,’ said Weiss.

  ‘She’ll send another. I’ll show you then.’

  They fell silent and stared west, at the sun sinking into the horizon. Weiss shivered.

  ‘It’s cold,’ he said. ‘We should go back.’

  ‘What about the shower?’ said Faber.

  ‘Fuck the shower. We’re moving out in a couple of days, anyway.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘That’s the talk.’

  ‘Have you reported to Kraus yet?’ said Faustmann.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You should.’

  He found Kraus cleaning shoes in the doorway of the house he had taken as his own. Faber saluted.

  ‘Ah, the honeymooner is back.’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant.’

  ‘You were a long time away. Longer than expected. How did you manage that?’

  ‘My father-in-law has connections, Sir.’

  ‘I see. Well, you’re back with us now, Faber. Eat and rest.

  We’ll be moving out in a couple of days.’

  ‘How much longer will it take, Sir?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The war?’

  ‘A week? A year? Ask your father-in-law.’

  ‘He says Christmas.’

  ‘Go and eat, Faber.’

  He joined the line behind Gunkel, a butcher from Darmstadt, and Fuchs, the oldest among them and once a pupil of Faber’s father.

  ‘I don’t smell much fat,’ said Gunkel. ‘They must be pleased with us.’

  ‘We’re heroes,’ said Faber.

  ‘They’re feeding us to be ready for a Russian winter,’ said Fuchs.

  ‘But it’s almost over,’ said Faber.

  ‘Things are moving too slowly around Moscow,’ said Fuchs.

  ‘Berlin thinks that it’s almost all over,’ said Faber.