The Ragged Edge of Night(44)
Anton continues to the church—not as lovely on the inside as St. Kolumban, for all its ornate exterior—and retrieves the sheet music from its priest. “Father Emil sends his warmest greetings,” he tells the black-robed old Opa, “and his thanks.” The music goes into his knapsack the moment he’s in the churchyard again. He has no need of music, anyway; he memorized all the best hymns when he was still a child. He straightens, tossing the sack on his shoulder, and looks around anxiously. The contact remains in the garden, slouched on a wooden bench, arms folded tightly over his chest.
Anton must restrain himself from running to the garden. Even a brisk walk would be unseemly; he meanders from the church to the garden’s little arched gate and pauses to read the new bronze plaque set into its post.
THIS PUBLIC GARDEN HAS BEEN CREATED AND MAINTAINED FOR THE ENJOYMENT OF OUR CITY.
THE LEAGUE OF GERMAN GIRLS, WERNAU CHAPTER
He suppresses a shudder. The garden isn’t large, but it is tidily kept, and planted with ornamental foliage, the only color allowed by early spring. Anton sees nothing but a blur of coppery reds and smoke green as he wanders among the beds. His thoughts are all for the girls who built this place.
In the days of his youth, there were myriad clubs for children—camping clubs and music groups, scouting societies and improvement associations, every sort of service organization one could imagine. All of them dedicated to a single goal: the wholesome occupation and education of children. Now, the Party has disbanded the old clubs and replaced them with only two: the League of German Girls, for the indoctrination of young women, and Hitler Youth, whose primary function seems to be the manufacture of cannon fodder for the front lines. Every boy between the ages of fourteen and eighteen is required to join.
His leisurely circuit of the garden finally brings him to the bench where the man in the gray suit is waiting. Now Anton can see that the fellow has pulled the edge of his bowler hat down across his eyes. His breaths are deep and slow; he gives every impression of having fallen asleep, though how anyone could sleep in this damp, chilly air is a mystery to Anton. He sits on the far side of the bench, rummages in his knapsack, and pulls out his modest lunch, packed for him by Elisabeth. He unwraps the paper to reveal a few slices of hard sausage, boiled eggs, and a small round of soda bread.
“One would think we’d have snow again, with this cold,” Anton says quietly, peeling an egg, “but it smells more like rain to me.”
There is no response from the man in gray. Anton drops the eggshell on the ground and crushes it beneath his foot. He waits, but still no reply is made.
Should he speak again? Should he get up and leave? Perhaps he is mistaken; he has found the wrong man in the wrong gray suit. He taps the second egg on the bench and is about to peel it, too, when the man tilts his head, just far enough to peer at Anton from beneath his hat.
“I do feel rain in the air,” he mutters.
Anton is so relieved, he nearly laughs. But that would make him entirely too conspicuous. He takes a bite of egg instead and, with his other hand, slides the folded paper from his coat pocket. He lets the scrap fall on the bench between them. The man in gray makes no move to retrieve it.
“You’re new,” he says, still slouched in feigned slumber.
“Yes.”
“You’ve done well so far. Didn’t stick out too badly, here in Wernau, though you are so damnably tall and thin.”
Anton finds it disconcerting to carry on a conversation while eating—and a conversation with a stranger, at that. Moreover, this man insists on huddling beneath his hat—not a posture conducive to friendly terms. He turns to face the man as he speaks. “Thank you. If it was meant for a compliment.”
The man in gray tuts. “Don’t turn toward me. You’ll draw eyes.”
Anton straightens on the bench, working away at the dry sausage.
“That’s better. This is dangerous work, New Fellow. There’s no room for error.”
“Error?”
The contact’s shoulders shake, a silent laugh. “Plenty in our line of work have slipped up, believe me. You’ve heard of von Gersdorff, I assume.”
“I can’t say I have.”
“No fault to you; it happened only a few days ago. He decided he was willing to die, himself, if he could end the ultimate evil in the bargain.”
The sausage is too dry to swallow; it sits like a rock halfway down Anton’s throat. “What do you mean?”
“It was at the old armory museum in Unter den Linden,” the gray man says. “Our dear leader and a few of his closest friends were to tour the place, take in the glory of military might, all that sort of thing. This Gersdorff fellow loaded his pockets with explosives and set a timed fuse, and then he followed that one, whose name we all know, around like a puppy.” Better not to say Hitler where any passing person may hear. One never knows who is keeping a sharp ear out for betrayal. “But wouldn’t you know it? The man has no patience for glory or military might. He was in and out of the exhibit before Gersdorff’s pocket bombs could detonate. Imagine the poor fellow’s agony, standing there with his coat pockets ticking away while that one strolled off unharmed!”
“Lord have mercy,” Anton mutters. “Was Herr Gersdorff killed?”
“Not this time. He ran to the bathroom, where no one could see, and managed to defuse the devices with mere seconds to spare. It would be enough to make a man roar with laughter, if it weren’t so deadly serious. So you see, mein Herr—no room for error. In this business, our business, it comes down to seconds. Heartbeats.”