‘Off you go, then, and tell them that. See if they will listen to you. Here’s your coat. Your bloody fur coat. You go tell Dr Weinart and the army. Go! Go on!’
She got up, took the sausages from the hob and set the table, tears running down her face.
‘I don’t want him to go back. He’s my baby boy.’
‘I know, Esther. I don’t want him to go either. But there’s a war.’
She wiped her face with a napkin.
‘All right, Günther. But it’s on your head.’
He sat down.
‘It’s on yours too, Esther.’
They took him to the train station, the concourse crowded with new recruits.
‘They seem younger,’ said Katharina.
‘Who?’ said Mrs Spinell.
‘The soldiers. Younger than when I was here with Peter.’
They steered Johannes through the crowds, Mr Spinell carrying his papers, Katharina his food bag filled with bread, salami, chocolate and dried fruit. The train was already at the platform.
‘We should get him on, Esther. Find him a seat.’
‘It’s over an hour before departure.’
‘It’ll fill up fast, Mother.’
They found a carriage in the middle of the train.
‘It’s safer here,’ said Mr Spinell. ‘If the bastards attack it, they’ll probably target the front or the back.’
They put Johannes in a seat by the window, with a table to lean on, and packed his things around him.
‘You’ll be able to sleep here, darling,’ said Mrs Spinell.
She sat beside him, Katharina and Mr Spinell opposite them, on the other side of the table.
‘Nice train,’ said Mr Spinell. ‘Good and clean.’
They were silent until the other soldiers arrived. A sudden rush of men. Hundreds and hundreds clamouring for seats and space for kitbags and guns.
‘We’ll have to go now, Johannes,’ said Mr Spinell.
They kissed and hugged him, the women’s tears on his dry face. They squeezed their way through the soldiers and stood again on the platform, waving as the train pulled away, Johannes smiling and waving back, the seats around him still vacant.
22
Faber was already awake when the shelling started. He had known it would come. Just not when. But there it was. At first light in the middle of May, the earth shaking under the force of the Russian attack.
‘That’s our wake-up call, boys,’ he said.
In the dimness of the Kharkov house, they pulled on their clothes, their battle kit, and picked up their guns.
‘They’re heavy weapons,’ said Faber. ‘Long range.’
‘And a lot of them,’ said Faustmann.
‘Nothing we can’t handle,’ said Weiss.
‘But listen to it, Weiss,’ said Faber. ‘It’s organized. Orchestrated.’
‘They’re finally learning how to fight a war,’ said Weiss. ‘That’s all it is.’
‘That’s bad news for us then,’ said Kraft.
‘We’ll piss on them, Kraft,’ said Gunkel. ‘Come on, lads. Let’s get to it.’
Kraus was already on the street, tucked behind the gable end of a house.
‘Let them play with their guns. Then we’ll move forward and teach them some manners.’
‘Yes, Sir,’ said Weiss.
He pointed to the area on the edge of the city where he wanted them to wait until they were ordered to advance.
‘Off you go, boys. And keep down.’
They moved out, the shells arching and falling, felling trees, gouging holes in the earth, into other men’s bodies. They turned their backs on the barrage, leaned against a wall and lit cigarettes.
‘I wish we had coffee,’ said Faber. ‘Wake us up a bit.’
‘How awake do you want to be?’ said Weiss.
‘Good point.’
‘How far away do you think they are?’ said Kraft.
‘About ten, twelve miles,’ said Weiss.
‘Poor bastards underneath it,’ said Faustmann.
‘At least it’s not us,’ said Gunkel.
‘Not yet,’ said Kraft.
Kraft took a pipe from his pocket.
‘What are you doing with that?’ said Faber.
‘My mother sent it to me. It belonged to my father.’
‘Are you going to use it?’
Kraft opened his knife, scraped at the bowl and filled it with tobacco. He lit the pipe and sucked on it, then passed it to Faber who drew on the smoke and coughed.
‘I think I’ll stick to the cigarettes.’
‘It uses less tobacco,’ said Kraft.
‘Too much effort,’ said Weiss. ‘All that cleaning.’
‘It keeps you calm,’ said Kraft. ‘The routine of it.’
‘Your father was never calm,’ said Faber.
‘True.’
‘How is your mother, anyway?’ said Faber.
‘Much better, thank you.’
‘Did you tell her about your feet?’
