7
Faber found them picking over the remains of a tractor, its bulletpocked bonnet folded back to allow them to scrutinize what was left of the engine. He bellowed at them.
‘Get back! That’s Russian property.’
Weiss turned, his rifle already cocked.
‘You bastard, Faber.’
He dropped his weapon.
‘So, how was she?’
‘Better than expected. You should try it.’
‘I have all the woman I need here, without the burden of a wife.’
‘It was no burden.’
‘It will be.’
They all laughed, slapped him on the back and shook his hand. Faustmann passed around his cigarettes.
‘You’ve been gone a long time, Faber,’ he said.
‘Did you miss me, Faustmann? They extended my leave.’
‘Why?’
‘I was working in Berlin.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Working with my father-in-law. Nothing much. What are you doing with the tractor?’
‘Building a shower,’ said Weiss.
‘Still at that?’ said Faber.
‘We’ve regulated the flow, but not the temperature,’ said Weiss. ‘Sit, sir, and tell us about this woman.’
Faber climbed into the cold metal seat that curved to the shape of his bottom, his legs either side of the broken steering shaft. Weiss, Faustmann and Kraft sat on the rear mudguards.
‘How is my mother, Faber?’ said Kraft.
Faber exhaled slowly, relishing their curiosity.
‘She looked after me well, boys. That’s all I can tell you.’
‘Oh, come on,’ said Weiss. ‘We need more than that.’
‘It’s private, Weiss.’
‘It was never private before.’
‘Well, it is now.’
‘Oh, come on. We’re starved of all sensation.’
‘You look pretty healthy to me.’
‘What about Berlin?’ said Faustmann. ‘Is there much damage?’
‘Some to houses, but people are getting by. The food is dull, though. Heavily rationed.’
‘It’s been good here,’ said Weiss. ‘Lots to eat and lots to buy.’
‘And what about Darmstadt?’ asked Kraft. ‘How is my mother?’
‘I never got to see her, Kraft. But I posted your letters.’
‘Bloody hell, Faber. You said you would.’
‘I’m sorry. I ran out of time.’
‘You’ve been gone for three weeks. You got extra time.’
‘It went by very quickly.’
‘But you promised.’
‘I’m sorry, Kraft.’
‘You’re fucking useless, Faber.’
Kraft slid down the mudguard and walked away. Faber cleared his throat and spat at the ground.
‘I was busy with my wife.’
‘You did promise,’ said Faustmann.
‘I know.’
‘He thinks she’s dying,’ said Weiss.
‘I only saw my own mother for a couple of hours.’
‘She’s not dying.’
‘Jesus Christ, I just didn’t go home much. That’s all there is to it.’
‘But you could have,’ said Faustmann. ‘Even for a day.’
‘I didn’t have a day to spare.’
‘An afternoon, then,’ said Weiss. ‘You could have taken your wife, just to check on everyone.’
‘I took her for one afternoon. That’s all the time there was.’
‘You had three weeks!’
‘It was busy.’
‘My parents were looking forward to seeing you,’ said Weiss.
‘I barely saw my own, Weiss. Anyway, it was my leave. Kraft should have organized his own.’
‘Like you did?’ said Faustmann.
‘Yes, Faustmann. Like I did.’
Faber finished his cigarette, dropped it to the tractor floor and ground it into the metal with the toe of his boot. He lit another.
‘They must be disappointed,’ said Weiss.
‘Who?’
‘Your parents. Your father, especially. His teacher son.’
‘Damn it, Weiss, leave me alone. I’ve already done my penance.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I never collected my mother’s food parcel. I was bloody starving on the train.’
‘Nothing from your wife?’ said Faustmann.
‘Scraps from a mother-in-law who has a son of her own.’
Weiss laughed.
‘Serves you right for putting your dick first.’
‘Let’s hope she was worth it,’ said Faustmann.
‘She’s much more beautiful than her photograph. The one you saw.’
‘I can’t remember it,’ said Weiss.
‘She’ll send another. I’ll show you then.’
They fell silent and stared west, at the sun sinking into the horizon. Weiss shivered.
‘It’s cold,’ he said. ‘We should go back.’
