The Ragged Edge of Night(13)

“I won’t require it.” Smiling gently. “I promise you that. You can call me Anton, if you like.”

“Mother may require it.” Al twists, side to side, as if unsure what to do with his confusion, the snarl of feelings inside.

“Then I will speak to her about it. We’ll come to an agreement. Would that be all right?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

Behind the bell tower, where the roof meets its monolithic face, Anton can make out an untidy pile of sticks and leaves and a few clinging white feathers. The boys pause for a moment in their fidgeting. Something has drawn their gaze to the sky—a shadow passing over grass and road or the whistle of stiff wings cutting through air. A great bird flies lazily overhead: white body, black-tipped wings, trailing red legs knobby at the joint. It carries a long, slender branch in its beak. The stork circles once, twice, then descends to the church roof with an awkward fold of its wings.

“They never stop working on their nests—even at this time of year, when their chicks have grown up and flown away,” Anton says to the boys. His future stepsons.

Al says, “Vater Emil told us the nest is good luck.”

“He is the priest of this church?”

Al nods. “Storks on a bell tower keep evil away—that’s what the father said. But I don’t believe it, not entirely.”

“Surely the priest would never lie to you.” Anton watches the stork again, so the boys will see no glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

“I don’t think he lied, exactly. But only the Lord can keep evil away.”

Paul cries with sudden indignation, “The Lord made storks and tells them where to fly!”

“That’s so,” Anton says. “The Lord made all good things.”

“Did the Lord make bad things?” Al’s question is quiet, almost a whisper.

“What sort of bad things do you mean?”

Paul shouts, “Spiders and poison snakes!”

Al shakes his head, tolerant of his little brother. He says, “I mean, people who hurt others.” He is growing up too fast for a boy his age, but that is the way of children raised among suffering. Like seedlings sprouted in a dark corner, they shoot up thin and spindly, grasping and pale. Who can grow strong roots when the very earth is unsafe, when we are starved for light?

“You’ve heard stories about people who hurt one another?” He prays these boys haven’t seen violence with their own eyes, young as they are.

“Yes,” Al says. “I don’t like the stories. I wish they weren’t true, but they are true, aren’t they? The boys at school tell me about…” He pauses and looks around cautiously. This young boy has learned already that some thoughts are too dangerous to speak aloud. Father of Heaven and creation, why did You make us to live through such times? Why should a child fear to speak truth? “The boys tell me about bad things soldiers do.” Pragmatically, he doesn’t specify whether German or Tommy soldiers are to blame.

“No, my boy,” Anton says. “The Lord does not make men do evil things to one another. But the Lord gave us the right to choose. Whether we do good or evil, it is our own decision and our own responsibility.”

Al squints at the stork. He watches as the bird weaves the branch into its lucky nest. “I don’t understand why anyone chooses to do evil.”

Anton lays his hand on Al’s shoulder. The boy is as thin as a bird himself, bony and light. “I don’t understand it, either.” Then he makes himself smile. “I heard the bells and wanted to come see the church for myself. But I should head back to my room. My shirt needs changing before I have my supper. Would you like to come along?”

“Mother won’t mind,” Al says, after moral consideration.

They walk back through Unterboihingen. Tall as he is, Anton must shorten his stride to avoid outpacing the boys. It has been some time since he shepherded children anywhere. They bounce and skip and dart about, even Albert; no eleven-year-old can remain a thoughtful little man forever. There is a strange gulf between them—one of Anton’s mental making, he has no doubt, but knowing the source makes the divide no less real. There are so many years that separate us. If I was ever so young and resilient, I can’t remember now how it feels.

“I wanted to tell you,” he says at length, grasping for the right words, “I don’t intend to replace your real father. In your hearts, I mean. It’s all right if you don’t ever come to love me the way you love him. I’ve come to help you boys—and your sister, and your mother. That’s all I intend to do—help.”

“Why?” Paul says.

He understands the boy’s question. Why do you care for us? We are strangers to you. He says, “Because God has commanded us to love one another.”

“Are we even meant to love the Jews and Gypsies?”

Al grabs Paul by the collar, as if he means to shake him to silence. But Al only stares around the street, wary and tense.

I may never have been so young, but neither was I ever so frightened as this child.

“Yes,” Anton says. “We are all children of God, no matter what anyone else may tell you. But”—with a glance at Al—“it’s best to talk about these things where we’re sure no one else can hear. Not everyone agrees with us, and sometimes when people disagree, they may become angry.”