The Undertaking Read online

  ‘Shut the fuck up, Faustmann,’ said Fuchs.

  Faustmann dragged a sleeve across his bloodied nose and lit a cigarette. He handed the rest of the pack to Fuchs.

  ‘Thanks. How’s your nose?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘You’re right anyway. I’ll never last another week out there.’

  ‘Of course you will,’ said Faustmann. ‘I was talking rubbish.’

  ‘I’m beaten. I don’t have it in me.’

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ said Weiss. ‘The road has been cleared and we’ll have plenty of food.’

  The coffee spluttered on the stove.

  ‘It’s ready,’ said Kraft.

  They drank in silence and played cards, without money.

  Faber was unable to sleep. He took his blanket to sit by the stove. Faustmann was already there, smoking and staring at the flames.

  ‘How’s your face?’ asked Faber.

  ‘Sore.’

  ‘He whacked you.’

  ‘I deserved it.’

  Faber threw three more logs on the already blazing fire.

  ‘We may as well use them up.’

  Faustmann lit a cigarette.

  ‘They don’t give a damn if we live or die.’

  ‘Who?’ said Faber.

  ‘Those idiots in Berlin.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They don’t give a damn about us.’

  ‘Of course they do.’

  ‘We’re cannon fodder, Faber. Just like in the last war. Nothing has changed.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. We are crucial to the inevitable victory.’

  ‘Cannon fodder. That’s all. For Russian guns and German ambition.’

  ‘Have you been drinking, Faustmann?’

  ‘Reinisch will be promoted because we’ve walked through ninety miles of Russian snow.’

  ‘I’m not listening to this, Faustmann. You’re just looking for another fight.’

  ‘I’m not, Faber. I’m just sick of being used.’

  ‘You’re a soldier, Faustmann, and there’s a war on.’

  ‘But what’s the war about?’

  ‘A greater Germany.’

  ‘At whose expense? Not theirs in Berlin, with their stuffed gullets. At our expense, Faber. With our lives.’

  ‘You sound like a communist, Faustmann.’

  He laughed.

  ‘I’m not a communist.’

  ‘But you speak Russian, your grandmother’s Russian and your politics sound Russian.’

  ‘I’m German, and you know it. But these Russians have done nothing to us, so what the hell are we doing here?’

  ‘We need a bigger Germany.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For food, space, oil, coal.’

  ‘Can’t we just buy it all?’

  ‘You’d better shut up.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You might be reported.’

  Faustmann placed a log on his thighs and picked at the splinters.

  ‘By whom, Faber?’

  ‘It could be dangerous for you. That’s all.’

  ‘I’m not a communist.’

  ‘You speak Russian.’

  ‘So what? Weiss speaks French. What does that make him?’

  ‘I’m only concerned with you.’

  ‘Why? Why the sudden concern with me? You were never concerned before.’

  ‘I have a family and a future to think about. I can’t have our campaign in Russia jeopardized by communists spreading disaffection.’

  ‘Is that what you think I’m doing? Spreading disaffection?’

  ‘You just need to be careful. That’s all.’

  Faustmann went to the end of the room where Weiss, Kraft and Fuchs were sleeping. Faber stayed, relishing his easy victory, and fell asleep by the stove, his feet against the shrunken woodpile.

  They moved out just after dawn, towards the sun rising into a cold, cloudless sky. The road was clear, as promised, and the sixty men made steady progress, about twenty miles that day, before finding an abandoned village at dusk where they built fires and sheltered for the night. The second day, too, began well, but in the middle of the morning the road suddenly disappeared under a drift of snow that reached up to their thighs.

  ‘We must have gone off course,’ said Fuchs.

  Reinisch, who checked his map and compass every half-hour, was adamant.

  ‘This is the right way,’ he said. ‘No doubt about it.’

  ‘That’s old, compacted snow,’ said Faustmann. ‘They haven’t cleared it. They stopped here.’

  ‘They wouldn’t do that,’ said Kraft. ‘We must be lost.’

  ‘We’re not lost, Kraft,’ said Kraus.

  Faber looked at the tyre tracks in the snow, at the traces of turning circles.

  ‘We should go back,’ said Weiss.

  ‘I can’t allow that,’ said Reinisch. ‘There’s a village two miles from here.’

