The Undertaking (7 page)

15

Kraft pushed into the house, panting.

‘Close the damn door,’ said Weiss.

‘Give me a chance to come in first.’

He swept snow from his eyes.

‘The lieutenant wants us.’

‘Bloody hell,’ said Faber. ‘What for?’

‘To award you the Iron Cross, Faber,’ said Weiss. ‘For services to fatherhood.’

They laughed.

‘It’ll be the only one I get,’ said Faber. ‘Stuck in this pit.’

‘Why does he want us?’ said Faustmann.

‘I don’t know,’ said Kraft, ‘but he’s wound up.’

They swore as they pulled on their outdoor clothes. Kraft stoked the stove.

‘I’ll make coffee when we’re back,’ he said.

They stood outside the lieutenant’s house, snow and wind cutting into their faces, darkness on its way. Faber stamped his feet. He should have put on a second pair of socks.

Reinisch came out of his house, his shoulders straight, but his face pale.

‘We’re moving out tomorrow,’ he said. ‘At first light.’

A shock of cold rushed up Faber’s legs.

‘It’s January, Sir.’

‘I’m aware of that, Private.’

Reinisch stepped back from the men, towards his house.

‘Where are we going?’ said Weiss.

‘Kharkov. The Russians are on the move there. Our boys need support.’

‘But that’s a hundred miles away.’

‘A little less, I think, Private.’

‘What, ninety?’

‘About that.’

Faber started shivering, his teeth chattering.

‘I could die, Sir, if I go out there again,’ said Fuchs.

‘Have the doctors told you that?’

‘No, Sir.’

‘Well then, you’ve nothing to worry about.’

The lieutenant turned his back on the men and went back into his house, shutting the wooden door against them, shoving it tight into its buckled frame. The wood shuddered. Together the men moved towards it, two, three steps. And then they stopped, turned away towards Kraus. He threw his hands into the air.

‘Those are our orders. They want us to shore up Kharkov.’

‘It’s impossible,’ said Weiss.

‘We are expected to walk thirty miles a day and will be given enough food for ten. There are villages along the way where we can rest.’

‘It’s madness,’ said Fuchs. ‘We can’t walk thirty miles a day in snow. Russian snow.’

‘I have been told that most of the road has been cleared.’

‘It’s madness, Sir.’

‘That’s enough, Fuchs. Back to your houses, everyone, to rest and prepare.’

They were still.

‘Who will lead us?’ said Weiss.

‘The lieutenant will,’ said Kraus. ‘It’s a straightforward route.’

Faber suddenly wanted to sleep. To forget what he was hearing.

‘What’ll we eat?’ said Gunkel. ‘What’ll we do for meat? We need meat in the snow.’

‘I’ll talk to Stockhoff,’ said Kraus. ‘See what extra rations he can give us.’

They drifted back to their houses. Kraft began to make the coffee sent by his mother, to bang pots and hum.

‘Shut up, Kraft,’ said Faber.

‘Leave him alone, Faber,’ said Weiss. ‘He’s making coffee.’

‘That piss! You call it coffee?’

‘Forget it.’

‘No, I won’t. I hate his humming. He’s like an old woman.’

‘Leave it. Write a letter to your wife.’

Weiss picked up a newspaper. Faber paced the room and settled beside Fuchs, crumpled by the stove.

‘So what do you think, Fuchs? Will you survive out there this time? All that snow?’

‘I doubt it.’

‘What are you going to do about it?’

‘There’s nothing I can do.’

‘You could go back to Reinisch,’ said Faustmann. ‘Refuse to go.’

‘And be lined up and shot? In front of you all?’

‘But you’re not fit, Fuchs,’ said Faustmann.

‘The doctors say I am. So that’s that.’

‘You shouldn’t be going,’ said Faustmann. ‘None of us should be. We should refuse the order. Collectively.’

‘Don’t be a fucking idiot, Faustmann,’ said Faber.

‘So what do we do, Faber? We go out there, march Fuchs to his death?’

‘It’s an order. From a proper army. Not your Soviet rabble.’

‘Right then, Fuchs,’ said Faustmann. ‘Off you go, out into the snow. Pack up.’

‘Leave it, Faustmann,’ said Weiss.

‘But write to your wife and children first, Fuchs. Tell them you won’t be coming back.’

‘Shut up,’ said Weiss.

‘Tell them that you are about to die because you’re following some stupid fucking order to walk ninety miles through January snow. Tell them all that.’

Fuchs’ cheeks flushed. He shoved his knuckles into the floor and vaulted onto Faustmann, pummelling his chest and face. The other men wrenched him off.

‘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.’