The Ragged Edge of Night(66)
“Here is what I propose. Here is how you stand above the crowd. The Führer loves music; we all know that. And I am a music teacher. What’s more, I have instruments—I saved them from my old school in Munich. Wouldn’t it be a shame to throw away such an opportunity, such a resource? How many other towns have marching bands dedicated to the glory of our Führer? Forget the little villages—how many cities have bands to play for our leader? None—that’s how many. We could have Hitler Youth meetings, like all the other towns and cities, like everyone across the nation. Or we could create something new. Something no one has done before.”
M?belbauer’s eyes widen. Now, at last, he sees the great vision.
Anton presses his advantage. “Think of it: good, strong, German songs, celebrating the old culture, the old ways. Through music, we can teach our youth what it means to be real Germans. What better tool of culture? What better way to honor the Führer and celebrate everything he has done to elevate us? Music is his greatest love. With a youth band, Unterboihingen would certainly stand out. And any fellow who can say, ‘This band, this special salute to the Führer—I made it happen,’ well, the Party would notice a man like that. You can be certain.”
Slowly, thoughtfully, M?belbauer nods. Anton can see it: the gauleiter is ravenous for recognition.
“But,” Anton says, weighting his voice with regret, “as you can see, the only time I can manage to lead a band is Tuesday evenings. Hitler Youth night. You could find someone else to lead the club, I suppose…”
“But then none of the boys could join your band.”
“That’s so. What a quandary; what a difficulty. I suppose we’ll have to decide whether it’s better for us to make ourselves known to the Führer, or stick with the tried and true.”
M?belbauer passes the schedule back to Anton. “You say you have the instruments already?”
“I have everything I need.”
“Why don’t we give it a try, Herr Starzmann, and see where it gets us?”
Anton smiles easily. Herr Starzmann is every man’s friend. He reaches out to shake M?belbauer’s hand, and it’s all he can do not to tighten his fist and crush those greedy bones. “I’m glad you’re agreed.”
24
When Anton left the cottage for this first afternoon with the band, Elisabeth pressed a lunch into his hands, wrapped in one of her coveted pieces of waxed paper. She said almost nothing to him in words. Only, “When shall I expect you home?” and, “Viel Glück,” but the lunch spoke on her behalf, a volume of gratitude and worry she couldn’t bring herself to express. The packet is heavy in his hands, so heavy he wonders how he can ever hope to eat it all before reaching the Gymnasium, the secondary school. When he unwraps the paper, he finds a thick slab of liver, seasoned with pickled onions and yellow mustard, between two skimpy slices of bread. Stacked neatly atop the sandwich, there lies an orderly arrangement of dried apples, still laced on their oven-black string.
He examines the apples as he walks toward the school, purely for a distraction from his rioting nerves. The apples are soft and going softer by the moment; they have absorbed some of the sandwich’s moisture. When he bites into one, he can taste the tang of onions alongside the bitterness of curing smoke, the fumes from the sulfur candle with which Elisabeth has preserved the fruit. But after he chews a few times, the apple’s natural sweetness comes through. The overall effect is not unpleasant. He prefers the apples to the sandwich; he has never shared Elisabeth’s fondness for liver and onions.
His stomach is so tight with anxiety that he considers tossing the sandwich into some ditch or hedge, leaving it for the birds to peck. But he discards the thought almost as soon as it occurs. With such deprivation as we now face, it would be an unthinkable waste, almost a sin. Besides, he has no desire to throw away his wife’s gesture of affection. When he’d told Elisabeth about the band and his newly hectic schedule, she had understood at once. She said little then, as this afternoon—but for days after, she carried herself with a kind of grim confidence, a straightness and coolness that said she approved, that she, too, resisted. There were times when she smiled at Anton or touched his arm with a gentle warmth that surprised him. He can feel her touch now, an unseen hand on his shoulder, guiding him. He has no great love for liver and onions, but Elisabeth is another matter. He eats his lunch with all the steadiness he can summon.
He is licking mustard from his fingers when he reaches the school. Like nearly everything in Unterboihingen, the building seems plucked from another era. Its high-peaked roof is outlined in dark timbers. Ivy has climbed the white walls and been pulled away, leaving brown scars crisscrossing the stucco. And more vines have grown up again; one corner of the school is curtained in green, a spot of cheerful color in the January gray. Lessons have ended for the day; he had expected to find the schoolyard teeming with children, but it is empty, save for one slender figure in a high-necked charcoal dress.
When the teacher catches sight of Anton, she hurries down the path to the road. He removes his top hat before taking her chilly hand. She is young—early twenties, no older than Anton was when he first went to St. Josefsheim.
“Herr Starzmann,” she says, “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you. I’m Fr?ulein Weber—Christine.” She’s a pretty woman, tall and blue-eyed, with glossy chestnut hair and painted lips. Her pale cheeks are flushed from the winter’s cold.