  Faber followed the lieutenant. The snow melted into his trousers and coat, chilling his sweat, confusing his senses so that he did not know whether he felt cold or hot. He took off his gloves and hat, but put them back on again. He removed his scarf. He was comfortable for a short time, but then too cold again, his body drained by the changes. After four hours, they reached the edge of the village. He checked his gun. It was frozen. Fuchs was coughing.

  ‘Why can’t I see any roofs?’ said Faber.

  Weiss peered through the fading light.

  ‘Damn it,’ he said. ‘It’s been burned out.’

  ‘Right men,’ said Reinisch. ‘Find a bed for the night.’

  Fuchs coughed, bending at the waist.

  ‘We’ll find shelter,’ said Kraft. ‘You’ll be all right, Fuchs.’

  ‘And there’ll be something to slaughter, Fuchs,’ said Gunkel. ‘There always is.’

  They walked towards the centre, marked, as usual, by a wooden bench and a cherry tree, both blackened. They stubbed at the charred remains of the village with their boots.

  ‘Who did it?’ said Faber.

  ‘It’s a thorough job, lots of petrol,’ said Weiss. ‘Must have been our boys.’

  ‘Thanks lads,’ said Fuchs.

  ‘We’d better move,’ said Weiss, ‘or all the best places will be gone.’

  ‘There aren’t any best places,’ said Faber. ‘It’s a hellhole.’

  ‘Let’s look,’ said Kraft.

  They moved from house to house, but stoves, beds and cupboards were lost under blankets of snow. The only roof they could see was on the south-facing gable end of the barn, but it was already packed with other soldiers, their backs set firmly against the gusting northerly wind.

  ‘Let’s keep looking,’ said Kraft. ‘Fuchs needs proper shelter.’

  ‘There isn’t any,’ said Faber.

  ‘We’ll go around again,’ said Weiss. ‘One more time.’

  They headed towards an orchard at the other end of the village, its branches reaching into the darkness. Weiss stopped and hunkered down to peer through the trees.

  ‘I think there’s something over there,’ he said. ‘On the other side.’

  Suddenly they could all see it. Walls with a roof, unblackened, intact.

  ‘Saved for another day,’ said Fuchs. ‘Hallelujah.’

  They charged at it, guns to the front, packs bouncing against their backs, hurrying in case somebody else got there first. Weiss yanked open the small, wooden door and the five piled into a darkness sweetened by ripened fruit. Kraft switched on his torch, and they cheered, ecstatic at their good fortune.

  ‘What’s there to eat?’ said Faber.

  Kraft swung his torch, across apples, pears, plums and two women wrapped into each other, one old, one young.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Kraft. ‘We won’t hurt you.’

  He held his hand towards them and the younger woman stepped forward, apples rolling at her feet. Faber was shocked by the beauty of her pale, unblemished skin, by the brightness of her green eyes
and the strength of her strong, straight shoulders.

  ‘She looks German,’ he said. ‘Talk to her, Faustmann.’

  ‘In Russian, Faber?’

  He put his gun barrel on her left breast, over her heart.

  ‘Speak,’ he said.

  She did, so softly that Faber heard the melody of the language for the first time.

  ‘Russian,’ laughed Faustmann. ‘Go on. Out.’

  He dragged the older woman, the grandmother, by the arm and threw them outside, into the snow.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said Faber.

  ‘They’re Russian,’ said Faustmann.

  He planted them in front of an apple tree and aimed first at the old woman, who held her hands in front of her face, then at the young woman, who held his gaze. He fired into the middle of her face.

  ‘What the hell did you do that for?’ said Fuchs.

  Faustmann shot the old woman too.

  ‘They’re Russian,’ said Faustmann. ‘I can’t share a shed with Russian peasants.’

  ‘Jesus, Faustmann,’ said Fuchs, ‘your grandmother’s Russian. It’s like you just shot your own grandmother.’

  Faustmann went back into the shed, bit into an apple and dug in his pack for food. Kraus and Gunkel followed them inside.

  ‘You bastards,’ said Kraus. ‘How did you find this place? Make room for us.’

  ‘Just you two,’ said Weiss.

  ‘We’ll fetch our packs. Right, the rest of you men, back to the barn. Incident over.’

