The Ragged Edge of Night(23)

Even with the candles burning, the house is dark. The curtains are drawn across the windows, which are not large at any rate—thick woolen curtains, made to smother the life out of any wayward flicker of light. Anton goes to the nearest window and pulls a curtain aside by no more than a handsbreadth. He is gripped by an urge to see the stars tonight, as if he might fix in his mind the date and time, the celestial map of the moment when his life changed forever. Chart the planets in their courses.

Elisabeth crosses the room, unhurried but stern. She tugs the curtain from his hand.

Maria says, “We keep the windows covered so they can’t find us and drop bombs on us.”

“Don’t talk of such things,” Elisabeth says at once. Lightly, she claps her hands. “You should all three be preparing for bed now. Go on, get to it.”

This system of protection is elegant in its simplicity. By night, when the bombs do fall, a village as small as Unterboihingen will be invisible from the air. So long as no one leaves a curtain carelessly open while he reads in bed or finds his way to the toilet, the town will go unnoticed. Stuttgart is far too large for such practical defense, and still too full of life, despite the Tommies’ best efforts. Berlin and Munich, too. So this is how the tiny village has escaped destruction while Stuttgart, less than thirty kilometers to the northwest, has borne one terrible bombardment after another.

The children haven’t moved. They remain staring at Anton, in awe now of his proximity—of the very fact of a man standing among them. He is a new presence in their household, almost an invader. He stares back, uncertain, resisting the urge to shift from one foot to the other like a hapless boy. Should he say something? Lead them off to their rooms? Where are the children’s rooms, exactly?

“You heard me,” Elisabeth says. “Off with all of you; get dressed for bed. I’ll be in to hear your prayers soon.”

“I want the new Vati to tuck me in,” Maria says.

Hesitant, Anton looks to Elisabeth for approval—perhaps she is not ready for this yet; perhaps in her two weeks of contemplation she has never asked herself, What will I do, and what will I think, if my children take to their new father too strongly? If they turn to him for comfort—this stranger who I have brought into our orderly home—instead of me? But Elisabeth nods, untroubled. This is no surprise to her. She answers Maria readily, practiced and calm. “Put on your nightgown and wash your face. When was the last time you brushed your teeth?” Maria shrugs. “Albert, take this candle into her room so she can dress. Then send her into the bathroom; I’ll see to it that she cleans her teeth.”

Maria resists. The dentifrice tastes bad. She doesn’t like the way it foams on her toothbrush. She doesn’t like her toothbrush; it tickles her mouth. But the boys pull her dutifully toward her room, and Elisabeth vanishes to the back of the house, and in a matter of moments, Anton is left alone in the dim sitting room.

He sinks down on the armchair, slowly, wincing. He is afraid it will creak, make some noise that will betray him—betray what? His inadequacy. His confusion. He looks at the empty, sagging sofa. Looks down at the sewing in the basket. This is how Elisabeth makes her meager pay, altering shirts and trousers. Small wonder she needs another income. That is not to say she’s a poor hand. Anton can see little in the dim light of one candle (and that candle across the room), but he can make out enough of the precise, even stitches to tell that her work is excellent, as one would expect from this woman, so conscientious and correct. Who, though, can afford to pay a seamstress? Even in the cities, they have taken to mending and making their own clothes, rather than part with the money. Ragpickers do a brisk business, salvaging useful cloth from blown-apart buildings and God knows what other unthinkable sources. In Munich, the young ladies have made a fashion of it. They sew their own things from whatever they find in the streets or in the knapsacks of the rag boys who come calling, shouting out their wares. One would be thought unstylish now if one were to hire out the work.

From the bathroom, he hears the children locked in mild argument—a nighttime routine as ordinary as breathing. Elisabeth moves among her children in self-contained quiet. She pushes them apart, steps between, and the children settle complacently. Even Maria quits her protests and brushes her teeth. Below the floor, in the cool autumn air, he can hear the animals rustling, easing into sleep. Warmth rises from their bodies, from their home-scented hides. The dim space around him fills with sweet odors of hay and dry dust.

“All right.” Elisabeth leans out from the bathroom door. “Maria is done, and she may have her story, if you are willing to tell one.”

The little girl is dressed in a voluminous white gown of soft flannel. Bouncing on her toes, skipping through the night with her gold curls flying, she looks like a cherub come down from a stained-glass window. This is all an adventure to her. He follows her into the tiny room that is hers alone. It is scarcely larger than a closet; Anton can’t imagine its original purpose, back when the farm was new. A pantry, or a cell for aging cheese? There is a bed stretched from wall to wall, just large enough to hold the six-year-old. Beside the bed, someone has placed a stool with a broken leg, making do for a nightstand. Anton sets the candle on the stool as Maria jumps onto her bed and burrows beneath the covers. He sinks down on the braided rug and folds himself against the wall. He just fits, with his knees pulled up as close to his chin as they will go.