31
Katharina went to her mother and opened the curtains.
‘Up you get, Mother. We’re going to Mrs Weinart’s today.’
Mrs Spinell groaned.
‘Go without me, Katharina.’
‘She’s expecting all of us.’
‘There is no all of us.’
‘Stop it, Mother.’
‘I don’t want to go.’
‘I’ll help you choose something to wear.’
She held up dresses, one in each hand.
‘Either of these?’
‘No.’
‘Mother, you can’t stay in bed for ever. You’ll rot.’
‘I already have rotted.’
‘Oh, get up. Natasha is making breakfast. Eggs and toast.’
‘Don’t let her have any.’
‘No, Mother.’
The Russian had a heavier hand in the kitchen than either Katharina or her mother, so that her cooking was not always
successful. But she was good with clothes; cleaning too, and Johannes liked her.
Katharina took the baby from the Russian and fed him, running her fingers over his fontanelles, willing the gaps to close. They had to be at the doctor’s house at ten, and her mother would require all her attention.
Mrs Weinart had a selection of cakes ready for them in her living room. She took Johannes immediately, fussing over his tiny hands and nose.
‘He must bring you so much pleasure, Mrs Spinell. Your own grandchild.’
‘Oh, I enjoy him thoroughly, Mrs Weinart.’
Katharina wanted to sit down.
‘Do, Mrs Faber, do. First-time motherhood is exhausting. But you have help, I hear.’
‘Indeed, Mrs Weinart,’ said her mother. ‘She is settling in well. We are lucky to have her.’
The doctor’s wife passed Johannes to Mrs Spinell, and poured coffee.
‘We’ll let your daughter rest, Mrs Spinell.’
‘Indeed.’
Katharina looked at her mother, who smiled down at her grandson and held out a finger for him to hold. He took it.
‘Have you heard from your husband, Mrs Weinart?’
‘I was talking to him on the telephone last night, Mrs Faber. He is well. They both are, but the work is hard as the partisans keep setting fire to the crop. Can you believe it? Such wanton destruction.’
‘It seems to be a very hard place, Mrs Weinart. They are a hard people.’
‘True, Mrs Faber. But we’ll sort them out soon enough. How is your husband?’
‘He is at Stalingrad. I am very proud of him.’
‘You should be.’
They ate and drank, and Mrs Weinart took charge of Johannes again, playing with him, singing to him, and calling on her own children to come and see the baby. They played gently with the infant and sang when their mother asked them to. The girls danced too. Katharina laughed.
‘They’re gorgeous children, Mrs Weinart.’
‘I’m sure your son will grow up to be just like them, Mrs Faber.’
32
Kraus woke them at five and Stockhoff fed them hot coffee and warm bread with jam. At six they left, moving north-east towards the factory district, the sky lightening and clearing, promising heat, a last surge of summer sun. Tanks, machine guns and heavy artillery announced the start of the assault and Faber ran down a boulevard, scurrying from one fragment of wall to the next, barely able to hear the weapons over the sound of his own breath and pounding heart.
‘I don’t like this,’ said Faber.
‘Nor do I,’ said Faustmann. ‘It’s not what we’re used to.’
Snipers fired towards them from the right. Faber saw three men go down, each shot through the head.
‘Training wasn’t like this,’ said Weiss.
A captain circled his arm through the air, pressing them forward.
‘Keep going,’ he shouted. ‘They can’t get all of us.’
‘Fuck that,’ said Kraus. ‘This way, boys.’
He pushed through a door and Faber followed, turning to let Weiss know, but he was already behind him, followed by Kraft, Faustmann and Gunkel. Faber focused on Kraus’ boots, on the leather fraying over the heels, as they clambered over rubble, across tables, beds, dressers, along bullet-punctured walls sieving dust and smoke; his trousers were wet with urine, and sweat poured from his cold, clammy skin. Sniper fire dissected the air, slicing through gaps between walls and doors, between one building and another, one street and the next. Faber grabbed Kraus’ boot and pinned him to the rubble. He shouted at his sergeant.
‘I want to go back.’
‘You can’t.’
‘I can’t do this, Kraus.’
‘You have to. You’re a fucking soldier, Faber.’
‘I’m not. I’m a schoolteacher. A fucking provincial school-teacher.’
‘Act like a soldier, Faber, or you’ll never be a schoolteacher again.’
Faber followed him, crawling on his belly when Kraus did, tracking the heels and soles of his boots to places snipers could not reach. But mortars could. And grenades. They scrambled behind a piece of corrugated iron, their backs against a west-facing wall, sweating and panting, separated from the rest of the group.
‘It’s harder than I expected,’ said Kraus.
‘They’re bastards.’
They waited until it was dark and crawled back to the school. The others were already there. They all shook hands.
‘We didn’t see any point in staying out there, Sergeant,’ said Weiss.
‘We’ll try again tomorrow when we’re a bit more familiar with the territory,’ said Kraus.
Stockhoff soothed them with bacon and potato.
‘It might take a bit longer than Kharkov, lads,’ said Kraus.
