The Ragged Edge of Night(37)

“No—I understand. I know just what you mean.”

“After we were married, Paul bought a phonograph. I sold it years ago, after he died. I don’t know now why I sold it. I suppose I assumed the war would be over soon, and the money from its sale would be enough to keep us going until then. Until better times came. I wish I still had that phonograph now.”

Silence. They are both caught in the past, snared by their private recollections of the time when we all thought this war would end.

“Did you have a favorite song?” He doesn’t know why he asks it. Perhaps he only wants to see her more clearly—Elisabeth as a glad young bride, in a time before the world beat her and burned her with its irons. “One you liked to dance to?”

She shakes her head, refusing to answer. The memory is too dear. But after a moment, after a pensive silence, she says quickly, “Marlene Dietrich. ‘Ich bin von Kopf bis Fu? auf Liebe eingestellt.’”

Then she turns and climbs the stairs, climbs back up to her children. She goes with steady, marching steps, arms wrapped tight around her body. She moves like a woman who never expects war to end.





14

Three days before Christmas Eve, the moon is shining clear and bright on blankets of snow, knee-deep across sleeping fields. There is light enough to see for miles, so the family walks to the church. They’re carrying gifts for Father Emil, who has been so kind to them all. This night is peaceful, and though it’s cold, it’s as beautiful as the world must have been on the night of the Nativity, when the Christ child first came down to grace us.

The children skid their feet along the road’s packed snow, while Elisabeth and Anton walk more sedately behind. Tucked beneath her arm is a loaf of cinnamon bread, wrapped in waxed paper; Elisabeth has saved the paper carefully through countless prior uses, and now it’s soft and creased like parchment, like the pages of an old book. The scent of warm spice asserts itself against the flat gray smell of winter. Anton is carrying a small box. Inside, the little figures he has carved for Father Emil rattle with every step—a camel and a donkey for the church’s crèche.

When they arrive at St. Kolumban, stamping their feet in the cold yard, the children sing a rough chorus, a Christmas tune. Anton and Elisabeth join in. They laugh more than they sing, all of them, and when Anton lays his hand on his wife’s arm to stop her slipping in the snow, she doesn’t pull away.

Emil opens the door. The church inside is dark, of course, for the sun has set. Stuttgart suffered a major bombardment only a few weeks ago, one of the worst it has faced thus far. With the bombing so recent, one would expect no planes tonight, but one can never be sure. We must always be cautious in times like these. But even without a golden glow spilling from the open door, a fulsome warmth still emanates from the nave. It’s the spirit of the place, love and hope gathered over centuries, graven in the very stones.

“Come in, come in,” Emil says. “I’m having a humble little celebration inside, only reading my scriptures by candlelight—but you are always welcome to join me.”

The priest takes Elisabeth’s arm and guides her through the dark. The children hold to the hem of her city-fine coat, and Anton stumbles along behind. Emil leaves them at the front pew, then rustles down the length of the nave; there is a rattle of drapes being pulled across windows, their metal hoops sliding over curtain rods. The children whisper and kick their feet—excited by the novelty of being here, in the dark and without the congregation, but conscious of parental expectation: we must be reverent at church, even when it’s not Sunday, even when it’s dark as the inside of a shoe.

Father Emil makes his way back to the front of the nave, feeling his way along the pews. A moment later, he strikes a match, and a great white candle blossoms on the altar. Its singular light seems to draw in all the appointments of holiness, pulling them into a close and intimate proximity. The humble gilded crucifix, the brass candlesticks without ornamentation, the censer hanging from its tripod, close at hand. The church has never looked more beautiful than it does now, in this quiet amber glow. Its divinity tonight seems private, singular, a gift softly bestowed on this small, new-made family. Their offerings of cinnamon bread and carved animals are embarrassingly small by comparison to friendship and candlelight, but Father Emil exclaims over his gifts with unrestrained gratitude.

He holds up the carved camel, admiring the workmanship. “I didn’t know you were a carver, Anton.”

“I’m not much of one.”

“There, I must disagree.” He turns the camel in his hands; the newly exposed wood is pale in the candlelight, so the little figure stands out against the shadowy nave. “He has so much expression. I could almost believe this is the very camel who witnessed the Savior’s birth.”

Maria reaches for the figure. “Let me play with it. I want to see!”

“Now, now,” Elisabeth scolds. “You had your chance to see it while your stepfather was carving it. I won’t have you breaking it.”

“I don’t mind,” Emil says to Elisabeth. “She can’t do these little beasties any harm.” He gives Maria the camel and its donkey companion. “Do you know where the crèche is? Up there, at the front of the sanctuary.”

Maria holds the carved animals to her chest. She blinks past the pool of candlelight, peering anxiously into darkness beyond. “I can’t see it.”