‘What about the shower?’ said Faber.
‘Fuck the shower. We’re moving out in a couple of days, anyway.’
‘How do you know?’
‘That’s the talk.’
‘Have you reported to Kraus yet?’ said Faustmann.
‘No.’
‘You should.’
He found Kraus cleaning shoes in the doorway of the house he had taken as his own. Faber saluted.
‘Ah, the honeymooner is back.’
‘Yes, Sergeant.’
‘You were a long time away. Longer than expected. How did you manage that?’
‘My father-in-law has connections, Sir.’
‘I see. Well, you’re back with us now, Faber. Eat and rest.
We’ll be moving out in a couple of days.’
‘How much longer will it take, Sir?’
‘What?’
‘The war?’
‘A week? A year? Ask your father-in-law.’
‘He says Christmas.’
‘Go and eat, Faber.’
He joined the line behind Gunkel, a butcher from Darmstadt, and Fuchs, the oldest among them and once a pupil of Faber’s father.
‘I don’t smell much fat,’ said Gunkel. ‘They must be pleased with us.’
‘We’re heroes,’ said Faber.
‘They’re feeding us to be ready for a Russian winter,’ said Fuchs.
‘But it’s almost over,’ said Faber.
‘Things are moving too slowly around Moscow,’ said Fuchs.
‘Berlin thinks that it’s almost all over,’ said Faber.
‘The boys up north don’t see it like that.’
‘You’re such a bloody pessimist, Fuchs.’
Stockhoff, the cook, dug his ladle deep into the pot and drew up a large portion of meaty stew. A second soldier handed out two pieces of bread, both buttered, both fresh. Faber sat beside Weiss. He gestured at the butter, and at the sauce and meat.
‘Maybe Fuchs is right.’
‘He’s usually reliable. The radio operators talk to him.’
‘But I promised Katharina I would be back by Christmas.’
‘You promised Kraft you’d visit his mother.’
‘This is different.’
‘And what happens then?’
‘When?’
‘When this is over? When you go back?’
‘Her father said he would find me a job after the war. A good one.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Teaching, training.’
‘In Berlin?’
‘Yes. And around Germany. Around our new empire.’
‘I thought you’d be in Darmstadt all your life. Continue the great Faber teaching tradition.’
‘Things change.’
‘So I gather.’
Faber chewed his meat.
‘It’s good. Better than anything I had in Berlin.’
‘You should have stayed here then.’
‘Any news on winter clothing?’
‘Who knows? Kraus said soon.’
‘He said that before I left.’
Faber drank from his water canister, sluicing down the meat stuck in his teeth.
‘Is Fuchs still coughing?’ he said.
‘Yep.’
‘I hate that noise. Every bloody morning.’
‘He can’t help it.’
‘How has Faustmann been?’
‘Fine. Same as ever.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Can we trust him?’
‘Faustmann? What are you on about?’
‘Well, he speaks Russian.’
‘Jesus, Faber, I speak French.’
‘That’s different. We’re at war in Russia and he speaks the language of our enemy.’
‘You never gave a shit when I spoke French in Belgium.’
‘That’s different.’
‘Only if you want it to be.’
‘It’s not that simple.’
‘Make it as complicated as you like, Faber. I’m going to get more food.’
The following morning, they wandered by the river and through Kiev, ending up at the market, the soldiers picking over jewellery, picture frames, coats, scarves and ties, the peasant sellers dressed in high-heeled shoes, fur stoles and long white leather boots. One woman used a silver clutch bag as her till.
‘Where did it all come from?’ said Faber.
‘It’s Jewish,’ said Weiss. ‘They don’t need it any more.’
‘They’ll take whatever you offer,’ said Faustmann. ‘It’s all an unexpected harvest for them.’
Faber bought a silver bracelet for Katharina, and a silk scarf with swirls of a green that matched her eyes. He bought some apples and pears too, and some coarse vodka and bread, then went down to the river with Weiss, Kraft and Faustmann. It was midday and the sun
was warm. They sat on a beach and picnicked close to a bridge bent and twisted by the retreating Russians. Faber stared at the expanse of the river.
‘Is there any end to this country?’