‘How many dead, Sergeant?’ said Kraft.
‘Six. All sniper fire. No wounded.’
‘We’re not used to this, Sir.’
‘I know, Faustmann.’
‘We know trenches and open spaces. Not this.’
‘I know. But we’re going to have to find a way.’
The following morning, when it was still dark, they raced through the streets, moving before the sun rose, before the snipers could see them. They reached so far forward that they could no longer go back. They settled behind a wall that hid them from the east, and Faustmann set up his gun. They waited, still and silent, until the sun began to move towards the west, revealing a sniper they had not been able to see in the morning. Faustmann took him out. They moved on again, found a cellar, moved in, and waited for Stockhoff to find them. The cook brought soup, rations for the next day and a letter for Faber from his wife.
‘She sent me two bars of chocolate, lads.’
He passed them round. The third he slipped back into his pocket with the envelope.
33
Katharina went to the pawnbroker. He always managed to find things that interested her.
She bought a winter suit for Johannes and a bead necklace for her mother. Under a bundle of watches, she saw a pen, black with gold trimmings, the name ‘Samuel’ etched into the clip.
‘I can remove the name,’ he said.
‘Then it would be perfect.’
‘Would you like another name instead?’
‘Peter.’
She would give it to him at Christmas.
34
Faber was awake at five. He had an hour. He drank coffee, ate bread, and sat down to write to Katharina. His hand was still. What would he say? That he loved her? Loved their child? That he missed her? He tore the paper. It was all pathetic and pointless.
Why did they want a tractor factory anyway? It was a wreck. The roof and walls were already gone, the complex decimated. The planes and tanks should carry on until there was nothing left, nowhere
to hide, just a mound of rubble running down to the river. He hated going in after them, picking through the remains. The more often he did it, the harder it became. And Kraft kept crying. For no reason.
At six the order came as usual. They moved out of their cellars, rats emerging from the sewers, and scrambled forward into the darkness, the carcass of the factory looming in front of them.
‘We’re heading for the southern end,’ said Kraus. ‘Stick together and we’ll be fine.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Faber.
‘As sure as I always am.’
He fell in behind the sergeant, again focusing on the heels of Kraus’ boots. The fraying had been neatly stitched – the gaps closed, the leather gathered, all of it reinforced and repaired. He liked that expertise. His army’s attention to detail. He let out a deep sigh. It would be all right. They knew what they were doing.
The planes came, the tanks rolled in and the explosions shook every fragment of his body. Kraus ordered them to catch up with the tanks, walking behind them, close enough for protection, but not too close to be a target. And in they went, into an enormous cavern of collapsed roofs and tumbled pillars, the floor buried under tank and tractor parts, conveyor belts, screws, spanners, twisted fenders, and bodies, dozens of them, bloated and black, riddled with maggots.
‘I don’t know why we want it,’ said Faber. ‘Any of it.’
‘For your great German Empire,’ said Faustmann.
‘Fuck off, Faustmann.’
They set up their gun behind a wall, its barrel peering through a gap. They began firing, taking turns loading, reloading, throwing grenades, defending, attacking; but they ended the day as they had started, cowering behind the same wall. They ate and slept there, starting again in the morning with new rations and more ammunition,
the same pattern day after day, but none of it ever enough to thwart the waves of men that came at them, the colour of their skin and hair shifting from pale to dark, from west Russia to further and further east. An endless stream of men. Kraft began to scream. He was shaking. They laid him down and covered him with Weiss’ large coat. Kraus pointed at a doorway.
‘There must be an opening on the other side of that door. We need to seal it off.’
Faustmann went out in front, his gun spraying from left to right, the others behind him. They reached the door and hurtled through, into a building that scarcely had walls. They could see the river. And then the Russians. Dozens of them rising from the rubble and charging at the four men. Faustmann unfolded the tripod and set up the gun. Kraus fed him. Faber and Faustmann threw grenades but still they came. Faber used his gun, but it was too slow. Loading. Reloading. They were too close. And there were too many of them. He used his bayonet, their warm blood running over his hands and thighs, splashing his face. He preferred his gun. He stuck his knife in a man’s neck, left it there, and ran back out the door after Faustmann, back to the wall where Kraft lay quietly, his eyes open.
‘There’s no end to these bastards,’ said Faber.
‘It’s a big country, Faber.’
Kraus shoved Kraft.
‘We’re out of here. I’ll go back and organize support to block that opening.’
They went to the cellar, but Kraus kept on going, back to the school. Faber, Weiss and Faustmann lay on the floor to sleep. Kraft began to tidy, to arrange the shelving, table and chairs.
‘Why are you bothering?’ said Faber.
‘I may as well make it comfortable.’
‘We’re not staying. We’ll be out of here soon.’
It was night when he woke, the dark sky lit intermittently by bursts of Russian phosphorescence.
Stockhoff sent soup, carried by two fresh recruits, their faces pale.
‘How is it looking, boys?’ said Weiss. ‘How are the other sectors faring?’
‘We are not really sure, Sir,’ said the older of the two. ‘But there are a lot of bodies.’
