The Ragged Edge of Night(72)

Albert and Paul sit at the ends of Frau Hertz’s velvet-covered sofa. Between them lies a painfully old-fashioned Communion dress, spread out to air. Time has yellowed the fabric, and even at a distance, Anton can smell the residue of mothballs.

“Hold still,” Elisabeth says to Maria. “If you don’t, you’ll only burn yourself on the iron. Wouldn’t that be a fine addition to the day?” She glances at Anton—then looks again, dismayed. “You aren’t going to church in that outfit, are you?”

He feels like a dog who has made a mess of the rug. “I’m… not going to church today, Elisabeth. I must work—in Wernau.”

Her mouth falls open. “Not going? Anton! It’s bad enough, working on the Sabbath, but missing your daughter’s First Holy Communion?”

“I’m sorry. If there were any way…”

“There is a way. Go to church. Don’t abandon your family for mere work.”

They can’t discuss the matter in front of Frau Hertz and the children. “You know I can’t do that. This work is too important.” What must the Frau think? She has no reason to believe Anton is anything other than a music teacher. But she minds her own business, goes on pressing the damp out of Maria’s hair while the girl struggles and complains.

“I’m sorry,” Anton says again. “I’ll find some way to make it up to you. To all of you.”

Elisabeth will no longer look at him. The lines of her face—what little he can see of it, turned away—are hard and forbidding. “It’s Maria you owe an apology to, not me.”

Maria seems untroubled by the news. “Why can’t I wear my hair in curls?” Then, as Frau Hertz pushes her head down again, she shouts to Anton, “If you’re going to Wernau, I want paper dolls!”

“I’ll bring you some paper dolls to celebrate your Communion. Boys, help your mother mind Maria. Don’t let her get into any more trouble.”

He edges close to Elisabeth, meaning to kiss her cheek, but she pulls back. “You had better go.” She flicks one cold look at him, then her eyes dart away again. But he can see more than anger in her eyes. There is fear, too.





26

In Wernau, the shops are all closed. In a secluded alley, Anton manages to find a few discarded sewing catalogs stacked beside a garbage bin. The covers have faded, but the pictures inside—of ladies in smart dresses and men in tailored suits—are bright and cheerful enough to please any little girl. He tucks the catalogs under his arm and makes his way toward the bus stop, eyes open for his contact.

He sees Detlef Pohl before the man sees him. Pohl is carrying a cane this time—he is fond of adding elements to his various disguises, not that any message carriers rely much on disguise. Pohl walks with the dignity of a king in a procession. He pauses now and then to gaze in the windows of shops; he checks his pocket watch with an unhurried air, then tucks it away again. When they pass on the sidewalk, Anton and Pohl tip their hats, as polite strangers do. The folded paper falls from Anton’s other hand; the tip of Pohl’s cane comes down, pinning the message to the pavement.

“A lovely Sunday,” Pohl says.

“It would be lovelier if my wife didn’t want to skin me alive.”

Pohl’s mouth tightens. Too late, Anton remembers what the man said once, back in Kirchheim: Don’t tell me if you have a family.

His cheeks burn. It was a careless mistake. “I should be on my way.”

But as he turns to go, Herr Pohl says quietly, as if he can’t help it—as if it burdens his spirit, “A shame about Egerland.”

Anton glances back. “What has happened? I haven’t heard the news. Our town is so small, you know—we don’t always hear what happens in the world beyond.” But we heard about the students, arrested for contact with the founders of the White Rose. That fear still hangs over Anton, and over Elisabeth, too.

“The Czechs have pushed back,” Pohl says. “A rebel faction. They won’t last long; the Reich will lay into them soon enough. But for now, they’ve expelled at least a hundred German families—maybe more.”

“That is a shame,” Anton says.

Pohl lifts a single brow. “All those people, cast out of their homes. Women and children, wandering the countryside, homeless, hungry. I hear they’ve taken to sleeping in barns—when they can find them—and eating weeds. Like cattle.”

The picture of tragedy resolves before Anton’s mind, grim and clear. Now he says with real feeling, “How terrible. Can anything be done to help them?”

“They need homes, the poor souls—at least until their land is reclaimed and they can return to Egerland. Assuming the Czechs leave something for the exiles to return to, that is… something worth calling home. I have heard there is some relief effort planned, but it amounts to transporting the homeless here, to the Württemberg countryside, and turning them loose again.”

“Not much of a plan.”

“No, not much. But we don’t expect better from those at the helm, do we?” Pohl shifts his cane, pulling the message closer. When Anton has gone, he will bend and pick it up. He will make his way to the next contact; the words will flow, a trickle, a quiet stream. Pohl lifts his hat again. “I had best be going.”