The Ragged Edge of Night(74)

Elisabeth looks up to the cracked plaster ceiling. Her eyes are drawn, as if by instinct—as if by hope—to the tiny space above, the empty attic she cannot see. But she knows it’s there.

“Surely our attic is far too small,” Anton says quietly. “This house is hardly bigger than a tinderbox. There can’t be enough space above our heads for a man to stand upright. What kind of life would it be, crawling about on all fours?”

“It would be life.” He can hear his wife’s unshed tears wavering in her voice.

“And Elisabeth… if we were found out, the Schutzstaffel would take our children. You know they would.” They would make us watch while they shot our sons, our brave little daughter. They would put your hand on the rifle and force you to pull the trigger.

“I know,” Elisabeth says. “I won’t do it, Anton—I won’t hide anyone from the Party. I would never risk the children. But it will haunt me for the rest of my life, the fact that I didn’t do it. I never tried.” A new thought occurs to her. She sits up straight in her chair, and now all traces of tears have gone. “But the Egerlanders. The refugees. You’ve said they’ll be left here in Württemberg. We must take them in, if we can’t take Jews or Gypsies or Poles.”

He considers. Slowly, he mulls it over. “Can it displease the Party at all? I want to believe they would permit it, but what if they feel we’ve crossed them somehow—gone against their designs?”

“You cross them every day, as far as I can tell.”

“But I do this in secret. We could never hide it, Elisabeth, if we brought refugees into our home.”

“What can anyone say about it? What protest can they possibly raise? Those Egerlanders are our fellow Germans; we wouldn’t be aiding any of the impure.”

“If we take in the Egerlanders, we’ll draw attention to Unterboihingen.” No longer invisible. We will shine like a torch from the night sky.

Elisabeth considers for a long moment, brushing her lips with her fingertips, gazing up past the ceiling, to the space she cannot see. “You’re right; it will draw every eye in Germany to Unterboihingen. And that’s why we must gain the whole town’s approval. Everyone must agree, or none of us can do it at all.”

“I meant to pay a visit to Father Emil, first thing in the morning. I want to apologize for missing Maria’s Communion. Perhaps I’ll take the matter to him.”

“I wish you would. If anyone can convince our town to help those refugees, it’s Father Emil.”

This time, when Anton takes her hand, she allows him to hold it a little longer.

“You deserve a better husband,” he says, “one who is on hand whenever you need him. Whenever you want him near.”

Elisabeth makes no reply, except to squeeze his fingers. But in her touch, he feels a marginal warming, a thaw in her habitual chill.





27

Father Emil has called a meeting, and St. Kolumban is full to groaning. Every man and woman who is well enough to leave home has come to the church. The nave is loud with restless chatter, and although the arches of the ceiling soar high above their heads, the air is close with the breath and heat of so many people.

Holding to Anton’s arm, Elisabeth tightens her grip in surprise as they enter. “I never expected so many people would come to this meeting.”

“You said yourself,” Anton replies, “Father Emil can move hearts.”

She glances around uneasily. Anton can see it, too—the agitation in men’s gestures, the loudness of their voices, the emphatic shaking of women’s heads. Father Emil’s work is cut out for him.

“They seem reluctant,” Elisabeth says quietly as Anton leads her to a front pew.

“Some undoubtedly are. But keep faith, my darling. Let’s give the father a chance to work his miracles before we despair.”

They settle beside Frau Hertz just as Emil emerges from behind the rood screen. He steps to his lectern, and a hush falls across the nave. Villagers find their seats; there is a murmur and rustle like wind through a forest.

“My friends and neighbors, my brothers and sisters,” Emil begins, smiling, “I am so gratified to see all of you here this evening. I know it’s unusual, to assemble this way, but we find ourselves in unusual circumstances—or about to be touched by unusual circumstances, I should say.”

A mutter rises again from the nave, with a distinct note of protest. But it dies back just as quickly. Someone among the pews hisses, “Let the father speak before you judge!”

“Many of you have already heard the dreadful news from Egerland,” Emil resumes. “It’s true, I’m sorry to say: the Czechs have taken over there, and pushed German families from their homes. We’ve good reason to believe that the refugees will be redistributed to Württemberg.

“A member of our flock”—Father Emil does not look at Anton or Elisabeth—“suggested that we might open our homes to those in need, and welcome the Egerlanders among us. I’ve brought you here tonight with the hope that we might seek consensus, and act as one body in this matter.”

Across the aisle, Bruno Franke rises to his feet. It’s all Anton can do to keep a scowl from his face as he listens to the man speak—listens to him bellow.

“It’s a terrible idea. We oughtn’t even to think of it.”