your mother.’
Katharina sat back down in front of the fire, opposite her mother, and resumed her sewing. The clock ticked on.
‘That damn thing,’ said Mrs Spinell. ‘I don’t know why they ever bought it. It’s so loud.’
She stood up, took a cloth from the kitchen and dusted the ornaments she had already cleaned.
‘I’m sure he’s fine,’ said Katharina. ‘There’s probably some simple explanation.’
‘But he was always so punctual. Do you remember how he raced to school every morning to be at the top of the line under the teacher’s nose so that she could praise his timekeeping?’
‘I remember.’
‘He was never, ever late. You always dawdled and dreamed your way to school.’
‘I know, Mother.’
Mr Spinell returned after two hours, his coat and suit sodden.
‘There was no trace of him. All the trains from the east have come and gone.’
Mrs Spinell picked up the cake, wrapped it in a clean towel, placed it in a tin, and went to her room. Her husband changed his clothes and took the place she had warmed on the sofa.
‘Do you think he’s all right?’
‘I’m sure he is, Katharina. We haven’t been told otherwise.’
‘But who would tell us?’
‘In war, you always hear bad news. I’m sure the explanation is simple. You should go to bed, Katharina. You look tired.’
Early the next morning, at around six, the doorbell startled her out of sleep. She threw back the covers and hurtled to the front door, tying the belt of her dressing gown as she ran. Her parents were already there, talking to a soldier, a young man who was not Johannes. He passed them a letter, saluted and left. Mrs Spinell squeezed her husband’s arm, her upturned face shut tight against bad news.
‘Please, Günther. What does it say?’
His reading was silent.
‘It’s all right, Esther. He’s fine.’
She opened her eyes.
‘Oh, thank God.’
‘He’s in an army hospital in Poland. He was taken off the train for treatment and will be home next week.’
‘We can wait a week,’ said Mrs Spinell.
‘I wonder what happened,’ said Katharina.
‘He was always a strong boy, Günther.’
She brought the cake to the living room table, removed the cloth and began to slice it.
‘It’s a bit early, Mother.’
‘No point in wasting those precious eggs,’ said Mrs Spinell.
They sat at the table and ate the cake.
‘Maybe he has influenza,’ said Mr Spinell.
‘Or a stomach bug,’ said Katharina. ‘On a packed train.’
They laughed.
‘It can’t be anything too serious,’ said Mr Spinell, ‘or we would have been informed.’
A second army letter arrived, telling them to collect Johannes from the station at three on the following Thursday. Katharina went withher father this time, running her hand across her belly until the train arrived and the doors opened, spewing hundreds of dirty uniforms onto the platform.
‘We’ll never find him,’ she said, ‘they all look the same.’
‘Look carefully. He’ll see us.’
She did look, at the blanched cheeks and hollowed eyes, at the lines of hunger, cold and exhaustion ploughed into the men’s faces.
‘My God, Father.’
‘The fighting in Moscow is hard, Katharina. But we shall prevail.’
A fleck of white distracted her, bobbing along the platform amid the swarms of staggering grey. It was a nurse in a sparkling-white cap, holding the arm of a frail man and steering him through the crowd. He was oblivious to the nurse, to the crowd, to the sliver of drool sliding from the side of his mouth. Katharina put her arm on her father’s sleeve.
‘I found him, Father.’
‘Where?’
‘In front of you.’
‘Where, Katharina? I can’t see him.’
‘In front of you. With the nurse.’
‘Oh no, Katharina. No.’
The young man’s uniform hung in folds. The thin, papery skin of an old man had been stretched across his face.
‘My poor son.’
The nurse walked past them, Johannes with her.
‘Come on, Father. Let’s go to
Katharina sat back down in front of the fire, opposite her mother, and resumed her sewing. The clock ticked on.
‘That damn thing,’ said Mrs Spinell. ‘I don’t know why they ever bought it. It’s so loud.’
She stood up, took a cloth from the kitchen and dusted the ornaments she had already cleaned.
‘I’m sure he’s fine,’ said Katharina. ‘There’s probably some simple explanation.’
‘But he was always so punctual. Do you remember how he raced to school every morning to be at the top of the line under the teacher’s nose so that she could praise his timekeeping?’
‘I remember.’
‘He was never, ever late. You always dawdled and dreamed your way to school.’
‘I know, Mother.’
Mr Spinell returned after two hours, his coat and suit sodden.
‘There was no trace of him. All the trains from the east have come and gone.’
Mrs Spinell picked up the cake, wrapped it in a clean towel, placed it in a tin, and went to her room. Her husband changed his clothes and took the place she had warmed on the sofa.
‘Do you think he’s all right?’
‘I’m sure he is, Katharina. We haven’t been told otherwise.’
‘But who would tell us?’
‘In war, you always hear bad news. I’m sure the explanation is simple. You should go to bed, Katharina. You look tired.’
Early the next morning, at around six, the doorbell startled her out of sleep. She threw back the covers and hurtled to the front door, tying the belt of her dressing gown as she ran. Her parents were already there, talking to a soldier, a young man who was not Johannes. He passed them a letter, saluted and left. Mrs Spinell squeezed her husband’s arm, her upturned face shut tight against bad news.
‘Please, Günther. What does it say?’
His reading was silent.
‘It’s all right, Esther. He’s fine.’
She opened her eyes.
‘Oh, thank God.’
‘He’s in an army hospital in Poland. He was taken off the train for treatment and will be home next week.’
‘We can wait a week,’ said Mrs Spinell.
‘I wonder what happened,’ said Katharina.
‘He was always a strong boy, Günther.’
She brought the cake to the living room table, removed the cloth and began to slice it.
‘It’s a bit early, Mother.’
‘No point in wasting those precious eggs,’ said Mrs Spinell.
They sat at the table and ate the cake.
‘Maybe he has influenza,’ said Mr Spinell.
‘Or a stomach bug,’ said Katharina. ‘On a packed train.’
They laughed.
‘It can’t be anything too serious,’ said Mr Spinell, ‘or we would have been informed.’
A second army letter arrived, telling them to collect Johannes from the station at three on the following Thursday. Katharina went withher father this time, running her hand across her belly until the train arrived and the doors opened, spewing hundreds of dirty uniforms onto the platform.
‘We’ll never find him,’ she said, ‘they all look the same.’
‘Look carefully. He’ll see us.’
She did look, at the blanched cheeks and hollowed eyes, at the lines of hunger, cold and exhaustion ploughed into the men’s faces.
‘My God, Father.’
‘The fighting in Moscow is hard, Katharina. But we shall prevail.’
A fleck of white distracted her, bobbing along the platform amid the swarms of staggering grey. It was a nurse in a sparkling-white cap, holding the arm of a frail man and steering him through the crowd. He was oblivious to the nurse, to the crowd, to the sliver of drool sliding from the side of his mouth. Katharina put her arm on her father’s sleeve.
‘I found him, Father.’
‘Where?’
‘In front of you.’
‘Where, Katharina? I can’t see him.’
‘In front of you. With the nurse.’
‘Oh no, Katharina. No.’
The young man’s uniform hung in folds. The thin, papery skin of an old man had been stretched across his face.
‘My poor son.’
The nurse walked past them, Johannes with her.
‘Come on, Father. Let’s go to
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