The Undertaking Read online

  ‘He’s dead,’ he said.

  They all woke and looked down. Weiss bent over the body.

  ‘I’ll take his paybook and tag,’ said Weiss. ‘For his wife.’

  They bent as Weiss did, taking things no longer of use to a dead man – a knife, a torch, a hat, scarf and gloves, moving quickly before the corpse froze any further. They covered him with snow and left.

  ‘So, what do you think now, Faber?’

  ‘About what, Faustmann?’

  ‘Are we cannon fodder?’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘No, he’s right,’ said Weiss. ‘What the hell are we doing out here, anyway?’

  ‘I am doing as I am ordered to do by my leaders.’

  ‘Where are they?’ said Weiss. ‘Why aren’t they here?’

  ‘Because we are,’ said Faustmann. ‘On their behalf.’

  ‘We’ll end up dead or mad,’ said Weiss.

  ‘Or both,’ said Kraft.

  ‘I can’t think about it,’ said Faber.

  ‘You have to think about it,’ said Faustmann.

  ‘No I don’t, Faustmann. What I have to do is stay alive.’

  ‘You’re ignoring the facts, Faber.’

  ‘The facts? The facts are that I am starving and freezing to death thousands of miles from home. For what? For a bigger, stronger Germany free of communist Jews. Those are the facts. That’s why I’m here. Why are you here, Faustmann?’

  ‘I have no fucking idea.’

  The snow began to fall again, the flakes landing on already frozen snow. Faber covered himself in everything he had, glad of his mink and felt, so that only his eyes were visible. But it was hard to see. The snow was thick and the sky was dark. He moved towards the front of the group, exposing himself to more of the wind, but getting closer to Reinisch and the compass.

  In the early afternoon, they came upon a village, intact but empty of people and food. Gunkel found nothing to slaughter. They lit fires and drank boiled snow. Kraft began to remove his leather boots, the steel tops cleaned by the snow, glistening in the firelight.

  ‘I’m not sure you should do that, Kraft,’ said Weiss. ‘It’s probably best to wait until we’re there.’

  ‘I want to wash my feet. Warm them up a bit.’

  Faber helped him with his boots and watched as Kraft removed the left sock. The skin underneath was darker than the rest of his leg, with a scattering of white dust across it.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Faber.

  Kraft brushed at it. It didn’t move. He took off the rest of the sock, lifting it over the ball of his foot and over his toes.

  ‘Shit! That hurts.’

  Kraft’s toenails were gone. All five of them. Faber lifted the sock, turned it inside out and found them, stuck to the material, black and rotten. The flesh of Kraft’s right foot was even darker. Those toenails came away too, and the small toe was blacker, squashed and elongated. Nobody spoke. Everybody stared. Kraft stood up and hobbled to the stove. He filled a pan with lukewarm water, sat back down and put his feet in the water.

  ‘They’ll go back to normal in a minute,’ he said.

  The feet lightened a little in colour, but the little toe remained black and spongy. He dried his feet and applied the frostbite cream from their first aid kits. Faber found a pair of thick, dry socks in a pair of Russian slippers by the door.

  ‘Looks like I should have worn dead men’s shoes,’ said Kraft.

  ‘I’ll see if I can find some for you here,’ said Weiss.

  ‘Don’t even bother,’ said Faustmann. ‘Russians only have one pair of boots. They’re wearing them.’

  In the morning, Faber, Weiss, Gunkel and Faustmann walked with Kraft, moving slowly at the back, ushering him through snow that reached up to their thighs, along a vague path left by the men who had gone before them.

  Cold snow seeped in through Faber’s clothes and hot, damp sweat seeped out, his body exhausted and confused, uncertain of its own temperature, of its own strength. He wanted Stockhoff’s beef stew. Katharina’s long hair. He wanted it all to be over. For the stupidity to end.

  18

  They waited, with cake and coffee ready, listening to the clock tick each irretrievable second of the afternoon.

