The Undertaking by Audrey Magee Page A

well, Katharina, although missing you greatly. I want this whole thing to be over so that I can come home to you. In the meantime, could you do something for me? Could you send me a lock ofyour hair? As close to the full length as you can manage. I adore your hair. I wrap myself in it as I go to sleep. And a photograph; one of you smiling. I will keep them against my heart .
             We have seen a little of the infamous Russian snow. It is already cold, Katharina. Colder than I have ever known it in November. How is the rest of winter in this godforsaken place?
             We are marching again, obliterating all the enormous work that you put into my feet. It’s such a huge place, Katharina. We march and march, but seem to get nowhere .
             It helps me so much to know that you are waiting for me, although I do wish you hadn’t moved apartment. I want you still in the bed we shared, in that room, as that is how I remember you, how I know you .
             Wait for me nonetheless. I will be back soon .
             Your loving husband ,
             Peter

 
     
     
    11
    The driver sat on the step of his cab, passing round chocolate and cigarettes. Faber took both and handed in his letter.
    ‘How do I get your job?’ he said.
    The driver sniggered.
    ‘You’re too skinny. Too fit. You have to be fat and wheeze a lot.’
    ‘I can do that.’
    ‘It takes years of practice.’
    They watched as he hoisted himself back into the cab, revved the engine and headed back west, his wheels churning at the already churned earth.
    ‘Lucky bastard,’ said Faber.
    ‘But no chance of a medal,’ said Weiss. ‘Of Iron Cross fame and glory. His picture in the newspaper, women fawning over the hero.’
    ‘I’ll take the chocolate, cigarettes and warm feet.’
    Faber was wearing all his socks, but still the cold penetrated his feet, exacerbated by the steel across the toe of his boots. He walked a little faster to catch up with Kraus.
    ‘How much further, Sergeant?’
    ‘About sixty miles.’
    ‘Three days?’
    ‘Hopefully, Faber.’
    ‘What did the driver have to say?’
    ‘About what?’
    ‘Our progress.’
    ‘Struggling outside Moscow, but doing well around Kharkov.’
    ‘So how does it look?’
    ‘You know as much as I do, Faber. Judge it yourself.’
    ‘But how long more will it take?’
    ‘As I said, three days.’
    ‘I meant the war.’
    ‘I only know, Faber, about this march to Poltava. That’s what I’m in charge of. Not the war.’
    ‘Yes, Sir.’
    ‘There’s a place three miles from here where we can spend the night. Go and tell the others.’
    The town square was quiet, and scattered with corpses. Some were German. Most were Russian. Faustmann bent down and rummaged through a Russian backpack. He pulled out a mink hat, the earflaps tied up.
    ‘It’s not that cold,’ said Faber.
    ‘It will be.’
    ‘But we won’t still be here.’
    ‘So you say. No harm in being prepared though.’
    ‘I don’t know if I could do that,’ said Faber. ‘Wear dead men’s clothes.’
    ‘Up to you, Faber. But they’re not using them.’
    Faber squatted beside a corpse, its eyes already scavenged, peck marks on its cheeks and forehead. He took the felt boots from the man’s feet, and put them on. They fitted perfectly. He kicked thecorpse, hard, in the ribs, and moved on, his back bent over, picking at the dead. He found a mink hat of his own, as well as gloves, cigarettes, Belgian chocolate in an envelope, and two lengths of sausage. The houses, however, had already been stripped. He carried his booty to a small, wooden church. Weiss was there, at the front. They sat beside each other under gold-framed paintings and shared the sausage and chocolate.
    ‘Do you think it’s real?’ said Faber.
    ‘What?’
    ‘The gold?’
    ‘Probably.’
    ‘We should take it with us.’
    ‘I’m not carrying any of that shit.’
    ‘We’ll pick it up on the way back then. It must