The Ragged Edge of Night(21)
“It’s beautiful,” Elisabeth says, taking her landlady’s hands in thanks.
“There isn’t enough for everyone, but you both must have a good, fat slice. For luck.”
Frau Hertz cuts hearty slices for Anton and Elisabeth, which she tips onto delicate china plates. She mutters as she works, “Who ever heard of a wedding without the dancing, or the fun?”
“Aren’t we all having a good time?” Anton asks. The neighbors are milling about the orchard, and laughter shimmers with the autumn sunlight among golden leaves. Plates are piled high with simple fare: sauerkraut and salads, unleavened bread rolls, slices of liver with onions. This is nothing to turn the head of a Berlin gourmand, but we are all glad for a celebration. Any excuse will do, if we may forget our troubles for an hour.
Quietly, to Anton, Elisabeth says, “I wouldn’t allow Frau Hertz, or anybody else, to make a big show of our wedding. She planned to have me kidnapped and hidden—you know that silly game young girls play at their weddings—and then send you out to hunt for me.” To her landlady, she says, “Herr Starzmann doesn’t want to spend the afternoon tramping around the fields and hedges looking for his wife. And it’s ridiculous to think of—me, sitting on a stool in some thicket, being eaten alive by bugs while I wait for him to turn up and rescue me!”
Anton has the briefest of visions, parting a dry hedge with one hand to find Elisabeth there, looking up at him, blanched white and gripping the edges of her seat with hard, impatient hands. Dead branches framing her face, a cross and baffled expression.
“It’s the tradition.” Frau Hertz is sulking. “And no rice, either.”
“It would be criminal to throw rice when so many people go hungry. Besides, Frau, this is my second husband. Those games are all right for girls who have never married before, but for me—”
“It’s Herr Starzmann’s first wedding. And, mein Liebste, a second marriage doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy yourself. I should know.” Frau Hertz leans close and kisses Elisabeth on the cheek. Elisabeth smiles at her friend, though not without a certain tension around her mouth.
When the woman has hurried off to another corner of the orchard, Elisabeth turns to her slice of cake, sighing, shouldering the burden of duty. “We’d best eat it all. Nothing else will please her. She is the dearest thing, but she’s more mother hen than landlady.”
There is a sudden stillness in the air, a shift in the atmosphere. Anton looks up; what has caught his attention? Then he sees the children gathered under the largest apple tree—not only Albert and Paul and Maria, but their friends, too: half a dozen boys and girls in their church-day finery. They are pressed close together, as if they’ve just been whispering among themselves. And their eyes are fixed on the cake. He gestures to them: Come on, then. They run across, giggling and shrieking with renewed vigor, and the orchard is lively with sound again, sound and laughter.
“Line up,” he says, “one at a time.” He cuts his slice of cake with the side of his fork, carefully, into equal pieces, enough for each child to enjoy one bite. They moon over their small portions, savoring the sweetness of honey and raisins, their eyes half closed.
“Now you’ve given away all your cake,” Elisabeth says. She splits her slice in two and transfers half to Anton’s plate. “Don’t tell Frau Hertz what I’ve done. She’ll make me eat another whole piece. For luck.”
The children dart away. They organize themselves into a game of Katz und Maus without any discussion of the matter, with the instinct for play all young creatures possess. Albert and Paul have bounced back from the morning’s reserve. Maria never seemed the least bit troubled by Anton, nor did the proceedings of the ceremony faze her. Thank God, she stayed quiet and behaved herself; Elisabeth had committed the girl to Frau Hertz’s keeping for the duration of the wedding, and Frau Hertz may be the only person under Heaven who can extract obedience from that child. It is not Sunday, yet Maria is wearing her best dress—that’s all that matters to the girl. Adaptable, as young ones can be, Elisabeth’s children have accepted this new reality: they have a stepfather. Anton has a family. He thinks, I must write to my sister and tell her the news. She will never believe it—not of me.
He tastes his wedding cake. His first wedding; his only. Simple the cake may be, but the rich sweetness of honey and brandied raisins sings on his tongue. How long has it been since he has eaten anything so delicious? For years, life’s sweetness has been dulled and salted by the ash of war, but no longer. He closes his eyes.
“Frau Hertz does know how to bake,” Elisabeth says, “even if I think she’s foolish to squander her butter and flour on us.” Amusement in her tone at Anton’s reaction—and warmth, too. They smile at each other over their plates. It’s a moment of unexpected connection—an intimacy he never thought to find with his wife. His wife. He blushes—another unsettling surprise—for now he realizes, now it strikes him that he has shared this moment with Elisabeth in front of so many people, virtual strangers. It embarrasses him, for the unexpected intimacy, so sudden and raw, feels almost carnal. He is far beyond his depth; when was the last time he had anything to do with a woman personally, privately? As a friar, there was always the barrier of impossibility between Anton and the women he knew—those he met at the school or in his daily business or going about the streets of Munich. The gray habit and knotted belt had ensured his protection, visible reminders that he was a man apart, not to be considered. And he had never considered any woman, except as one must regard all people, as brothers and sisters in Christ. This military uniform, tight around the waist and growing tighter—it makes him conspicuous. It makes him vulnerable and male. Dizzy, he sees himself as if from far away, watching his movements, his every gesture across the orchard, across the whole of the village. When he stood at the altar with Elisabeth, repeating Father Emil’s prompted vows—and later, kneeling in prayer beside his new wife—he felt no emotion worth remarking. Nothing but resolve and comfort in the knowledge that this was what the Lord intended; this was his next calling. But now, beneath the apple trees in the mild October sunshine, with the laughter of neighbors and children all around, the full weight of reality descends upon him and sinks into his chest. The vow he has taken today—it cannot be unsaid.