  Katharina went down to the street every half-hour to check that he was not wandering up and down, lost, uncertain of the new address, but found no sign of him.

  ‘Maybe his train was delayed,’ said Mrs Spinell. ‘Nothing can be relied on any more.’

  ‘I’ll go and check,’ said Mr Spinell.

  ‘I’ll come with you, Father.’

  ‘It’s raining, Katharina. Stay with your mother.’

  Katharina sat back down in front of the fire, opposite her mother, and resumed her sewing. The clock ticked on.

  ‘That damn thing,’ said Mrs Spinell. ‘I don’t know why they ever bought it. It’s so loud.’

  She stood up, took a cloth from the kitchen and dusted the ornaments she had already cleaned.

  ‘I’m sure he’s fine,’ said Katharina. ‘There’s probably some simple explanation.’

  ‘But he was always so punctual. Do you remember how he raced to school every morning to be at the top of the line under the teacher’s nose so that she could praise his timekeeping?’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘He was never, ever late. You always dawdled and dreamed your way to school.’

  ‘I know, Mother.’

  Mr Spinell returned after two hours, his coat and suit sodden.

  ‘There was no trace of him. All the trains from the east have come and gone.’

  Mrs Spinell picked up the cake, wrapped it in a clean towel, placed it in a tin, and went to her room. Her husband changed his clothes and took the place she had warmed on the sofa.

  ‘Do you think he’s all right?’

  ‘I’m sure he is, Katharina. We haven’t been told otherwise.’

  ‘But who would tell us?’

  ‘In war, you always hear bad news. I’m sure the explanation is simple. You should go to bed, Katharina. You look tired.’

  Early the next morning, at around six, the doorbell startled her out of sleep. She threw back the covers and hurtled to the front door, tying the belt of her dressing gown as she ran. Her parents were already there, talking to a soldier, a young man who was not Johannes. He passed them a letter, saluted and left. Mrs Spinell squeezed her husband’s arm, her upturned face shut tight against bad news.

  ‘Please, Günther. What does it say?’

  His reading was silent.

  ‘It’s all right, Esther. He’s fine.’

  She opened her eyes.

  ‘Oh, thank God.’

  ‘He’s in an army hospital in Poland. He was taken off the train for treatment and will be home next week.’

  ‘We can wait a week,’ said Mrs Spinell.

  ‘I wonder what happened,’ said Katharina.

  ‘He was always a strong boy, Günther.’

  She brought the cake to the living room table, removed the cloth and began to slice it.

  ‘It’s a bit early, Mother.’

  ‘No point in wasting those precious eggs,’ said Mrs Spinell.

  They sat at the table and ate the cake.

  ‘Maybe he has influenza,’ said Mr Spinell.

  ‘Or a stomach bug,’ said Katharina. ‘On a packed train.’

  They laughed.

  ‘It can’t be anything too serious,’ said Mr Spinell, ‘or we would have been informed.’

  A second army letter arrived, telling them to collect Johannes from the station at three on the following Thursday. Katharina went with her father this time, running her hand across her belly until the train arrived and the doors opened, spewing hundreds of dirty uniforms onto the platform.

  ‘We’ll never find him,’ she said, ‘they all look the same.’

  ‘Look carefully. He’ll see us.’

  She did look, at the blanched cheeks and hollowed eyes, at the lines of hunger, cold a
nd exhaustion ploughed into the men’s faces.

  ‘My God, Father.’

  ‘The fighting in Moscow is hard, Katharina. But we shall prevail.’

  A fleck of white distracted her, bobbing along the platform amid the swarms of staggering grey. It was a nurse in a sparkling-white cap, holding the arm of a frail man and steering him through the crowd. He was oblivious to the nurse, to the crowd, to the sliver of drool sliding from the side of his mouth. Katharina put her arm on her father’s sleeve.

  ‘I found him, Father.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In front of you.’

  ‘Where, Katharina? I can’t see him.’

  ‘In front of you. With the nurse.’

  ‘Oh no, Katharina. No.’