‘We’re only on the edge of it,’ said Faustmann.
‘My wife’s father had some notion that I should move here after the war.’
‘What for?’ said Kraft.
‘To farm and grow food for Germany.’
‘There’ll be empty plates in Berlin if they send you,’ said Weiss.
They laughed and lay down, relishing the warmth until the sun gave way to the late autumn winds.
8
At five, Kraus bellowed them awake.
‘Up! Out! Let’s go! There’s a war to win.’
Faber groaned.
‘I thought we had one more day.’
‘Change of plan, Faber. Up.’
‘I wanted to write to my wife today.’
‘You should have written yesterday, Faber. Up.’
He rolled onto his hip, sat up, scratched under each armpit and pulled on the rest of his clothes. He packed his rucksack, ate hot porridge, drank cold coffee and fell into line alongside buildings still in darkness, the blue, grey and pale yellow of their stone yet to be
picked out by the day’s light. Kraus ran up and down, counting, checking and shouting.
‘Right men, march.’
Faber quietly swore at the sergeant. He didn’t want to go. Nor did he want to stay.
‘So where are we off to?’
‘East,’ said Weiss.
‘I gathered that, Weiss.’
‘I heard talk of Poltava first, then Kharkov or towards Rostov,’ said Fuchs. ‘We’ll know when we’re there.’
‘Another grand plan,’ said Weiss. ‘How far is it?’
‘About two hundred miles to Poltava and three hundred to Kharkov. Rostov is too far to think about.’
Lace curtains twitched as they walked through the streets towards the river, hidden eyes tracking them as they passed.
‘When did the others leave?’ said Faber.
‘Most infantry last week.’
‘Why are we so late?’
‘The whole army was waiting for you, Faber,’ said Weiss.
Fuchs laughed.
‘You took a bit of a risk,’ he said. ‘Marrying a stranger like that.’
‘I suppose I did. But it worked out.’
‘What’s her family like? Her parents?’
‘They were kind to me.’
‘And her father?’
‘Not easy to get used to. But a good man. Committed.’
‘To what?’
‘The cause. The party. I had a couple of drinks with him, and some friends of his. They have some good ideas, especially this doctor I met.’
‘About what?’ said Fuchs.
‘Germany’s place in the world. Our future. The doctor pieced it all together very eloquently.’
‘And you were impressed?’
‘Very.’
Fuchs lit a cigarette, inhaled and coughed.
‘You shouldn’t be smoking, Fuchs.’
‘I know that. What do your parents think?’
‘Of what?’
‘Your marriage, your wife’s new family. They must be very different from yours.’
Faber spat at the earth.
‘They’ve met her.’
‘And what do they think?’
‘They like her.’
‘Have they met her parents?’
‘No.’
‘Any plans for them all to meet?’
‘No. God, Fuchs, you’re like an old woman with your cough and your questions. It’s done now, anyway.’
They reached the open plains, where Reinisch, their lieutenant, picked up the pace, forcing a march across ruts left by the tanks. Faber adjusted his pack and gun, and lengthened his stride, his legs settling back into their soldier rhythm. War had made him fit. Katharina had healed his feet. The sun rose, his shadow stretched behind him, and they began to sing.
They set up camp before darkness, Faber sharing with Weiss as usual. At midnight, Kraus shook their tent.
‘You’re on, lads. Faustmann and Kraft take over at two. Berlin time. No messing. No smoking.’
He pulled on his boots and crawled out after Weiss. The air was cold. He slapped his hands together and stamped his feet.
‘You’re supposed to be quiet, Faber.’
‘I forgot.’
Faber walked north, to a corner of the camp shrouded in darkness and silence. He took out a cigarette, cupped it in his hands to light it and inhaled its warmth. He checked his watch. Ten minutes after midnight. He wriggled his fingers, slapped his hands, walked a few paces and hunkered down. One hour and fifty minutes. One hour and forty-nine. He stared at the steppe, willing something to happen. Anything at all. Anything that might distract from the darkness around him. He hated the dark. A twig snapped. Then nothing. More silence. More darkness. He lit another cigarette and reached for Katharina, his mind resting in her body until his shift was over, until he could climb back into his tent and sleep.
