The Ragged Edge of Night(54)

“Oh yes, you are. And once we reach home, you’ll write a note to whomever owns this house, apologizing for ruining their books and magazines, and you will leave it where they can find it.” Assuming the cabin’s owner ever returns to Unterboihingen, Anton will owe him money to replace what Maria has damaged. Angels, defend me—let her not have cut up some priceless antique book or a family album.

“Can I take my paper dolls?” She pulls from beneath the couch an astonishing stack of colorful figures, two inches high—men and women snipped from countless pages. The girl must have been at this particular mischief every day for weeks on end.

“Absolutely not! Put them in the stove.”

Tears spring to her eyes again. “They’ll be burned up!”

“That’s the consequence of deceit. Just be glad I don’t turn you over my knee and give you a worse punishment.”

Anton carries Maria home. She has gone limp in his arms, in protest of his cruelty—though she stopped crying at once, as soon as she realized tears could not move him. Thinking of the money he may owe the cabin’s owner, his stomach curdles with frustration—but despite lingering sourness, he can’t help feeling a melting glow of love as he holds the girl, as she tucks herself trustingly into his arms.

That evening, when the supper dishes are washed and the children are readying themselves for bed, Anton takes Elisabeth outside, into the warm summer night, to discuss Maria.

“I found her hiding behind the sofa, shearing a stack of magazines as if they were sheep. I almost swallowed my tongue when she showed me her handiwork—weeks’ worth of cutting. You should have seen it.” He bites back the smile he can’t quite conceal.

Elisabeth is not amused. “Frau Hertz always says, ‘Maria is a handful.’ But I can’t keep hold of her with both hands, let alone one. She’ll get herself into real trouble someday, and then what will I do?”

Elisabeth’s look of pale distress moves Anton. He pats her shoulder, awkward as always, and wonders if he ought to risk embracing her. “The girl will learn. We must be firmer with her, that’s all—and show her that virtues have their own rewards.”

“No virtue has enough natural reward to tempt Maria into proper behavior.” Elisabeth sighs and presses the fingers of one pale hand to her forehead. The ceaseless pain of motherhood. “I’m only grateful, to you and to God, that I have you to help me through this, Anton.”

He blinks in surprise. It’s as close as Elisabeth has ever come to a tender word.

She says, “Maria alone was more than I could handle, when I was by myself. And now the boys are getting bigger; they’ll soon be teenagers, and boys of that age are never easy. Even Albert and Paul, sweet as they are, will soon be more than I can manage alone. Without you, this family would fall apart.”

“Well, I…” Lost for words, embarrassed by the swell of warmth in his chest, he pulls at his tie, loosens it, leaves it hanging askew. He takes his pipe from his pocket, lights it, and puffs once. He lets the ember die out, and the pipe parts with a final trace of smoke. “I’m only doing what I promised to do,” he says at last.

“And now that we have the money from your music lessons—it’s such a blessing. The extra income has relieved so much of my burden. I admit, when you first said, ‘I’m going to teach children how to play the piano,’ I had my doubts. I thought, ‘He’ll never find enough work to keep a steady income, not with the war on.’ But I was wrong, Anton. I don’t mind admitting I was wrong.”

He swallows hard. He has only just delivered a lecture to Maria about the sins of deceit. Some of his money does come from the lessons, of course, but most is paid by whoever keeps the Red Orchestra together—whatever shadowy figure pays Father Emil, who passes Anton’s cut along to him.

I should tell her, he thinks. I should let her in on the secret. We’re a family now; we must rely on each other, trust one another. How can I expect my wife to ever trust me, or love me, when I hide this from her?

The next moment, he dismisses that idea. Elisabeth would prefer not to know the truth—he’s sure of that. She wants nothing more than to keep her head down and muddle through the war. Keep her family safe and whole until, God willing, this madness finally ends.

And Elisabeth and the children are safer in ignorance.

“I’ve had a harrowing enough day,” Elisabeth says, “even without Maria’s naughtiness. M?belbauer has been at it again.”

“At it? What do you mean?”

She sighs heavily and turns her face away. “That man is a pig. He shits on all the women of the town.” She blushes at her own coarse language. “I’m sorry, Anton. I know you don’t like those kinds of words. I don’t, either—but M?belbauer has put me so much on edge, I can’t help myself.”

“Has he done something to you? Said something?” He will go and see Franke, if that’s the case. Man to man, they will thrash it out. No one may speak a harsh word to Anton’s family and get away with it. Strange, the instincts God puts in a man, once he’s a husband and a father. It’s no wonder all the world fights wars. Look how many men are married, and the guardians of children.

Elisabeth stares down at her feet, then out at the orchard, its late blossoms still visible in the twilight. She glances up at the cottage roof, then out across the field. She looks everywhere, anywhere but at her husband. “You know, M?belbauer has never been faithful to his wife. Never. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that he spent his wedding night with some other woman—he’s that fond of straying. He has gone through every woman in the village, nearly—everyone who’s still young enough to catch his eye.”