The Ragged Edge of Night(6)

3

He knows her at once when he sees her, though they have never met before. Elisabeth is as prim and hard as her handwriting, her manner every bit as guarded as the letters made her seem. She is sitting on the edge of an iron chair at a small table outside a bakery. The immaculate light of afternoon, golden and low, falls on her like a halo. In that perfect glow, she is neat and composed—rigidly so, not a pleat or button out of place. Her dress is of a blue so deep it is almost char gray, the neckline high and unadorned. Her brown hair is dull but arranged in faultless symmetry, framing and emphasizing a round, unsmiling face. There is a sense of order about her, a stoic control he can all but feel from across the street. A hard determination to hold all things together in a world that, day by day, falls ever more apart.

When she notices Anton—crossing the dirt road from the direction of Franke’s Fine Furniture—she seems to recognize him, too. The woman’s eyes lock with his; she lifts her teacup but doesn’t drink. She watches him without the least betrayal of thought or emotion as he comes, smiling, toward her. Midway across the street, he sees himself in a wrenching flash, as if through a woman’s eyes—an inversion of perspective, a lurch back through time into a mind-set he hasn’t adopted since he took his vows to the order. He had been youthful then, and when men are young, they believe themselves the handsomest things in God’s creation. Now, thirty-eight years old and with such foolish convictions long behind him, he is rather shaken by the realization that he falls somewhat short of attractive. Very tall, with the blondest hair and bluest eyes the Führer could desire—his coloring is a rebuke to him now, a daily reminder that he was deemed worthy of life while others more deserving were judged unfit. His face is as narrow as his body. His eyes sit too closely together, an effect somewhat mitigated by his round glasses, though the glasses also draw attention to the nose on which they perch. Large and curved, it is far too strong for such a thin, delicate face. But his eyes… will she be put off by them? Anita used to say, teasing, Shall I jab my finger between your eyes, little Anton, and pop them farther apart? When he swallows this sudden, unexpected fear, his prominent Adam’s apple presses uncomfortably against the knot of his tie. At least he has that kind, disarming smile at his ready disposal. It is some small consolation.

When he reaches her table—shuffles up somehow, though this storm of misgiving drags at him, shackled to his ankle—Anton doffs his hat. “Good afternoon, meine Dame. Would you happen to be Elisabeth Hansjosten?”

She blinks once. “I am Elisabeth Hansjosten Herter.” Her voice is lovely, smooth and rich, even if she uses it like a sword. She reaches out to shake hands before Anton does. “You are Josef Starzmann?”

“Yes—but please, call me Anton.”

She gestures to the other wrought-iron chair. Numb, with heart pounding, he sits.

“Thank you again for answering my advertisement.” She picks up her teacup, shifts it absently from one hand to the other, and sets it down again. He has never seen a woman look more self-possessed, yet the cup gives away her secret anxiety—the way it moves from hand to hand, and its undiminished fullness.

He brings out another smile, doing his best to put Elisabeth at ease. “Make no mention of it. I brought the very paper along, in fact.” He produces it from beneath his jacket and lays it on the table between them—the Catholic periodical Esprit, which he has carried all this way from Stuttgart. It is markedly thinner than in years past—paper rationing, to say nothing of the suppression of the Catholic voice—but at least it is neatly folded. “Just in case I didn’t find you here and had to prove I was not a madman to all the ladies I pestered. ‘Pardon me, are you Elisabeth? Are you Elisabeth?’” He laughs.

Her stern mouth yields no ground to the joke. “Why would you not find me here?”

He stops laughing. He’s almost grateful for the excuse. “Never mind.” He tries yet another smile. His charm will work on her sooner or later. He’s determined that it will. “I am glad you agreed to meet me.”

“It is I who am glad,” she says, sounding more businesslike than grateful. “You came a long way.”

“The train ride was pleasant. This is a beautiful village. Lovely countryside. Of course, you said as much in the two or three letters we exchanged, but I had no way of knowing just how beautiful this place was until I saw it for myself.”

“And you have found somewhere to stay?” In case I decide against you after all, her brusque manner says.

“Yes. Herr Franke has let me a room above his shop.”

Now, at last, her expression softens—only for a moment, with the slightest lift of one corner of her mouth. It’s a very marginal smile, and there is something sickly in her amusement. But it provides a fleeting glimpse inside her armor, and the small relinquishment of tension puts Anton at ease. “Bruno Franke?” she says. “Bruno M?belbauer. That’s what the children call him.” The name means “furniture maker.” An appealingly simple epithet.

“Your children. Tell me something about them, please. You’ve mentioned them in your letters, of course, but I would love to know more.” He has already made up his mind to love these fatherless Lieblinge, despite knowing almost nothing about their characters.

Most women brighten when they talk about children—theirs or anyone else’s. Elisabeth does not. She lists their attributes flatly, as if reading from a bill of lading. “Albert, the eleven-year-old, is bright and inquisitive, always very thoughtful and kind. Paul is my boy of nine. He is very sweet, and helps me without being asked, but he often gets into trouble, being so young and not very thoughtful. Maria is six, as I have told you. I suppose I did not tell you that she is as full of mischief as the Lord ever permitted a girl to be.” Not a hint of fondness, though she must love her children beyond all reason. Only love could have led her to take out that advertisement. This is a woman pushed beyond gladness, almost beyond hope. She has reached the end of her wits and her strength. Everything has worn her down—the war, the bombings, the long stretch of unrelieved hardship. And the stories we all hear, of removals from the internment camps to darker places. The places of extermination—Che?mno and Treblinka, Sobibór and Auschwitz-Birkenau. As if, merciful Jesus, the Einsatzgruppen were not shame enough for our people to bear.