The Ragged Edge of Night(47)
As winter gave way to spring and the earth burgeoned again with new life, Father Emil found, among his various friends and confidantes, yet another source of work for Anton, beyond carrying the messages. Along the banks of the Neckar and in Wernau and Unterensingen—yes, even in Kirchheim—more families have hired Anton to teach their children music. Whether the parents are sympathetic to the resistance and offer up their homes as a convenient cover for the message carrier, or whether they truly wish their children to acquire a little culture, Anton hasn’t the least idea. Perhaps both motives are at play. Each family pays him a pittance apiece—no one can really afford music lessons now, not here in the country—but it’s not their pay he needs. It’s the excuse to visit their towns, to stand at the ordained street corner at the appointed time, and to say to the man in the gray felt hat, “A fine day, but do you smell rain coming?” just as the church bells ring. A friendly chuckle, as one would give to any talkative stranger on the street, and a polite handshake—no more than that—but it’s enough for a scrap of paper to pass from one palm to another.
In Kirchheim today, the message changes hands more rapidly than usual, and his contact saunters casually away. His piano students are not in—they and their parents have gone to the church, making some preparation for Easter service—so he is free to hunt for his chocolate. He finds it at the bakery, though he must convince the proprietor to part with it. She is reluctant even to admit it exists. He pays dearly for the stuff, but the compensation from the Widerstand has been ample thus far. His family can afford this one small extravagance. Easter only comes once a year.
The bus ride back from Kirchheim is always long, and it stinks of exhaust. He is glad to find himself at the crossroads where Austra?e meets Ulmer Street. The walk home is more than an hour from here, but the day has turned fine, with a brisk spring wind sweeping the clouds off to the west and puddles shining silver in the ruts of the road. He whistles as he walks, hands in his trouser pockets, the chocolate tucked away safely in an inner pocket of his coat. His top hat is smart, if it is old-fashioned. How long has it been since he’s whistled?
The day has gone so perfectly that he might feel tempted to apprehension, if he were a superstitious man. The chocolate seems a blessing from on high; he can already see the children’s faces when they find it in the rabbit garden—this miracle enough to make even Albert believe. The morning’s ice has melted; the banks of ditches are lush with new spring growth. This is the season of renewal, of hope unfolding, and optimism blooms for him now. Vaguely, with a kind of sheepish inner grin, he thinks he ought to disguise that outrageous upwelling of hope if he cannot stem it. It’s unseemly, in this time and place, when so many people despair.
But those who are heavy of heart don’t know what he knows—that there is a resistance, that Germany has retained, in the smallest, thinnest capillaries buried deep inside its flesh, a lifeblood of essential goodness. Righteousness still flows, and ever will, Amen.
Whistling, humming, he takes the track that runs toward the heart of the town, along a field newly plowed and carpeted by the first flush of early weeds. The field belongs to the Kopps, the three brothers Kartoffelbauer. They made thorough work of their spring plowing, and the earth is richly black where they have turned it over. The air smells of clean soil, mineral and damp. The brothers will have a fine crop of potatoes come the early summer. Food for all their neighbors’ tables.
Across the field, he sees two small figures near the dark line of a hedge. They are young and slight and some distance off, but near enough that Anton recognizes the habits and movements of his two young sons. He stops on the road, content to stand and watch them at their play. He is—all the world is—suffused with a rosy gladness. What a miracle it is, that he has come to know the children so well already. And what a pleasure to see them making up stories and games as all children do, in better places than this war-ravaged nation. The boys face one another. They each step back. What are they doing? Tossing something between them, back and forth, at every throw taking another step backward. What is it they’re throwing—a rock? No, it’s too light for its size. The object flies too easily, hanging at the apex of its arc before falling back into their hands. It must be a ball, then. Seized suddenly by an appetite for play, as if he is a boy himself, Anton thinks to call out to them, to run through the field and join in their game. He sets off, taking long, reaching steps across the furrows.
But as he draws closer, Anton can see that it’s no ball the boys are tossing. Gray-green and oblong, as it hangs in the air he can see, as if it’s frozen in ice and magnified before his eyes, the score marks running down its sides like the scales of some deadly viper. His body goes cold. Where did the boys find a grenade? He staggers to a halt, staring, helpless with shock. Ought he to shout? If he does, will one of the boys miss his catch, and will the damned thing strike the ground with enough force to explode?
Just in that moment, as Anton hesitates halfway across the potato field, Albert catches sight of his stepfather. Thank God, he catches the grenade, too, and says something to Paul, quick and urgent. They drop the thing on the ground—as it falls, all the world seems to constrict around Anton, crushing him with a weight of fear and helplessness—but it rolls harmlessly into a furrow. The boys turn their backs and run. They know they’ve done wrong.
“Damn it!” It’s the closest he ever comes to cursing, but he bellows it now, roars those two hard words across the field. The sound only spurs the boys on; they fly over the field like a pair of hunted hares. Anton leaps into pursuit, does his best to catch them—to keep them in sight—but even the rawness of his fear and anger can’t make his aging body move any faster. If ever he needed a reminder that he is a man on the brink of middle age, he has it now.