  The young man’s uniform hung in folds. The thin, papery skin of an old man had been stretched across his face.

  ‘My poor son.’

  The nurse walked past them, Johannes with her.

  ‘Come on, Father. Let’s go to him.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can.’

  ‘It’s definitely him.’

  She tapped the nurse’s arm and introduced herself.

  ‘Hello, Johannes. Welcome home.’

  He turned towards the voice, but looked through her, his blue eyes seeing nothing. Mr Spinell stepped towards Johannes and took his arm.

  ‘Come on, son. Let’s take you home. Your mother is waiting.’

  Johannes started off again, down the platform, shuffling his feet, unwilling, or unable, to lift them. Katharina stayed with the nurse.

  ‘He’s in shock,’ said the nurse. ‘It happens a lot. The doctors have given him three weeks’ leave, so take him home and put him to bed for a few days. He’ll be fine then. His gun and pack are back in Poland, but his documents are here. They tell you everything you need to know.’

  She handed over an envelope.

  ‘The sedation should wear off in a couple of hours. Have him asleep in bed before that happens.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’ll be easier to manage.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘He’ll be fine. It’s really very common.’

  ‘How long does it last?’

  ‘It varies. But he should be better within the three weeks. Contact your own doctor if you need to.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Katharina followed her father and brother, and caught up quickly, easily. She took Johannes’ left arm, lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it.

  ‘Hello, Johannes. It’s me, Katharina.’

  They led him down the steps to the underground and onto a train, all three silent until they stood in front of the door to their apartment.

  ‘I need to talk to your mother first. To prepare her a little.’

  He tried to put the key in the lock quietly, but his wife heard him, opened the door abruptly and pushed past him to greet her son.

  ‘Johannes,’ she said, reaching out her arms.

  She stopped, her body stilled, her arms outstretched.

  ‘Johannes. My darling, handsome son.’

  She stepped towards him, took his face between her hands and kissed him on both cheeks.

  ‘Welcome home, my sweetheart. Mama will look after you. You’re safe now.’

  She took his hand and led him into the living room, plumped up the cushions, sat him down and took off his boots.

  ‘Katharina, fetch a blanket for him. Günther, bring the coffee from the kitchen. It’s on the stove.’

  They did as she bid, each relieved to have a task that distracted from the mangled shape on the sofa. Katharina tucked the blanket around Johannes’ legs and Mr Spinell handed his son the coffee, but Johannes’ hands remained inert and the cup tipped to one side, spilling coffee onto the blanket.

  ‘Günther, what are you doing?’

  ‘I didn’t realize.’

  ‘Pour another cup. Give it to me this time.’

  She lifted the cup to Johannes’ mouth and tipped a little of the coffee between his lips. Some went in, but most dribbled out of the right side of his mouth, mottling the white linen napkin draped across his chest. Cake followed, crumbs that she fingered through his lips, gently, refusing to accept his failure to chew and swallow.

  ‘I made it this morning, my love. Especially for you.’

  ‘The nurse said the sedation would wear off soon,’ said Katharina. ‘That we should have him in bed before it does.’

  ‘What nurse?’

  ‘At the station.’

  ‘I’m giving him a bath first. The water’s hot.’

  ‘I’ll get it ready,’ said Katharina.

  She turned on the taps and looked at her reflection, tracing her fingers over her weariness.

  Mr and Mrs Spinell raised Johannes to his feet and steered him to the bath.

  ‘Now, ladies, out please. I will take it from here.’

  ‘No, Günther. I will bathe him.’

  ‘Esther, he is a twenty-year-old man, far too old to be bathed by his mother.’

  ‘I need to check his skin, for lice, for infection. I want to see him, Günther. He’s my son.’

  ‘We’ll do it together, then. But not Katharina. That’s too much.’

  She left them and sat back on the sofa to alter a maternity summer dress, in blue silk. The man in the pawnshop had kept it aside for her.

  Her mother left the bathroom, hurried to the kitchen, opened a cupboard, closed it and headed back to her son.

