The Ragged Edge of Night(101)

“Dig!” Anton tells them. “Everyone, dig!”

The youngest Kopp brother asks why.

“You’ll soon find out,” Emil tells him. “Anton will show you where. Bring spades, if you have them. Pickaxes—anything!”

The field rings with laughter and the shouts of children. Anton straightens from his task, his hands caked with earth. Across the pit, he sees Frau Franke laughing as she tries and fails to brush the mud from her palms. He has never seen the woman smile before, but she is beaming now, though the hem of her dress is ruined with soil. Her husband is nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s M?belbauer?” he asks, of no one in particular.

One of the Kopp brothers throws his arms around Anton, crushing him in a hug so tight Anton loses his breath. “M?belbauer’s gone,” the young man says. “He left last night, running like a dog—running to his SS masters, no doubt.”

Another Kopp adds, “If he ever tries to come back here, he won’t find a warm welcome.”

Someone has brought more shovels, and the people of Unterboihingen dig deeper into the earth, and deeper still, though they can’t know what Anton and Emil know—what they will soon uncover. The whole town is laughing, breathless with disbelief. Is it really over? Can it be?

When the first shovel strikes bronze, the crowd goes still. They back away; Anton jumps down into the pit and clears the last of the earth with his hands. The first bell shows itself through wet black soil, its proud height and strong curve, its domed crown gleaming. A great shout goes up from the townspeople. They cheer with one voice, and the echo of their gladness rebounds from the blue, blue hills.

“A parade,” Emil shouts. “Let’s have a parade!”

The villagers cheer again.

The Kopps bring their two great flatbed trucks out into the field. The people of Unterboihingen lift together; they raise the bells up. Children pick armfuls of flowers and greenery from hedges and ditches, and skipping and singing, they strew petals over the earth; they cover the bells and the beds of the trucks in sweet, bright swags of green.

“Albert,” Anton says, “run to every house. Knock on every door. Bring all the children here with their instruments. You heard Father Emil; we must have a parade!”

When the bells are all but buried under wreaths of blossom, the band assembles. Anton heads toward his students, intending to lead the march—but Emil catches him by the arm. “Let them play without a conductor today. You’ve taught them well enough; they can manage.” He gestures to the nearest truck bed. “You belong up there, my friend—up where the whole town can see you.”

Grinning, accepting the praise, Anton climbs up beside his bells. Flowers and new leaves cling to his wet shoes and to the cuffs of his trousers. The air is rich with the scent of honey. He waves to the crowd; they lift their hands and cheer again, and fill the air with petals.

Anton reaches down for Elisabeth, intending to pull her up beside him. But she steps back with a shy smile.

“Come, now. You ought to be the queen of the parade.”

“I can’t. I’m afraid I’ll fall.”

“I’ll make sure you won’t. I’ll keep my arm around you the whole time.”

Elisabeth lowers her voice; he can barely make out her words over the cheering crowd. “No, we can’t risk it, Anton.” And she lays a hand low on her stomach.

The clamor of the music, the honking horns, the waving banners of color—all that glad madness dies away. Elisabeth is all Anton can see, all he can hear—her happy laughter and the tears shining bright in her eyes.

He leaps down from the truck bed and pulls her into his arms. She kisses him, unashamed and unreserved, there in front of everyone.

This is the world as it was before, the life we used to know. And this is the world we will make again, in love’s lasting image.





HISTORICAL NOTE AND AUTHOR’S REMARKS

It might surprise you to learn that this is a true story. What’s more, this is a family story: Josef Anton Starzmann was my husband’s maternal grandfather, and I could have written a novel about him twice the size of The Ragged Edge of Night without running low on material. Anton was a fascinating and inspiring man.

I first heard the story of “Opa and the bells,” as my in-laws say, in 2010 over Thanksgiving dinner. I had only recently begun to date my husband-to-be, Paul, and he had just left on a nearly yearlong deployment to Kuwait. I had fallen in love with Paul far more quickly than was prudent, and even though our relationship was still quite new, I was heartbroken over his absence. When his family invited me to spend Thanksgiving in their company, I accepted, but not without some trepidation. I barely knew Paul at that point, even though I was in love with him; his family were total strangers to me. To make matters worse, Paul had told me of his thoroughly Catholic roots, so I was fairly sure his family wouldn’t approve of the fact that I was still technically married to my first husband. We had been separated for some time, but I hadn’t been able to secure a divorce yet. I knew if I hoped to gain acceptance from Paul’s family, I would have to avoid too many personal questions and tread with care.

Fortunately, I’ve always had a convenient, conversation-diverting ace tucked up my sleeve. When I arrived at the home of Paul’s eldest brother, I broke it out immediately.

“So, what do you do?” someone asked.