The Undertaking

by Magee, Audrey

  ‘Of course he is.’

  ‘No. He’s not. Our son died. Of meningitis. When he was two.’

  Faber stretched his bony hands across his thighs.

  ‘So who is he? The child in the kitchen?’

  ‘His actual name is Peter Johannes. But we call him Johannes. It’s easier for us all.’

  ‘No, Katharina, who is he? Who is his father?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘Russian.’

  ‘You went with those bastards?’

  She drank the last of her coffee.

  ‘I was raped, Peter.’

  He closed his eyes, his lips moving in an almost silent whisper.

  ‘No, Katharina. No. Not that.’

  He was silent then. She sat beside him and held his hand, stroking his skin.

  ‘When, Katharina? When did it happen?’

  ‘April. When they won. Eight years ago.’

  Tears fell down his face, and he took his hand from hers.

  ‘That’s too hard for me, Katharina.’

  ‘It was terrible, Peter.’

  He was nodding.

  ‘No. It’s too hard.’

  He wiped his eyes and lifted his plate and cup. He handed them to her.

  ‘Is there any more?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Is there any more food?’

  ‘Yes. Of course. I’ll fetch you some.’

  She poured coffee and cut two more slices of bread. Her son wanted some too.

  ‘You’ll be having dinner soon, darling.’

  ‘But I’m hungry.’

  She cut another slice for the child, and spread it too with honey, a little more than she had given to Faber.

  ‘Who is that man, Mummy?’

  ‘An old friend.’

  ‘He looks strange.’

  ‘He’s been away a long time. Now, back to your homework.’

  She returned to the bedroom and he took the plate and cup.

  ‘Why didn’t you pretend that he was mine, Katharina? Make it easier for me.’

  ‘No more lies, Peter. Only the truth.’

  ‘I’ve had enough of truth.’

  He ate and drank. Slowly.

  ‘How could you go with them, Katharina? Have you any idea how they treated me?’

  ‘I had no choice.’

  ‘We all have choices, Katharina.’

  ‘Do we?’

  ‘You could have hidden from them.’

  She looked again down at the street. The Russians let the woman go.

  ‘There were four of them, Peter.’

  He sucked on the bread, as chewing hurt too much.

  ‘Mrs Sachs advised me never to tell you.’

  ‘So why are you telling me?’

  ‘You need to know the truth.’

  ‘Why do I need to know the truth?’

  ‘Because I need you to know the truth.’

  He lit two more cigarettes. She took the one he offered her.

  ‘Why did you keep him?’

  ‘I had nothing left. He gave me something to live for.’

  ‘You had me to live for. I told you I would be back.’

  ‘I didn’t know, Peter. I couldn’t be sure.’

  He stared at her.

  ‘You gave up on me, Katharina.’

  ‘I didn’t, Peter. I waited here for you, as I promised.’

  ‘You gave up on me, and had somebody else’s child.’

  She shook her head and stared back at him, her arms tight across her chest.

  ‘I was raped, Peter, because I stayed in Berlin waiting for you.’

  ‘So it’s my fault that you were raped?’

  ‘No, that’s not what I said, Peter.’

  ‘So what did you say? What are you saying?’

  ‘I need you to accept me as I am, my son as he is.’

  ‘No. I can’t do that. I want you to be the way you were, the mother of my son.’

  ‘That can’t be, Peter.’

  He ran his fingers through his hair.

  ‘Maybe we can start again, Katharina? Have another child?’

  ‘A sibling for Johannes?’

  ‘No. Not him. Just us. Starting again.’

  She wiped her eyes with her sleeve and straightened her skirt.

  ‘How are your parents, Peter?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll go there next.’

  ‘Are you staying for dinner?’

  ‘If you have enough.’

  ‘Father will bring something back.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Fine, though he has some arthritis.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  ‘She lives in her room. Johannes’ old room.’

  He pressed his fingertips into his temples.

  ‘What did you expect of me, Katharina?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Did you expect me to want him?’

  ‘He’s a good child, Peter.’

  ‘He’s a Russian bastard.’

  She walked to the door.

  ‘Are you here for dinner, Peter?’

  ‘You asked me that already.’

  ‘I’m asking again.’

  ‘I don’t know whether I want dinner.’

  Peter looked at her, at her short, cropped hair, at her broken teeth. He walked to the window and saw the Russians.

  ‘How can you live here, Katharina? With them everywhere?’

  ‘Where should I go, Peter?’

  ‘To the west. The Americans, the British, even the French would be better than this.’

  ‘They’ve been good to us, Peter. They give enough food. Medicine when we need it. And Father has some work with them.’

  ‘He works for the Russians?’

  ‘Didn’t you?’

  ‘I had no choice, Katharina.’

  ‘We all have choices, don’t we Peter?’

  ‘He can choose not to.’

  ‘You work for the Russians or for the Americans, that’s your choice.’

  ‘The Americans are better people.’

  ‘Are they? The Russians fed us before the Americans. The Russians gave me antibiotics when mother had pneumonia. No one else did.’

  He lit another cigarette. Only one.

  ‘I can’t stay here,’ he said. ‘With them. After all they have done.’

  ‘We did it first, Peter.’

  ‘We’re not as bad as they are.’

  ‘Aren’t we?’

  ‘You should move, Katharina. Get away.’

  ‘My son is half Russian, Peter. It’s easier here. And there are other women like me here.’

  He drew heavily on the cigarette.

  ‘So where will you go, Peter?’