‘Russian or German?’
‘Both, Sir.’
‘They’re easy to trip over,’ said the younger one. ‘And we spill the soup. Burn our hands.’
‘Stop spilling the soup,’ said Faustmann. ‘We’re hungry.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
They slept until morning. Kraus woke them.
‘Right. You’re rested. We need to take over that building. We’re kicking off in half an hour.’
They gathered behind their wall and waited with Kraus and twenty other men.
‘We need more than this, Kraus,’ said Weiss.
‘It’s coming.’
Just before the half-hour was up, four men emerged from the west, pushing a six-barrelled rocket launcher. Faber cheered. They all cheered.
‘That should sort them out,’ said Faustmann.
The launcher blasted through the walls and its operators forced it on towards the river, its rubber wheels bouncing over the rubble. The men followed, firing guns, hurling grenades, forcing the Russians from the southern end of the factory. They were winning.
It was easy. Thrilling. Faber was chuckling at the simplicity of victory, so triumphant that he didn’t hear the hiss of the mortar gun, only the landing of each shell on top of their rocket launcher, on top of their men, scattering body parts. He ran from the building, back behind the wall.
‘Nothing’s working, Kraus,’ said Faber. ‘Our guns are too big and heavy. Nothing’s agile enough. Fast enough.’
‘I can see that, Faber.’
After an hour, they went back into the building. Just infantry. Some went upstairs. Faber and Weiss stayed down, moving along what was left of the walls to the end of the building overlooking the river. Down below them, in the distance, they could see hundreds and hundreds of men leaving boats and running up the riverbank into the city.
‘We’ll never beat them like this, Weiss.’
‘Of course we will. We just have to be clever about it.’
‘I need to eat.’
They crawled under the staircase and pulled a sheet of corrugated iron over them. They ate crackers and tinned meat, and drank water. Weiss looked out, saw nobody and lit a cigarette. He inhaled and passed it to Faber.
‘Thanks.’
Faber held the cigarette against his own until the flame took hold. He handed it back.
‘So what do we do?’
‘I don’t know. I’m sure they’ll come up with something.’
Faber finished his cigarette and tumbled into a sleep that teetered on wakefulness. He felt something beside him. Feet. Russian. Silent in felt boots. He pushed back the iron sheeting, fired a shot, checked for more, found none and went back to sleep, deep this time, waking
in the near darkness. Uncertain. Weiss was still beside him. Still asleep. He woke him.
‘We should get out of here.’
Weiss shook his head.
‘How long have we been asleep?’
‘I don’t know. Hours. Kraus will lynch us.’
‘Who’s going to tell him?’
Weiss yawned and scratched his face.
‘Where’s everybody else, Faber? We’re on our own.’
Faber shoved back the corrugated iron, looked at the dead Russian and pulled it back over them.
‘What are we going to do, Weiss?’
‘I don’t know. That guy stinks.’
‘This whole place stinks.’
Faber ran his hands through his hair. The lice were back.
‘Any sign of the others?’ said Weiss.
‘Not that I can see.’
‘So what’ll we do?’
‘I don’t know.’
They lit cigarettes, waving at the smoke to break it up, diluting its trail.
‘It’s so quiet,’ said Weiss.
‘We should go back. Find them.’
Weiss slipped out from under the corrugated iron and back through the door, towards the west. Faber followed.
‘We’re in hell, Weiss.’
‘It’s too fucking cold to be hell.’
‘I think I see men.’
He peered harder into the fading light.
‘They’re ours.’
‘You sure, Faber?’
‘Certain. Come on.’
On their bellies, they crawled out of the factory to the remains of a junction.
‘You cross first,’ said Weiss.
‘I always follow you.’
‘Now I want to follow you.’
‘I don’t want you to. I want to follow you.’
‘Just go, Faber.’
‘No. You’re older than I am. You’ve always gone first.’
Weiss cursed at him and moved forward. Faber followed, staring at Weiss’ boots, at the gaps in the stitching, surprised when the boots suddenly flipped in a rush of wind, noise and exploding earth, and he found himself staring instead at their steel-tipped toes.
‘Jesus, Weiss. What are you doing?’
Everything was muffled; his own voice, the thump of cement and soil falling on his back and head. But he could see that Weiss was screaming, that his mouth was wide open, that his eyes were startled, that his hands were shaking over the place where his stomach had been, his intestines spilling onto the ground beside him. Faber scrambled to Weiss, deaf still to everything, even to his own crying and screaming. He scooped up the intestines, shoving the ragged and bloodied flesh back into the hole, all the time shouting at Weiss to get off the road, to get back behind a wall, to hide. Weiss stopped screaming. He cried instead, and called for his mother.
Faber heard the hiss of a new attack.
‘Get up, Weiss. Get up.’
Faber ran to a wall, and listened to the crash of each mortar shell onto the earth. He counted twenty-four of them. And then silence.
‘Weiss?’
Nothing.
‘Weiss?’
He stayed there, behind the wall, as night came, his helmet off, his knees against his chest, his fingers picking at pieces of his dead friend’s flesh.