The Ragged Edge of Night(70)

“You can have your breakfast after church,” Elisabeth reminds her. “You mustn’t have anything to eat before your First Communion. That’s the way it’s always done.”

Maria sags against the back of Albert’s chair, wilting for sympathy. “But I’m so hungry!”

“Think of how proud Vater Emil will be,” Anton says, “if you can be brave and strong, and take your Communion on an empty stomach.”

That does the trick. Maria dances away from the table, twirling so her white skirt lifts and floats around her quick little legs. “I’m glad I’ll take my First Communion from Vater Emil.”

“Who else would you take it from?” Paul says. “He’s the only priest we have.”

“But I’m glad, anyway. I like him best out of all the grown-ups I know… except for Mama and Vati.”

Anton suspects she has only added that last as a sop to his and Elisabeth’s feelings.

“I’ll go outside and play,” Maria announces, “so I won’t have to see the rest of you eating.”

“You’d better not,” Anton says. “You might stain that pretty white dress, and then what would Father Emil think?”

She throws herself down on the faded sofa, arching her back and rolling her eyes in a display of intolerable suffering.

Al edges close to Anton’s chair. “When you’re through eating, will you show me how to clean the cornet?”

“Of course. It’s fairly simple.”

“I’ve been practicing,” Al says eagerly. “I can play a whole octave now without having to stop and think about it.”

Paul adds, “I’ve practiced, too!”

“I’ve heard you both, out there in the orchard.”

From the bathroom, Elisabeth calls, “It’s a wonder Frau Hertz hasn’t evicted us. You boys shouldn’t subject her to all that ungracious honking.”

“But we’ll never learn if we don’t practice,” says Paul. “I want to play as well as Vati Anton someday.”

“You will,” Anton says. “I have no doubt. When I was your age, I—”

Elisabeth emerges from the bathroom, fastening her pearls around her neck. “Where has Maria gone?”

Anton and the boys turn to look at the sofa—empty. The cottage door is hanging open, morning light spilling inside.

“No,” Al groans.

Elisabeth clicks her tongue. “Go out and catch her, boys, before she can get into trouble.”

“I’ll go,” Anton says. “The boys are already dressed for church.” And he’s wearing only his workaday trousers—simple, faded blue, with his mauve shirt half tucked in.

He steps outside and peers down from the staircase. He can see the edge of Maria’s veil below as it disappears beneath the house. Anton would allow her to play, if he could—let her frolic in the springtime warmth. Let him witness this joy, at least, for he will miss the rest of it—his little girl’s First Communion. He hasn’t yet told Elisabeth that he won’t be at the church to see it. Last night, as he made his way home from the Forst place, Father Emil met him along the road and passed an urgent message with his handshake. He has never been required to carry a message on a Sunday before. That, he assumes, is one of the perquisites of working with a priest. But today’s duty can’t wait until after the Sabbath. It must be today. Elisabeth will be angry and hurt when he breaks the news, but there is nothing to be done. The fire of resistance burns hotter by the day; the secret networks are boiling with sudden activity, with an intensity that heightens his hope and his fear in equal measure. Something is going to happen, and soon. We are on the verge of a great change. We can only pray we will come through this trial alive and unbroken.

If only he could linger, enjoying Maria’s happiness for a few moments longer, before he must admit it all to Elisabeth and ruin the day—but if Maria stains her dress, the day will be ruined anyhow.

He hurries down the staircase, circles the cottage, and steps across the ditch that drains the muck out into the Misthaufen. He searches across the grazing yard, but the only whiteness is the goats’ hides; there is no sign of Maria in her Communion dress. Then, as he faces the house again, he spots the girl. She is walking along the stone wall, the one that forms the downstairs pen where the animals sleep. Maria puts one foot in front of the other, arms flung wide for balance. She hums as she walks. Stunned, Anton stares; Maria teeters, and her little arms spin like the blades of a windmill. That spurs him into action; he dodges around the corner of the foundation to where he might be able to reach her. Should he call out to her? Should he shout and scold? The last thing he wants is to surprise the girl into falling.

Maria turns her head, golden curls bobbing. She sees him now—squints at him, and quickens her pace.

“Get down from there,” Anton says. “Your mother will be angry. Running around in your Communion dress—what are you thinking?”

“I won’t fall!”

“I’ve seen you nearly fall half a dozen times already.” He edges closer and reaches up to grab her around the waist, but she darts from his hands, bright shoes tapping gaily along the stones.

“You must get down at once! Go back inside, and wait for the rest of the family to finish dressing. It will soon be time to walk to the church.”