In the morning the rains came, thick, heavy sheets that turned the road to liquid mud. Word came down the line that tanks, trucks and half-tracks were stuck ahead. Weiss laughed.
‘The great blitzkrieg,’ he said. ‘Thwarted by a drop of Russian rain.’
‘That would cheer up your lot, Faustmann,’ said Faber.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your Russian friends.’
‘What?’
‘You speak the language so you must be pretty pleased to see us in this mess.’
‘Jesus, Faber,’ said Fuchs.
‘My lot, as you call it, is with Germany,’ said Faustmann. ‘Have you failed to notice which uniform I’m wearing?’
‘It’s hard to tell through the mud,’ said Weiss.
‘It looks Russian to me,’ said Faber.
‘Come on, Faber,’ said Fuchs. ‘You’re walking with me.’
Faber hurried to keep pace with Fuchs’ fury.
‘Don’t bring that here, Faber,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Her father’s politics. Keep it for Berlin.’
‘I wasn’t doing anything.’
‘Have the courage to bloody admit it.’
‘Admit what?’
‘When did you become such an idiot, Faber?’
Reinisch ordered them to dig vehicles out of the mud some ten miles south of the main road.
‘What size?’ said Weiss.
‘Just jeeps and trucks,’ said Kraus. ‘No heavy weaponry. Only task force.’
‘Thank God for that,’ said Faber.
Stockhoff distributed rations.
‘I’ll make you beef stew when you catch up with us,’ he said.
They found forty men in six vehicles, three jeeps and three trucks, the wheels so deeply embedded that only the tops of tyres were visible. Faber sat on the nearest jeep.
‘It’ll take a week to dig this out,’ he said.
‘Your fat arse is sinking it further,’ said Weiss.
Faber looked at the task force men with their black collar tabs. He had seen some of them in Kiev, rounding up Jews. They nodded at him. He nodded back and set down his pack and rifle. He began digging. But the vehicles remained stuck. They pitched tents, felled trees and, after days of labour in the rain and mud, finally released the vehicles and fell to the earth, their bodies shattered by fatigue.
‘We are allowed a few days’ rest,’ said Kraus.
Faber looked around, at the mud and trees.
‘Where exactly?’
‘Those lads were supposed to do a village about five miles south of here. The road is too bad, so we can have it.’
‘Is it worth it?’ said Fuchs.
‘They’re sure it’s untouched.’
‘Jews or Partisans?’ said Gunkel.
‘Aren’t they the same thing?’ said Faber.
It was night when they reached the village, the rain banished by dry, cold air from the north and a flicker of something at their faces that might have been snow.
‘Everybody out,’ shouted Kraus.
The whitewashed houses were still and in darkness.
‘You’d better translate, Faustmann.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
His bass voice boomed and, one by one, the doors of about twenty houses creaked open. The villagers, holding lanterns, stood in the doorways, old women huddling into old men, young children into their mothers.
‘Faustmann, tell them to leave immediately.’
He spoke again and an old woman, wrapped in coats and scarves, yelled back at him. She slapped her chest, coughed and spat at the ground. She pointed at it with her light. Green phlegm.
‘She says that she is too ill to sleep outside, that she has nowhere else to go.’
‘Nor do we,’ said Kraus. ‘Unless she knows of some hotel we can book into.’
The soldiers laughed.
‘Throw them all out, Faustmann. Tell them that they can come back in a couple of days, when we have gone.’
The old woman spat again towards Faustmann and went back into her house. She shut the door. A young child, a boy, started to cry; his distress spread to the other children, then to the women. An old man stepped forward, into the middle of the village, its centre marked by a bench under a cherry tree.
‘We need to get some things,’ he said. ‘From our homes.’
‘Five minutes,’ said Kraus.
The villagers disappeared and re-emerged wearing blankets over their coats and hats, the sick old woman in even more clothing. The old man pulled a rickety wooden trolley, also covered with a blanket. Kraus stamped on the trolley and lifted the cover.
‘The food stays,’ he said.
The old man started to cry.
‘But we will starve. The children need food.’
