The Ragged Edge of Night(38)

Emil rises, laying his hand on the girl’s head. “Don’t be afraid, little one. I’ll go with you and show you where it is. You can set the camel and donkey up wherever you please.”

A few moments later, Anton can make out Maria and the priest seated beside the dim crèche, playing with the wooden figures. Father Emil gives the Wise Men funny voices; he makes the angel sing until Maria giggles herself into breathlessness. The boys soon join in, pausing first to break off pieces of cinnamon bread. Father Emil has said they might eat as much as they like.

“The Vater has always had a special bond with Maria,” Elisabeth says, watching them all at play. “I can’t understand it; she’s such a naughty girl. One would think a priest would prefer a good, obedient child, like Albert.”

“Maybe he sees something in her—” Anton is about to say, Something that reminds him of the boy he was, long ago. But Elisabeth says, “No doubt, he sees a little sinner in need of salvation. I don’t know what I’m to do with her, Anton.”

With the children well into their game, Emil returns, a trace of reluctance in his sigh, in the slow way he sits on the pew. “It’s good to forget, for a few minutes,” he says quietly. “It’s a great blessing, to laugh and play. Children are so resilient, in times like these. Would that we could all bear up as well.” He tastes the bread and nods in appreciation. “It has been too long since I’ve had something so sweet. Where did you get so much cinnamon, Elisabeth?”

“I’ve been saving it for someone special.”

“I have done something right in this life, if God has deemed me worthy of such an honor.” He turns to Anton. “How are you faring with your music lessons, my friend?”

Just before he answers, the air chills around Anton and Elisabeth. He hopes Emil can’t feel that moment of tension. The matter of the scrap metal—the brass relics of memory—still lies unresolved between husband and wife. The family does need more money; Elisabeth was right about that. Unless he finds some way to provide it, Anton must be counted derelict in his duty to family and to God. But where is the sense in spoiling this night with such unpleasant talk? Let us not dredge up the old quarrel—not here and now.

“Lessons are going well,” he says. “The Beckers have hired me, too, once a week.”

“That’s three families,” Emil says. “Six children in all, unless I’m mistaken.”

Elisabeth says, “It’s a good start.”

“I never would have thought,” Anton begins. He’s about to say, I never would have thought Unterboihingen was hiding so many well-off families in its hills and dells. But before he can finish, a low moan interrupts the conversation. It’s coming from somewhere high above the nave’s arches, above the roof of St. Kolumban. It’s coming from the sky.

The children drop the wooden figures. They look up from their play with wide eyes and open mouths. The moan intensifies; it rises, deepens. It becomes a hoarse, angry roar, fast approaching. There isn’t a soul in Germany but knows what that sound means. Even the smallest children understand it.

“Quick,” Emil says, standing, spreading his arms wide as if to shepherd them all. “Into the shelter.”

“Where is it?” Al cries. They know where to shelter at home—in the space below the house, alongside the animals. And at school there is a cellar; every week they practice going down into the darkness. They practice staying calm. When we are out there in the countryside, walking along the roads and fields, any ditch will do. But where can we go now?

Something snaps, whatever force of terror tethers the boys to immobility. They bolt in the same instant, darting off in opposite directions. Elisabeth is quick; she catches Paul by the hand as he runs past in blind terror. The boy flies to the end of her reach, and his feet go out from beneath him. He screams in surprise and pain as he collides with a wooden pew, but at least he is safe with his mother. When Paul is on his feet again, Elisabeth spins him about and points him toward the priest. She says, loud and stern enough to cut through his fear, “Follow Vater Emil, Paul. Don’t leave his side.”

Al has already sprinted down the center aisle, quick as a deer; he is lost somewhere in the darkness near the church’s entry doors. He’ll run out into the night next, out into the snow—his dark coat visible from above, vulnerable against the pale ground. Anton shouts, raising his voice in a hard, commanding tone for the first time since becoming a father. “Albert!” A moment later, Albert returns, and Anton’s heart lurches with relief. The boy’s eyes are huge, strained; his face, as he reappears in candlelight, seems all eyes. Anton shoves him toward his brother.

Gathering the boys close, Emil calls over the increasing roar, “Where has Maria gone?”

Anton glances at the crèche; the figures lie where they have fallen, but Maria has vanished.

“Mother above!” Elisabeth cries. She goes to her boys and takes the youngest again; Paul squeals as her grip tightens on his arm, but she holds him closer. The airplanes scream closer, too, rattling the windowpanes. One of the drapes, Anton can see, is not quite closed. How much light have they revealed? He imagines the plane, the pilot; the view from above. A streak of gold reflected on the snow, betraying the life cringing below.

Emil sees the curtain, too. “The candle, Anton!”