The Ragged Edge of Night(45)

Anton whispers, “I understand. I’ll be more careful next time.”

The gray man shifts on the bench and stretches his arms. When Anton glances down, the folded message has disappeared. He never saw the man take it.

“I’ve a lot to learn,” Anton tells him.

“But you will learn. Everything depends on it—everything depends on all of us being as clever and as careful as we can. Only with great caution will we carry out our mission. We all wish for a speedier conclusion to this mess, but haste makes waste, as the Americans say.”

“What is the mission, exactly? That’s one thing I don’t quite understand.”

This time, the man’s laugh is not so silent. “Mein Herr, don’t force me to remove my hat and give you a scornful stare. I find this hat to be a brilliant disguise.”

Anton amends his question. “Obviously, the ultimate goal is—well, what Herr Gersdorff attempted. But we—you and I, and the man I work with back in my village—what part do we play? That scrap of paper I dropped from my pocket…” His voice sinks even lower, barely audible now even to his own ears. “Do we send information to the Tommies?”

“Some of us are spies, yes. Some of us transmit whatever intelligence we can glean to the Tommies and Americans—anyone at all, provided they might help us undo what has been done to Germany. Others pass around leaflets, when it’s safe to do so. Literature might inspire our friends and neighbors to stand up and fight alongside us. There are those who move people in secrecy—Jews and Romany, homosexuals, nuns, journalists—anyone the Party has fixed in their sights. We have networks, you see—chains of cellars and attics and spaces between walls. By night, we guide the refugees from one hiding place to the next until they are over the border and can finally seek real aid from friendlier nations.”

“And you?” Anton says. “What do you do? What do we do?” Something in the man’s speech has told him that this work—Anton’s work—has little to do with these efforts. They are driving at a different goal entirely.

“We, my friend, are hard at work on the most dangerous and most important task of all. Without telling you too much, you understand.”

“Of course.” It’s unsafe to know too much.

“Thanks to us, there will be no wolf left to terrify us. I would say ‘Soon there will be no wolf,’ but it would be a lie. We might not act soon—or we might, if the right opportunity arises. But we will act, and when we do, the leader of the wolves’ pack will howl no longer.”

Assassination. That is their goal.

“You’ve stopped eating, mein Herr,” the gray man says, though he hasn’t lifted his hat to see.

God has said, Thou shall not kill. But God never stopped the gray bus from coming. Perhaps there are times, Anton thinks, when the Lord makes exceptions. He won’t allow it to trouble him for more than a moment. As the gray man has said, it comes down to seconds in this business—heartbeats. Anton’s heart goes on beating, and the warmth of righteousness settles over him like a cloak. He picks up the soda bread and takes half the round in a single bite. He doesn’t look at his contact, but he grins at the man all the same.





17

Late April. When the sun finds a hole in its clouded shroud, the light glares off what remains of the snow, off the surfaces of puddles in the ruts of the road. It’s enough to make you squint, looking out the window at a world wet and striving, struggling to renew. The green and growing things are winning that fight. Everywhere, they push up through crusts of old ice, the shoots of sapling trees and spikes of crocus flowers yet to unfold. Winter can’t keep its hold forever. As he stands beside the sitting-room window, watching the lane beyond the Hertz farmhouse, Anton can hear the running and dripping of meltwater from the eaves. This weather, cold and wet, with a forbidding, iron-gray sky, keeps the roads almost as empty as they have been all winter long. Who will venture out or roam between villages unless urgent business compels him?

The strong odor of cooked cabbage fills the small house. The children are gathered around the table, dunking eggs into bowls of boiled red cabbage or onion skins. Later, they will tie the eggs with ribbons and hang them from the willow branches Elisabeth has brought inside.

“Look, Vati.” Maria holds an egg above her head for Anton to see. The blue-green dye runs down her arm into her sleeve.

“Your eggs are very pretty.” He kisses Maria on the cheek and gives each boy’s hair a tousle. To Elisabeth, stirring more cabbage dye on the stove, he says, “I’m off now. I’ll try to be home by suppertime, but with the roads so muddy, you know—”

Without looking up, she says, “Who looks for piano lessons the Friday before Easter?”

“It may be unusual, but we need the money.” He kisses her cheek, too, but she doesn’t turn toward him, and never stops her stirring. He can feel her tense waiting, the stiff, upright posture of her irritation. Piano lessons don’t bring in enough money to bother with. He knows it, and Elisabeth does, too. How, then, will he explain the money he’ll bring home tonight? The bounty that will spill from his pocket.

“I think I may have found a buyer.”

She stops stirring the cabbage. Her brow pinches as she looks up at him. “A buyer? What do you mean?”