  Faber sat down to eat, to settle the churn of his stomach. Faustmann leaned into him, and whispered.

  ‘Now, Faber. Accuse me again. See who’ll believe you.’

  ‘Fuck you. You shouldn’t have shot her.’

  ‘She was Russian.’

  ‘Maybe you shot her because she looked German.’

  ‘You’re a bastard.’

  He moved away, leaving Faber next to Fuchs, a rattling wheeze in his chest.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ said Faber.

  ‘I’m glad to be inside. What’s going on between you two?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You and Faustmann. You’re hissing at each other like an old married couple.’

  ‘I don’t like his politics.’

  ‘I told you before. There’s no room for politics here.’

  ‘He’s talking like a communist.’

  ‘Faber, before you went to Berlin, you barely knew what a communist was.’

  ‘But it’s important.’

  ‘It’s rubbish. What’s important is to stick together and get out of this hellhole in one piece.’

  ‘It’s important to me.’

  ‘Why is it so fucking important to you?’

  ‘We’re here for a reason, aren’t we?’

  ‘Yes, because we’re soldiers.’

  ‘No, Fuchs, we’re here to clear the communists and Jews from Russia. So that my wife and child have a better future.’

  ‘We’re here because we’re soldiers, Faber. That’s it.’

  ‘It’s not that simple.’

  ‘Make it that fucking simple.’

  16

  Katharina read the letter a second time, her mother curled into her.

  ‘It doesn’t say there’s anything wrong with him, Mother. You should be happy. He’s coming home.’

  ‘They’d never send him back, Katharina, unless there was something wrong.’

  ‘So he injured his arm, his leg? He’ll recover. The main thing is that he’s coming.’

  She kissed her mother on the cheek.

  ‘We should prepare for him, Mother. Decorate his room. We still haven’t hung up those badges and certificates. Come on. We’ll do it now.’

  She helped her mother to her feet and they went to his room.

  ‘He’ll be fine, Mother.’

  17

  There was no shelter the following evening and they stood stranded on the steppe, only thirty-five of the ninety miles behind them.

  ‘We should walk through the night,’ said Kraft. ‘Keep moving and stay warm.’

  ‘It’s too cold and we’d lose each other,’ said Reinisch. ‘We’ll camp here.’

  Faber stuck his rifle down through the snow, but found no earth for pegs, only thick sheets of ice.

  ‘What do we do now?’ he said.

  ‘Dig into the snow,’ said Weiss. ‘We’ll make a cave for the tent.’

  ‘I’m exhausted,’ said Kraft.

  ‘Let’s just pitch them on the surface,’ said Faber.

  ‘We need shelter from the wind,’ said Weiss.

  ‘There is none,’ said Kraft.

  ‘There might be. Start digging,’ said Weiss.

  ‘Nobody else is bothering, Weiss,’ said Faber.

  ‘That’s up to them.’

  They burrowed for twenty minutes, until they had created a cavity deep enough for the tent ropes and pegs.

  ‘We’re like bloody Eskimos,’ said Faber.

  ‘I can’t believe this is happening to us. That they are doing this to us,’ said Kraft.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Those bastards in Berlin. The ones who sent us out here.’

  ‘Have you been listening to Faustmann?’ said Faber.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You sound like him.’

  ‘Like Faustmann?’

  ‘Yes, he talks like that. Like a communist.’

  Weiss’s laughter exploded in the tent.

  ‘Kraft’s too rich to be a communist.’

  ‘So why is he talking like one?’

  ‘I’m not,’ said Kraft. ‘I’m just wondering what the hell we are doing out here. What purpose does it serve?’

  ‘See, that’s communist cant.’

  ‘No, Faber. It’s me wondering what the fuck I am doing in Russian snow when I should be at home in front of the fire, looking after my mother.’

  They slept, until brutally cold air filled the tent. It was Fuchs, Faustmann and Gunkel, forcing their way inside.

  ‘Ours is fucked,’ shouted Faustmann. ‘Ripped apart. Everybody’s out there, scrambling for shelter.’

  ‘But there’s no room in here,’ said Faber.

  ‘There has to be,’ said Fuchs.

  Faber, Weiss and Kraft squeezed their knees against their chests and the other three pushed their way in, dragging packs and guns after them.