‘No. There’s no need to worry her.’
They fell silent, listened to the Russians and lit more cigarettes.
‘Any news on Reinisch?’ said Faustmann.
‘He got what he wanted,’ said Gunkel.
‘Which is?’ said Faustmann.
‘First lieutenant,’ said Gunkel. ‘With the reconnaissance battalion.’
‘Bastard,’ said Faustmann.
‘Will Kraus do the same?’ said Kraft. ‘Use us to get promoted?’
‘Kraus is loyal,’ said Weiss. ‘We’re not a tool for his career.’
‘So he won’t care if we sit out this battle?’ said Faber.
‘He has no interest in being shot either,’ said Weiss.
Kraft cursed at the pipe and threw it to the ground.
‘Has anyone got a cigarette?’
They laughed, momentarily masking the sound of the planes. Faber looked around the wall. He saw a mass of aircraft coming from the east, flying low, bombs already falling. They were Russian.
‘I thought they had no fucking planes, the bastards.’
They ran, scrambling back towards the city, towards the already blasted houses. Kraft was in front, but stopped suddenly.
‘Move,’ shouted Weiss.
‘I don’t want to be in the lead.’
The bombing and strafing was almost above them, the bullets cutting into the soldiers behind them, scattering bodies across the earth, a fresh crop of death. Weiss bellowed at Faustmann.
‘Where do we go?’
‘Over there,’ said Faustmann. ‘We need a roof.’
They lunged at the remnants of a house. But there was no roof, only an overhang barely big enough to cover them. They huddled tightly into each other. Kraft was whimpering.
‘Don’t move, anybody,’ said Faustmann. ‘Don’t attract attention.’
Faber looked up at the sky, tracking the planes as they flew overhead, as they travelled west towards Germany, willing them onwards, horrified when they banked and turned back towards them, flying even lower than before, even closer. Kraft started screaming
‘We’re going to die. We’re going to die.’
Faber pulled his knees to his head, making himself as small as he could. Kraft was babbling. Pleading for his mother. Weiss shouted at him.
‘Shut the fuck up. I want to listen.’
‘Why do you want to listen to that?’ said Faustmann.
‘Because I can’t fucking listen to him crying for his mother.’
Faber closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see the pilots, or
find out whether they had seen him. He covered his ears with his hands but the thunderous roar drilled into his head anyway. Prayers flowed from his lips, one after the other, prayers from his childhood, when he stood in church beside his father, his big hand enveloping his own small hand. He wanted to go home; to retreat behind the laurel hedge, into the garden where the earth did not shake. He opened his eyes, briefly, and saw the planes mowing the earth, cutting down men, over and back, over and back, the movement as methodical and thorough as his father mowing the grass on a Saturday afternoon.
After twenty minutes, the planes left, flying back east, their bellies emptied. The men stumbled to their feet, unable to speak, their trousers wet. Kraus yelled at them to move forward. They started to run, over the bodies of the dead and the not yet dead; charging and scurrying across open ground towards the Russians, their backs bent, shoulders rounded, as though that might protect them from the storm of bullets and bombs.
Faustmann dived into a freshly formed crater.
‘We’ll set up here. Use it as our trench.’
‘Their weapons reached here,’ shouted Faber.
‘Their weapons reached fucking everywhere, Faber.’
Faustmann slid the machine gun off his shoulder, opened it up, locked it in place and began firing, Faber feeding in belts of ammunition, Weiss pointing out targets, Kraft preparing the next round. They threw grenades, fired their rifles and moved on to the next crater, staying longer in each newly held position, fighting even harder, battling until night fell, when they took turns to go back for food, cigarettes and ammunition. They dug into the ground, and crawled into their holes, Faber and Weiss together.
‘Any idea how many we got?’ said Faber.
‘I lost track.’
‘It’s pretty stupid, isn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘Running like that,’ said Faber. ‘At a machine gun. It seems so pointless. And terrifying.’
‘They seem intent on using up all the men in Russia.’
‘And women, Weiss. We shot them too.’
They slept, woke and began again, covering the ground with another layer of bodies.
‘Death to Bolshevik Jews,’ shouted Faber.
He had slept well.
‘We really are invincible,’ said Faber.
‘We’ll have to be,’ said Faustmann.
Word came that the Russians had surrounded a village occupied by German soldiers, cutting them off.
‘They’re not capable of that,’ said Faber.