  ‘He has lice. Though only in his hair. And no infections or frostbite, thank God.’

  She closed the bathroom door, then snapped it open again.

  ‘Oh, Katharina, could you get his pyjamas?’

  She rose slowly, her lower spine and pelvis feeling the strain of the day as she moved to his room. She ran her fingers over his awards, lingering over the brass horse on its wooden plaque, the city boy’s triumph over the country riders. She left his clothes on the floor outside the bathroom and knocked.

  ‘Pyjamas.’

  He emerged, washed and shaved, blue cotton sagging from his shoulders, a parent holding each arm as he was led to the sofa.

  ‘I’ll make him something to eat,’ said Mrs Spinell.

  ‘Mother, we really need to put him in bed before the sedation wears off.’

  ‘Katharina, that boy has not eaten properly for weeks. I won’t let him go to bed without food.’

  ‘Fine, then.’

  Katharina lifted his legs onto the sofa and covered him, over-riding his silence with her chatter about her new husband and baby, about the new apartment and the things to be found in the pawn-shops. He said nothing. Noticed nothing. The less he responded, the more she talked, relieved when her mother returned with a bowl of soft, milky, infantile potato. Mrs Spinell spooned it into his mouth, mopping away his spews and dribbles.

  ‘You like that, don’t you, sweetheart?’

  Mrs Spinell scraped the bowl and spooned what was left into her own mouth, reassuring herself that he had eaten well.

  ‘Good boy.’

  Katharina took both his hands.

  ‘It’s time to get him to bed, Mother.’

  ‘Katharina, I haven’t seen him for months. Leave us be.’

  ‘But the sedation will wear off.’

  ‘And what will happen then?’

  ‘I don’t know. I never asked.’

  ‘Just five minutes more.’

  Mrs Spinell sang to him and, with her husband’s help, took him to the lavatory and then to bed. Katharina went to bed too, grateful for the rain clouds hanging over the city. The English would not be coming.

  In the morning, in a warm, thick cardigan, she went to see her brother. He was motionless, but for his lips, which moved frenetically, feverishly. His eyes were open.

  ‘Johannes? Are you awake?’

  She put a hand to his forehead, but found no fever. She sat on a chair at the side of the bed and folded his papery hand into hers, until her mother came in, a house smock already on.


  ‘How is he, Katharina?’

  ‘He’s awake and calm, but muttering to himself.’

  ‘He’s been doing that all night.’

  ‘Have you been up?’

  ‘Your father and I took turns to sit with him.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me? I would have helped.’

  ‘You have little enough rest as it is.’

  ‘Did he sleep?’

  ‘Not much. A little at the beginning of the night. For the rest of the time, he just lay like this.’

  ‘It’s so awful.’

  Mrs Spinell sat next to her son’s feet.

  ‘What do we do, Mother?’

  ‘We’ll have to wait and see what happens. Your father saw this in the last war. Men tended to come out of it.’

  ‘Unscathed?’

  ‘Sometimes. Sometimes not.’

  ‘How long did it take?’

  ‘Days, weeks, sometimes months.’

  ‘The nurse said three weeks.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’

  ‘I forgot about her letter.’

  Katharina retrieved the nurse’s envelope from the hall. Inside were Johannes’ paybook, leave pass and a letter addressed to their parents. She opened the paybook and looked at his photograph, taken at the start of the war. He was smiling at the camera. She turned the pages, tracking his clothing allowances, equipment, payments and route across Europe into Russia, the scrawled signatures, entry and exit dates, the institutional stamps. The names of three hospitals.

  ‘Johannes has been in hospital before, Mother.’

  ‘What? How do you know?’

  She passed over the book and the letter from an army doctor who wrote that Johannes had been treated three times for trauma, without any success. It was decided that he would be better off at home and would, without doubt, recover quickly after a short break from the front.

  ‘How are we supposed to make him better if the doctors can’t?’

  ‘We can only do our best, Katharina. You should get ready for work.’