The Ragged Edge of Night(26)

The boy smiles up at him, shyly, grateful to be consulted like a man. “I think it’s a fine idea—worth trying, anyhow.” But his lips thin for a moment, and he squints thoughtfully after his brother and sister, who, far ahead on the road, have begun to shout at the neighbor’s dog, trying to make it shout back. In Albert’s silence, Anton finds the distinct and uncomfortable impression that he is already something of a disappointment to his new family. A proper father would have had work lined up before the wedding—a good job with steady hours, ready and waiting. A proper father wouldn’t need to ask his son, What do you think I should do?



Saturday, market day. The square at the center of the village bustles and boils with activity. Boys and girls have come from every farm, and wives and old men, too, with the last of the harvest’s produce to offer up in trade. This system of barter is a quaint tradition, one that would never exist today, in our modern world of automobiles and radio broadcasts, tinned food, and electric lights. It’s war that has resurrected these cunning old ways; deprivation keeps the past alive. But if one good thing has come from the war, surely this is it. Throughout the square, people gather, shaking hands and sharing the week’s news. They display their squashes and sacks of barley with obvious pride. In an improvised rope pen, seven-month lambs bleat and mill, ready for the slaughter, while two young women look on proudly, shoulders thrown back and fists on hips. Had war never come, those girls might have been secretaries or seamstresses, smartly dressed behind a desk in Munich. Now they are shepherdesses with mud to their knees. The work they do keeps the children of the village strong and healthy, well fed and ready to face the winter.

One of the shepherdesses waves to Al as he enters the market square, and someone else calls, “Who needs eggs? Young Herr Herter has arrived!” Every home in Unterboihingen has its own hens, of course, but Al’s birds are special. He has bred them carefully, an assiduous boy, with special attention paid to production and lineage. His eggs have a reputation: the best and biggest in Unterboihingen, big as ducks’ eggs, large and rich enough that two for breakfast can fill a grown man’s belly right through until suppertime. Anton watches the boy move confidently through the marketplace; he needs no guidance from Anton or any other man. Al has taken the egg basket from Anton’s arm. He speaks to each customer in turn, driving his bargains with one hand stretched across the basket’s top, protective of his wares. Al holds every egg close, and barters dearly. Only the best squashes will win a trade of half a dozen eggs from young Herr Herter—great, round, ribbed squashes, with skins so darkly green they are almost black and flesh sweet as honey. Al directs the fellow with the squashes to deposit them in Anton’s arms. In the shed beside the cottage stair, Al says, the squashes will keep for months, nice and cold through fall and winter. Mother will make a stew with them. She’ll keep it simmering on the stove for days at a time; one squash will fill our bellies for a week at least. For three more eggs, Al secures two bunches of beet greens. They aren’t Maria’s favorite, but Mother says she must eat them all the same. For eight eggs, he wins a real prize: a fat triangle of ripe cheese sealed in yellow wax.

“Not many boys your age would trade for greens instead of candy,” Anton tells him.

“They wouldn’t?” Al seems surprised.

“How many eggs are left?”

“Ten. I think I can get some honey, if Frau Werner has any left from her beehives. And Kartoffelbauer might have some old potatoes, too.”

“I’m afraid you must tuck whatever else you find in your basket. My arms are full.”

Smiling, Al nods. He works his way into the crowd with the last of his eggs, leaving Anton alone, an island in a sea of friends and neighbors.

Anton hugs the produce to his chest. He turns slowly, taking in the crowd, trying to pick out anyone he may recognize, hoping he can match names to some. It’s long since time he got to know the people of his home village. His eyes slide over faces that may as well be blank and featureless; he knows no one, though surely some of these people attended his wedding. But then, with a jolt of surprise, he spots a single familiar figure in the crowd. Across the square, he finds Elisabeth, her expression more serious than ever before. She is carrying a flat basket by its looped handle. Whatever the basket contains is covered by a checked cloth, tucked neatly in at the edges. She leans close to a tall blonde woman, whispering in her ear. The blonde woman nods, nods again; her eyes are as shadowed as Elisabeth’s, her jaw as firmly set. The flat basket changes hands. The blonde woman makes off across the market square, moving quickly, glancing now and then over her shoulder. Elisabeth watches her go.

“Elisabeth!”

When Anton calls out to her, she jumps, guilty and flushed. Her brow furrows when she sees him, a fleeting expression of annoyance, but she quickly smooths it away. She tilts her head—Come with me, the gesture seems to say—and threads her way through the crowd before Anton can reach her side.

When he catches up, Elisabeth is beyond the market square, walking slowly and alone down an empty street. The murmur of the crowd and the low, insistent bleating of the lambs thins behind them.

“I didn’t expect to find you at the market,” Anton says.

She glances at the things in his arms, the tassel of beet greens spilling over the deep ribs of squashes. “Albert chose well.”

“Are you sure I didn’t choose?” he says, teasing.