‘They obviously are,’ said Weiss.
‘They’re copying us. What we did at Kiev.’
‘We should be flattered. They won’t be there long.’
German planes flew over from the west and dropped food, fuel and ammunition to the stranded soldiers, loud cheers erupting from the battlefield. The tanks and heavy artillery followed, breaking through to free the men.
Stockhoff cooked beef stew.
‘You see, Faustmann. They do care about us.’
Faustmann lit a cigarette.
‘We’re crucial, Faber. Absolutely crucial.’
23
Kharkov, May 23rd, 1942
My dearest Katharina
,
You would be so proud of us. We fought so hard and have pushed the Russians back again, further east, beating their attempts to take back control of land that is no longer theirs. They seem to struggle to accept this basic fact
.
As you may have already heard, they surrounded some of our troops, but Berlin sent in wave after wave of rescue missions until every man was freed. It was marvellous to watch, Katharina. The planning and precision of the operation, the elegance of it all. It is marvellous to know that we have so much support from other regiments and from Berlin. It warms me to know how much you care about us all out here, because I have to admit that sometimes it is hard to know whether anybody back home is concerned about what we are doing
.
Ours is a great country, Katharina. We are indeed lucky to have been born German. I would certainly feel despair today if I had been born a Russian. I would see myself as being without hope. Without any future
.
But we have a great future, Katharina. You, me and our child. We will raise him or her to be proud of our country, not embarrassed as our parents were. As my parents still are. I wish my father could be more like yours and understand what the
Germans are capable of. You understand it. I am not sure that I understood it before, but I understand it now. And I have witnessed the Fatherland’s commitment to its people, each planeload dropped onto those men stranded in that village expressing that commitment
.
I am so happy today to be German, to be part of all this. To be part of this great living history
.
I will be home very soon
.
Your loving husband
,
Peter
24
The letter came late one midweek afternoon as Mrs Spinell was preparing a cut of lean beef. Katharina walked into the kitchen, her gait awkward, her body tired from eight months of pregnancy.
‘Mother.’
Mrs Spinell turned to her daughter. Then back to the sink. She vomited. She rinsed the sink, brushed back her hair and went to the sofa, to the place where her son had sat. They opened the letter and huddled into each other as the words assaulted them: death, regret, service, Fatherland. They remained silent, Katharina stretched along the sofa, Mrs Spinell, upright, staring at the ceiling, until Mr Spinell came home. The tears came then, and angry accusations. He read the letter and left.
25
Mrs Spinell went to bed and remained there under the blankets in her dressing gown.
‘Should we fetch Dr Weinart?’ asked Katharina.
‘She’ll come out of it,’ said Mr Spinell. ‘Just give her time. It is a terrible thing for a mother.’
‘And for a father?’
‘Of course.’
‘Do you feel guilty, Father?’
‘No, Katharina. Should I?’
‘I don’t know. I do.’
‘Why?’
‘That he went back.’
‘There was nothing to be done.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘We have to play our part, Katharina. To follow orders.’
‘No matter what the consequences?’
‘Otherwise it’s chaos.’
‘It’s chaos, anyway.’
‘It will be worth it.’
‘Worth Johannes?’
‘He would have understood.’
26
‘It’s happened, boys,’ said Faber.
‘What has?’ said Gunkel.
‘The birth. I’m a father.’
‘Congratulations,’ said Weiss. ‘Boy or girl?’
‘Boy.’
‘Fresh fodder for the empire.’
‘His name is Johannes. After her brother.’
They toasted him and his son with their water bottles and resumed lunch in the sunflower field, jaws chewing on stale bread and tinned meat, eyes fixed on the soil burned black by retreating Russians. Faber opened the letter again. His hands smudged the white paper.
‘Apparently he looks like me. Long and skinny, with dark hair and blue eyes.’
‘Poor bastard,’ said Weiss.
‘It was a hard labour. Nineteen hours.’
‘That’s tough,’ said Kraft.
They fell silent then. Faustmann touched the right side of his mouth.
‘That tooth is getting worse.’
‘You’ll have to see the dentist,’ said Weiss.
Faber leapt to his feet and kicked at the earth, showering them in black soil that reeked of petrol.
‘Bloody hell, Faber,’ said Weiss. ‘We’re trying to eat.’
‘Well, excuse me for disturbing your fine repast in this splendid dining hall.’