Kraus lifted his gun and shoved it into the man’s stomach.
‘No food.’
They shuffled past, about seventy of them, out into the winter. Faber took the old woman’s house, its single room still warm, smoke escaping from the metal flue attached to a stove of baked earth. Kraft slipped off his pack and began poking at the embers, scraping
away the damp ash that had been thrown over the flames as the soldiers arrived.
‘How do you cook on this thing?’ said Weiss.
‘God knows,’ said Kraft. ‘But we can boil water.’
Kraft hummed as he unpacked the coffee that his mother sent every month, then the pot. Faber, Weiss and Faustmann sat beside him, waiting for their share, their boots and coats scattered around the room. There were two large beds and a neat row of sheepskin slippers by the door, small and large. The walls were lined with yellowed newspaper, layer upon layer of insulation that reeked of poverty.
‘It’s a pit,’ said Faber. ‘How could anyone live here?’
‘At least it’s warm,’ said Faustmann.
‘Your ancestors probably came from this kind of hovel.’
‘All our ancestors came from this kind of hovel, Faber.’
Kraft bounced to his feet.
‘Is there any food?’
They rummaged through chests and wardrobes but found nothing until Weiss threw back a rug, uncovering a hatch that led to a small cellar neatly lined with shelves of bread, salted ham, flour, oats, corn, seeds, nuts and jars of fruit and vegetables, boiled, pickled and poached. And vodka. Crude and home-made.
Faber slept well, warm in a bed beside Weiss. In the morning, they went to find more food. Weiss carried a bucket, determined to find milk.
‘Do you know how to do this?’ said Faber.
‘I’ve seen my uncle do it.’
They kicked at the snow, which had settled thinly on the ground, and headed towards a large barn at the other end of the village. Faber opened the door, diluting the warm darkness with cold dawn light, stirring muffled noises from creatures not yet ready for the day.
They searched for eggs, but the hens had yet to lay. They went down to the other end of the barn where two cows waited, their udders heavy.
‘So what do we do?’ said Faber.
‘It’s easy,’ said Weiss. ‘Squeeze and the milk comes out.’
‘Off you go then.’
Weiss knelt on the ground beside the cow’s udder, wrapped his right hand around a teat and squeezed. Nothing happened. He tried again. Still nothing. Faber laughed.
‘You try, Faber.’
The men switched places and Faber too wrapped his fingers around a teat, discomfited by the soft, flabby flesh. He squeezed but quickly released his hand and stepped back.
‘Nobody will ever turn me into a fucking farmer,’ he said.
Weiss laughed and tried again, squeezing so hard that the cow kicked at him and swivelled, turning her rump to him, damp faeces dribbling down her legs. The two men ran from the barn, roaring with laughter, and returned to the house. They had black coffee and army-issue crackers for breakfast.
By mid-morning, the other soldiers had collected eggs and milked both cows. Gunkel killed and plucked a few of the hens and, after lunch, brought one of the sheep to stand under the cherry tree. He put a pistol against its head and shot it, standing to one side as it twitched and jerked its way to stillness. He tied it by its hind legs to the tree, slit its throat and removed the pelt, blood draining from the animal as he worked. He sawed off the head and lowered the animal back to the ground, turning the carcass on its back, its shoulders tight between his calves. He sawed through the ribs, and, with a long, thin, tapering knife, cut from its neck to its groin, then dug his hands into the sheep, pulling out the stomach and intestines,
jettisoning them so hard across the earth that they burst, half-digested hay spewing across mud and melted snow. He worked diligently, neatly, until the animal evolved into chops, roasts, racks and chunks for stew. Gunkel stood up straight, a neat stack of meat at his feet.
‘Lamb and chicken for dinner tonight, my friends.’
The soldiers clapped, waited in line for their allocation and retreated to cook. They ate the meat with potatoes and boiled corn, and rested for two more days, stripping the barn of everything but the cows. They sang as they left, their bellies and packs filled with food. Faustmann shouted at the forest behind the village.
‘What did you say?’ said Faber.
‘I told them they could go back now. That we’d finished.’
‘We needed that rest.’
‘We certainly did. It was well deserved.’