The Ragged Edge of Night(64)

Elisabeth cuts off his next words, whatever he’d thought to say. “Don’t talk about this in front of the children.” She turns to them, hard-faced and determined. “Go and pack. Be quick.”

The children weep as they go off to their rooms. Al says to Maria, “I’ll pack your knapsack for you.”

“Where on earth do you think to take them?” Anton says quietly.

“Anywhere that’s far away from you and this… this thing you do.”

“There is no place safer than Unterboihingen. You know that, Elisabeth!”

“Even this town isn’t safe as long as you’re doing… this! You could get us all killed!” She blanches as a terrible thought overtakes her. She wavers where she stands, and for a moment, he thinks she might faint. But Elisabeth is not the fainting type. She rights herself before Anton can reach for her. “Oh, merciful Mother—what about M?belbauer? Herr Franke… he knows. He has to know.”

“I’ll leave,” Anton says. “It’s better for the children to stay here.” He would rather risk himself in the cities, with the bombs falling, than Elisabeth or the little ones. “You aren’t thinking clearly, Elisabeth. You stay in Unterboihingen; I’ll go away.”

She pauses in the act of stuffing her bag. She turns slowly and gazes at him, fighting to swallow her tears. For a moment, he believes they will reconcile now—easily, just as easily as they did the first time. For a moment, he thinks she’ll say, I don’t want you to leave, either. But what choice do they have now? His dangerous secret is exposed. He has made trouble for them all.

“I only wanted to help you and protect you,” he says. The words sound weak, ineffective, even to him.

“You’ve done a remarkable job of it.” She throws the last of her things into her bag and storms out to the sitting room. The children are there, weeping and clutching their knapsacks. “Come, now,” she says, dry-eyed, and leads them down the stairs.

Anton follows them. The stairs rattle beneath his feet, hollow as loss. He knows it’s useless to plead with her, but he can’t simply stand and watch his family go. Elisabeth makes for the lane, and the main road beyond, the one that leads to the train station.

He dodges into the shed and pulls his cornet from the trunk. There are things a man can’t say with his voice, wounds only music can heal. The instrument is cold, and there is no time to warm it; the sound will be sour. But as Elisabeth marches the children toward town, he follows her out into the lane. He stands there while she walks away, while she leads the little ones farther and farther from his side.

Anton lifts the cornet to his lips. As the music follows her retreating back, he hears the lyrics in his head. He feels them in his heart.

Falling in love again, never wanted to. What am I to do? I can’t help it.

It’s the song Elisabeth danced to with her first husband. Marlene Dietrich, “Ich bin von Kopf bis Fu? auf Liebe eingestellt.” I can’t help falling in love. The music speaks in his place. It finds the words that evade him; it reaches across the gulf that separates these two wounded hearts and takes hold.

Elisabeth stops in her tracks. She stands for a long time with her back turned to Anton. The children mill and shuffle about her, looking back at their stepfather with pleading eyes while he plays and plays but doesn’t speak. There is a stone-hard resolution in the set of Elisabeth’s shoulders, the straightness of her back. She yields nothing to the music, nothing to memory.

But then, with a shudder so small Anton isn’t certain he has seen it, she turns. She faces him, eyes cast down to the dirt road. One step, then another, slow and deliberate, she walks back to Anton, chin quivering. By the time he plays the final chorus, Elisabeth is standing close enough to touch him, but she will not lift her eyes. He can see her jaw clenching, the muscles behind that round, pretty face hard and resisting.

When the song is done, Anton lowers the horn and Elisabeth lifts her eyes to his. They are so blue, bluer than summer. He has never noticed their depth before, their purity of color. But they have seldom looked at one another this way, lingering and close. In the softening of her look, he can tell Elisabeth sees his remorse, and reads his apology in his own eyes.

Anton waits. He tells himself that whatever she does next, whatever she chooses, he will accept with no further complaint, and no attempt to stop her.

Elisabeth leans forward, so subtly he isn’t quite sure she has moved. But then she creeps closer. She rests her head against his chest, just as Maria does when she is hurt or sad.

Thank you, God. Thank you. Anton wraps his arms around her, his wife.

“This is dangerous.” Her tears soak hot through his shirt.

“I know.”

“But you are my husband. I took a vow. God protect us, you are my husband.”

His heart expands, a sudden, forceful, grateful pressure. What has he done—what has he ever done, in this shameful life, to deserve such a good woman, a wife so brave and strong? She knows in her heart that resistance is right, even if it is dangerous. She is steadfast in her faith, as ever—and he loves her for it.

“I am your husband,” Anton says quietly. He presses his lips to her bowed head. “You are my wife. And I know God will protect us, Elisabeth.”

So I pray.





23

He prays, and the answer comes to him.