  ‘Away.’

  ‘Will you stay in Germany?’

  ‘No. Somewhere different.’

  ‘Like where?’

  ‘Somewhere there was no war. Ireland maybe.’

  ‘It’s supposed to be very beautiful.’

  ‘There are no forests, and it might be a good place to think.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About nothing, Katharina. I want to think about nothing.’

  They fell silent.

  ‘Will you come with me, Katharina? We could start again.’

  ‘With my son?’

  ‘No. By yourself.’

  ‘Then no.’

  ‘You’re my wife. He’s not my son.’

  She touched the door handle.

  ‘I promised you that I would wait for you, Peter. I have done that.’

  ‘And that’s it? That’s all it was? A promise? An undertaking?’

  ‘So it seems.’

  ‘I still want to be with you.’

  ‘No, you don’t.’

  ‘I pledged myself to you, Katharina.’

  ‘We pledged ourselves to a lot of things, Peter.’

  He offered her another cigarette. She took it and sat on the end of the bed beside him, a gap be
tween them.

  ‘How do you think it will be living in Ireland?’ she said.

  ‘Easier than here.’

  ‘I wonder if it is,’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Germany is so hated, Peter. It must be horrible to be German in another country.’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose I’ll find out.’

  ‘Would you like some food to take with you?’

  ‘If you have any to spare, yes, that would be very kind.’

  They returned to the kitchen and she crouched beside her son, to help him with his homework. Faber looked away, staring out the kitchen window at the fading afternoon, at the grocer stacking wooden crates. He saw Mr Spinell come down the hall, leaning heavily on a stick. The old man put a bag on the table and they shook hands.

  ‘You’re a strong man to have survived that. What work did they have you do?’

  ‘Felling trees.’

  ‘That explains how it’s such a powerful country. Forcing its prisoners to do something useful. Something for the country. We should have done that instead.’

  ‘I hate the place.’

  ‘It’s the future, Peter. I’ve started to learn the language.’

  Mr Spinell sat down, slowly.

  ‘There’s meat, bread and vegetables. Lovely tomatoes.’

  Katharina began to prepare a sandwich, quizzing her son’s spelling as she chopped the tomatoes. Faber picked up his brown paper parcel.

  ‘Actually, don’t worry about food for me. I should be on my way.’

  He shook Mr Spinell’s hand.

  ‘Send my regards to your wife, Mr Spinell.’

  She opened the hall door for him. He kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘Goodbye, Katharina.’

  ‘Goodbye, Peter.’

  She closed her eyes, shutting him out.

  ‘I’m sorry, Katharina. I thought it would have been different. I imagined it differently.’

  ‘We all did, Peter.’

  She closed the door and he went slowly down the stairs, into the street. The wind whipped at his legs and neck, but he was used to colder weather, so he walked on, away, towards the train station, his shadow stretching in front of him.

  Acknowledgements

  I extend my sincere thanks to those who helped me at pivotal moments, Colm Tóibín, Ed O’Loughlin, Mark Brennock, Fergal Keane, Cathy Kelly and PJ Lynch; to those who shared their experience and expertise, Rebecca Miller and the Inge Morath Foundation, Margritt Engel, Graham Darlington, William Micklem, Patrick Redmond, Felicity O’Mahony and Anne-Marie Casey; to those soldiers who told and wrote of their experiences, most especially the late Werner Pilz and Adelbert Holl; and to those many historians, diarists and archivists on whose work I have drawn.

  My thanks too to my teachers, Joan Dobbyn, Professor Hugh Ridley and Wilma Petters; and to The Times and The Irish Times for dispatching me on an extraordinary range of assignments – I remain grateful for those experiences and encounters.

  I am grateful to all at Atlantic Books in London, notably Toby Mundy, James Roxburgh, Karen Duffy, Lucy Howkins, and the ‘Atlantic book club’, but particularly to editor-in-chief, Ravi Mirchandani – it has been a pleasure and a privilege. I thank also editor, Sara Holloway; editors Elisabeth Schmitz and Jessica Monahan at Grove Atlantic in New York; and Simon Hess and his team at Gill Hess in Dublin.

  And thank you, Peter Straus; it has been an honour. My sincere thanks to everyone else at Rogers, Coleridge and White literary agency in London, particularly Margaret Halton and Stephen Edwards; and to Melanie Jackson in New York.

  I am very grateful to my meticulous readers, Dr Yvonne Ivory and Mary Morrissy, and to my other friends, Fiona Fullam, Nuala Haughey, Bronwyn Ryan, Lorraine Stewart, Michael Walsh, Shibéal Megan, David Whelehan, Madeleine de Baréid, Cordelia Tuck and Ronald Doherty for their assistance.

  I am especially thankful to my sisters – Ruth, for that very precious gift of time; Anna, for her unrelenting generosity – and to my brother, Robert, and his wife, Niamh O’Connor, for their extraordinary commitment and assistance. I am deeply indebted to my late father, John, for his enduring wisdom, and to my mother, Maeve, for her unstinting faith and support.

  To my daughters, Laurie, Anna and Sally, thank you for all the life that you bring to mine. And to my husband, Johnny – my gratitude to you has no parameters, and no end.

  Note on the Author

  AUDREY MAGEE worked for twelve years as a journalist and has written for, among others, The Times, The Irish Times, the Observer and the Guardian. She studied German and French at University College Dublin and journalism at Dublin City University. She lives in Wicklow with her husband and three daughters. The Undertaking is her first novel.