The Ragged Edge of Night(20)
His landing lacked both grace and composure. A man of thirty-eight never thinks himself old until he’s pushed from a plane in the dead of night. The way you land, even with your chute open, it’s enough to knock gouts of blood from your nose or batter the soul right out of your body.
The boys cheer at the image, their step-Vati a paratrooper. Won’t their schoolmates turn sick with envy when they hear? “What did you do next?”
“We cut ourselves free from our parachutes, and we formed up in ranks. We marched until the sun came up—and for a long time after that, too. As it grew lighter, I could see more of the land around me. And you know, the road we walked was perfectly straight and flat. I’d never seen a thing like that road before. I doubt I will again.” Immaculately, dismally straight, the road to Riga. “It never curved the least bit, to the right or the left. It never went up or down the smallest hill. That’s the way they do their roads, in Prussia. Very strange people.”
The boys laugh. Anton does not. Something had unnerved him, then, about the unabated straightness of the road. He hasn’t thought of the march in months, but now he finds that the road haunts him, cleaving its hard, dark, unvaried way into his thoughts. We march inexorably toward our destination. There is no curve or gentle slope to relieve us; straight ahead lies the conclusion of our national folly, the terrible work we set in motion at some unknown point in time. Behind, the long, narrow way of our past, paved in hard history and stretching into blackness.
But there is the church, tall and sturdy, pale as the autumn fields. And there is Father Emil, coming out to the yard to meet them with a handful of friends and neighbors. The women and children hold bunches of wild daisies, gathered from the hedgerows and smiling like hope in their hands. The people wave and call out, “Alles Gute zur Hochzeit!” We all welcome the excuse for a celebration.
Drawn by their school friends, the children run inside, and Elisabeth and Anton pause for a moment in the churchyard, side by side. Once they enter St. Kolumban, they must approach the altar with solemnity. There will be no time for talk, no last-minute negotiation, no chance to admit regret.
She turns to him. She smiles tentatively; her eyes slide away. “You did a fine job mending Maria’s dress.”
“I was glad to help.”
She looks down at her shoes, scuffed gray at the toes but polished all the same. She blushes, caught in the hot rush of some emotion, some thought she will never share with Anton.
He offers an arm. “Shall we go in?”
When the ceremony is over and the bells ring out brightly, Anton feels as tired as Elisabeth looks, as stunned and committed. They have said the holy words before God; they have taken the sacrament and made their pledge. There is no going backward now. Their road stretches out before them, straight and clear toward eternity.
8
The day has held, fine and brightly blue, one of those early-autumn afternoons when it seems October seeks to impress upon you, with warmth and a sense of contented indolence, how brief the summer really was. Residents of nearby farms have filled the orchard with tables and chairs; Elisabeth and Anton sit in the place of honor, she crowned with a wreath of flowers like a youthful virgin bride. Her small, clean hands are folded neatly on a white tablecloth that someone embroidered long ago with turkey-red threads. The threads are fraying now, and the stitches of some letters have been picked out, leaving only needle holes behind. But Anton can read the words easily enough: Wer seine Arbeit gut vollbringt, auch manches Andere oft gelingt! Apply yourself to your work, and success will follow.
With a quiet thrill of discovery, he finds that he likes to watch Elisabeth as she greets each neighbor. She has a charming way with familiar people—a warm clasp of the hand, a kiss on the cheek, and some small compliment for each of them, delivered with a soft, friendly laugh. You look well today, Herr Egger. You seem to be over your sickness. I’m glad you brought your potato salad, Frau Gerhard. Everyone knows it’s the best recipe in Unterboihingen. With him, Elisabeth is stiff and formal—but it’s only her discomfort showing. She doesn’t understand how to be his wife any more than he knows how to be a husband. Among the people she knows—those whom, over many years, she has come to trust—Elisabeth is gentle and clement, gracious and kind. He thinks, Someday we will know each other well, and then we will bring these simple joys to one another: friendship and comfort. Someday. But only God knows how long it may take.
Frau Hertz, the woman who owns the farm—the one from whom Elisabeth rents the old cottage—comes bustling out from her brick-and-stucco house, carrying a cake perched on the pink pedestal of a footed plate. She talks ceaselessly as she crosses the orchard, though no one is near enough to hear; she moves with quick steps, perfunctory gestures that put one in mind of a nervous hen or a plump, gray-haired Oma, sweet and solicitous, easily distracted, smelling of cinnamon and vanilla cream. The Frau’s hair is dark, not the least bit grayed, though she is at least twenty years older than Anton. He can see, however, that Frau Hertz used to be plump, and quite recently: loose skin hangs at the front of her neck, the remnant of a double chin melted away by the privation of wartime rations.
As she approaches the table of honor—the bride crowned in her glory, the groom sinking in his chair, uncertain what he ought to say and to whom—Frau Hertz marshals her aimless chatter, reins it and directs it. “A wedding celebration needs a cake,” she announces, loud enough for the whole town to hear. “It’s not the same without. You, Elisabeth—you wouldn’t let us do any of the rest of it, shame on you! But you will have a cake, I insist, I insist!” She sets the cake between them—bride and groom. It’s a simple affair, three golden layers spotted with raisins and thin bands of buttercream and marmalade between each. “But it’s humble,” Frau Hertz says. “Ought to have a prettier cake, but you know we all must conserve. I did the best I could with what I had to hand.”