The Ragged Edge of Night(76)

Carefully, Anton rises to stand beside his wife. “There is one consideration no one has yet raised. We’ve gone largely unnoticed, here in Unterboihingen—but if we take these families into our homes, word will get out. In the cities, they will learn the name of our quiet little village. Newspapers will run the story; they’ll talk about us on the radio. We will no longer be invisible, as we once were. Do we accept that risk?”

“No!” Franke shouts, and his supporters join him, shaking their fists above their heads.

But when a semblance of quiet has returned, Elisabeth speaks again. “It’s true what Anton says. We must be prepared to lose some of our safety. But ask yourselves this: If you leave the homeless to wander without shelter, will you be able to meet your own eyes in the mirror without shame? If you do what’s easy, instead of what’s right, will you ever hold your head up again when your spouse speaks your name? If you turn your backs while children starve in your fields, can you ever again touch your own child’s face without agony?

“Ask yourselves this: Are we good people, here in Unterboihingen? Do we heed the words of Christ, and care for our brothers—even for strangers among us? Or are we selfish as Judas, selling what is holy and good for a few pieces of silver?”

The remainder of the village rises now, shouting support for Elisabeth, for the Egerlanders.

Heart welling with pride, Anton tightens his grip on her hand. He can feel Bruno Franke’s stare on his face—on Elisabeth, too, darkly assessing. Anton will not look at the gauleiter—let him flounder in his defeat. But he takes note of the men and women who storm from the church on M?belbauer’s heels. Never would he have suspected this serene little village harbored so much hate. And never will he know what’s to be done about it.

The rest of town agrees; only Franke and his handful of supporters are openly against it. Even Bruno Franke’s wife—harried and sad, refusing to meet the eyes of other women—remains in the church. She, too, is in favor of helping the refugees.

From the lectern, Father Emil catches Anton’s eye and smiles. The matter is settled. Let Unterboihingen open its doors and welcome the refugees in.





28

Shoulder to shoulder, Anton and Emil relax in the orchard, their backs against the trunk of the largest tree. Smoke from Emil’s pipe rises and hangs among the new leaves. Dapples of light chase themselves, back and forth, across pools of violet shadow. The grass in the orchard is green and sweet, dotted where Anton sits with curls of soft, pale wood. The chunk of pine in Anton’s hand has become a prancing horse, a gift for the Egerlander girls to share.

“You’re a genius with a carving knife,” Emil says. He exhales a slow stream of smoke.

“This?” Anton stands the horse in the grass. It tips over. “I think I must disagree. This is hardly proper carving. Better call it whittling, and nothing more.”

“Have you always been a whittler?”

“My father taught me when I was a boy.” He shaves a sliver from one hoof. This time, the horse remains on its feet.

“You should teach your boys how it’s done.”

Anton laughs. “I’ve more to learn from Al and Paul than they’ll ever learn from me. And they’re natural teachers. Look at them.”

Across the orchard, in an opposite swath of shade, the boys sit on an old, thin blanket with the two refugee children, Millie and Elsie, who have come to live on the farm along with their mother, Frau Hornik. Albert is showing them how to play the cornet. He demonstrates, playing a high, clear note. He depresses one of the keys, and the note changes. Millie and Elsie look at one another, giggling, and when one takes the cornet from Al’s hands, the boy flinches back as if burned. The girls are twins, so much alike Anton can never tell them apart. They are of an age with Albert, and if the way Al blushes and fidgets in their presence is any indication, they have each given him a kiss or two when no one is looking. One of the girls tries to play. The cornet emits a weak, breathy honk, and all the children collapse into laughter.

Emil sighs. “What a blessing, to see young people so full of happiness. With everything these girls have been through—losing their home, the ravages of war—it’s a wonder they aren’t damaged in some way.”

“I’m constantly amazed by the resilience of children.”

“I suppose you saw that resilience often enough, teaching with the order.”

Anton nods. He plucks up the curls of pine and sorts them into a tidy pile. He still doesn’t like to speak of his days at St. Josefsheim—how they came to an end.

“This work, opening up her home to others—it suits Elisabeth well.”

Anton follows Emil’s gaze to the flat yard outside their old cottage. Elisabeth and Frau Hornik are busy with the washing; they have rolled their sleeves up past their elbows and covered their dresses with thick linen aprons; they splash in the tub and wrestle with the washboard, giggling like a pair of twelve-year-old girls. Maria is making mud pies beside the women’s feet.

“I haven’t seen Elisabeth so happy in all the time I’ve known her,” Anton says. “She likes Frau Hornik tremendously, as you can see. They’ve hit it off like sisters. Frau Hornik’s husband died several years ago, before the war got so bad—just like Elisabeth’s first husband, so they’ve got something in common. But there’s more to it than simply liking our guest.”