‘Piss off.’
He bowed, obsequiously.
‘And what will Mr Weiss have for his main course today? Fetid meat from a tin? Or would sir prefer a can?’
‘Shut up, Faber.’
‘No, you shut up. All of you shut up.’
‘Calm down,’ said Weiss.
‘No, I won’t. And stop telling me what to do, Weiss. You’re always telling me what to do.’
‘Act like a child, and I have to tell you what to do.’
‘You fucking don’t.’
‘Sit down,’ said Faustmann. ‘You’re wearing yourself out.’
‘I’ll do what the fuck I like, Faustmann. And I certainly won’t take orders from some half-Russian bastard.’
‘Right, Faber,’ said Weiss. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Out with it.’
‘I’ve just become a father. You could all have been a little more enthusiastic.’
‘Jesus, Faber,’ said Faustmann. ‘We said congratulations. What do you want? Baby booties?’
‘That would be a start.’
‘Fine. I’ll find some at the baby boutique in the next village.’
‘Leave it, Faustmann,’ said Weiss. ‘Look, Faber, everybody is tired. You’ve had a baby, congratulations. Can we go back to our food, please?’
‘You do that.’
‘Jesus, Faber.’
Faber slumped back into his place.
‘I’m fed up of this hellhole.’
‘We all are.’
‘I thought I’d be home by now. Instead I’m still here, chasing tanks across the fucking steppe. I want to see my child.’
‘It’ll be over soon,’ said Weiss.
‘How many times have you said that? You’re wrong every time.’
‘Not this time, my friend. I’m certain of it.’
‘He’s right, Faber,’ said Gunkel. ‘There can’t be much left to do.’
Kraus shouted at them to move out. They stood up, crumbs and burned sunflower petals falling from their uniforms. Faber ran after Kraus.
‘My wife has just had a baby boy.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Thank you. I need home leave. To see him.’
‘Not a chance.’
‘Please, Sergeant. Even a week.’
‘Forget it. No more leave until this is all over.’
He held back and waited for the others to catch up.
‘What did he say?’ said Weiss.
‘Not a chance.’
‘You should write to your parents. Tell them the news. A first grandchild.’
‘Maybe Katharina will send me a picture. So I can see him.’
‘I’m sure she will. It won’t be long, Faber.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
The rhythm of moving feet calmed his nerves.
‘I thought I’d be home by now. There for the birth. I’ll never see him now as a newborn. Never know what that was like.’
‘You’ll have other children. Other newborns.’
‘But never a first one again.’
In the evening they arrived at a village. The locals carried on with the tasks they had to complete before nightfall, moving between their whitewashed houses and the brick well, ignoring the soldiers as though their arrival was normal, or expected. Faustmann went to them.
‘They say the partisans beat us to it. The food is all gone.’
Kraus shot an old man. Nobody moved. Then he shot another. Still no response. He brought a young woman forward, a mother, and shot her, her young boy screaming beside her. The food appeared. They sat in the village square and ate.
‘It’s idyllic here,’ said Kraft. ‘Such a simple life. Mother would love it.’
‘It’s a tip,’ said Weiss.
‘But imagine,’ said Kraft, ‘a big house, a farm with pigs, apples, geese, room to stretch our cramped urban limbs.’
‘You have a big house,’ said Faber. ‘And room to farm if you want to.’
‘But the air here is so clear. You can really breathe.’
‘And winter?’ said Weiss.
‘Tolerable in a house with proper heating,’ said Kraft.
‘I doubt it.’
‘Think of spring and summer – Faber’s little boy running through that orchard over there, reaching up his hands to catch falling blossoms. It could be heaven.’
‘Or hell,’ said Weiss. ‘No matter how many houses we burn, there’ll always be lice.’
‘I’d forgotten about them,’ said Kraft.
‘And partisans,’ said Gunkel.
‘We’d get on well with them in the end, when all this is forgotten. When they can practise their religion and own their farms again.’
‘This will never be forgotten, Kraft,’ said Faustmann.
They rummaged through the houses, looking for things that might be of use. Weiss held up a baby’s bonnet with ear flaps and strings. It was covered in dried mud.
‘Do you want to send this to your wife, Faber? For the baby?’
‘My child’s not wearing that, Weiss.’
Weiss slapped Faber on the back.
‘Don’t say I didn’t try, my friend.’
They moved out.