  ‘It was the wind,’ said Fuchs. ‘Cut through us like a knife.’

  They hunkered, backs against the tent, knees pressing up against each other, six men compressed into a space created for two. Fuchs coughed for most of the night, spitting up phlegm in a tent already full of sweat and stale breath. Faber woke at dawn, gasping for fresh air. It was bitterly cold outside, but still. He lit a cigarette and watched the sun climb into the sky, its strengthening light rinsing the snow pink, illuminating three men wrapped in their collapsed tents. Faber walked towards them. They were dead.

  ‘Poor bastards,’ he said.

  He finished his cigarette, threw the butt to the snow, and went back to the sleeping men, nudging them to open up the space that had been his. He slept again, woke with the others, and ate.

  They tugged at the dead men’s clothing. Everything was frozen. Their hats glued by ice to their heads, their packs sealed shut.

  ‘The snow will bury them for us,’ said Kraus.

  Fuchs coughed and spat green phlegm onto the snow.

  ‘I hope you’ll bury me, Sergeant,’ he said.

  ‘You’ll be fine, Private.’

  Fuchs wiped the sweat dribbling from his forehead and the bridge of his nose.

  ‘Let’s hope you’re right, Sergeant.’

  They gathered around the dead, said some prayers and moved out, heading north-east, following the map and compass, supporting Fuchs when he stumbled, then taking turns to carry him through the snow. When evening came, there was again no village, no shelter, only the never-ending whiteness. Kraus leaned his head against Fuchs’, the eye
lashes of both men shrouded in ice.

  ‘I’m sorry Fuchs.’

  Fuchs opened his eyes, then closed them again.

  ‘It’s not your fault, Sergeant.’

  ‘We should have disobeyed him.’

  ‘Then you’d be dead too, Kraus.’

  ‘I may be, anyway.’

  Weiss put a hand on the shoulder of each man.

  ‘We’ll rest for the night,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t dig,’ said Faber.

  ‘We’ve got to,’ said Weiss.

  ‘I can’t. I’m worn out.’

  ‘Nor can I,’ said Kraft. ‘Let’s just pitch on the surface.’

  ‘What if there’s wind, like last night?’ said Weiss.

  ‘It can’t happen two nights in a row,’ said Faber.

  ‘I suppose not.’

  They fell into deep, consuming sleep, oblivious to the high-pitched whistle of wind across the steppe. It kicked their tent as though it were a football, sending it into the air, dropping it again and rolling it over and over, their hips, knees, heads and guns crashing into each other. They tumbled over and under one another, screaming, howling, Kraft sobbing that they would fall off the edge of the earth. And then it stopped. Suddenly. The men untangled their limbs and tried to still their rasping breath.

  ‘A ride at a fucking Russian funfair,’ said Weiss.

  They laughed, grateful for the release. They were bruised and grazed, but no one was cut. Nothing seemed broken. They shoved their way out of the tent, through the ropes and fabric. Kraus, Gunkel and Faustmann were beside them, their tent pushed the same direction by the same wind.

  ‘Some fucking country,’ said Gunkel.

  They gathered their belongings and walked the quarter-mile back to camp where the others still slept undisturbed under the early morning moon. They tried to pitch the tent again, but the fabric was torn, and ropes and pegs were missing.

  ‘It’s almost dawn, anyway,’ said Weiss.

  ‘We should just huddle together,’ said Kraft.

  Faustmann laid his tent across the snow.

  ‘Stand on this,’ he said, ‘and we’ll drape the other one over us.’

  ‘And put Fuchs in the middle,’ said Gunkel. ‘Breathe on him to keep him warm.’

  Fuchs looked lost. He was no longer coughing.

  ‘Are you all right, Fuchs?’ asked Faber.

  ‘Yes. You’re all very kind.’

  They fell silent in the thin, brittle air, listening to Fuchs’ breath, the plaintive wheeze of a man drowning in his own lungs. Faber rubbed his gloves over Fuchs’ face, knocking off the icicles, breaking the ice spreading across his nose and lips. He was determined to stay awake, to be with his father’s old pupil, but at dawn a wave of sleep dragged him under, holding him down until he felt something fall against him. It was Fuchs, already freezing. He held him briefly, but then let him fall further, face first, into the snow.