The Ragged Edge of Night(77)

“Yes,” Emil says. “I’ve always known her to be warmhearted, but I never knew what great love was in Elisabeth, until now—until she could be of some real service to those in need. She finds her strength in love.”

Again, Anton nods but says nothing. Elisabeth is prepared to love everyone, it seems, wholly and without reservation—everyone except him. If he knew the way to win her heart, he would have done it by now.

Emil says, “Elisabeth would be one of the brave ones—the ones who hide Jews in their own homes—if she hadn’t any children to think of. It’s only the little ones who have prevented her from opening her heart so wide. But what a big heart she has, all the same. The children must take priority, of course—that’s the way God made mothers. I suppose He knows best about such things.”

“She is brave, nonetheless—even without any Jews sequestered in the attic. But I know she would do more, save more people, if she could. It eats away at her soul, knowing she must choose between her children and someone else’s.” As it eats at my own soul.

“I admire her very much. She has lived a hard life—losing her first husband, facing poverty with three children to care for. Yet she never fell into despair. And the way she spoke for the Egerlanders—the way she stood up to Bruno Franke…”

“I fear that man,” Anton says. “I don’t mind admitting it to you.”

Emil draws on his pipe. He nods, exhaling.

“I fear him, and I hate him.”

“Anton, we mustn’t hate.”

“I know.” Hate is a foul and useless thing. It taints too much of this world. “You can give me my penance when next I come to confess.”

Emil smiles. He blows a smoke ring. “What do you know? I’ve always wanted to make a smoke ring—tried for years, and never could get it right. Now I do it without even thinking about it.”

The children come running through the orchard. “Ah,” Anton says, “the very girls I wanted to see.” He holds up the carved horse; Millie or Elsie takes it, and both girls admire it in silence. They bite their lower lips in exactly the same way when they smile.

“Vati Anton,” Paul says, “on market day, may we bring Millie and Elsie with us?”

“They want to see how we do the trades,” Al says.

“I think that’s a fine idea. Albert, you’ll be just the fellow to show them how to drive a bargain.”

Al’s freckles disappear as his face heats red. He won’t look at the twins, but he nods and says, “I’ll show them.”

“I might join you, if you’ll have me,” says Father Emil. “I need to pick up a few necessities—I’ve six single men from Egerland staying at the church, sleeping on bedrolls in the nave. They do go through candles and bread rather quickly. Would it suit you boys—and you girls, too—if I came along?”

“You are always welcome in our family,” Anton says. “There is no need to ask, my friend.”



When they reach the market square, Al hands his basket of eggs to one of the Hornik girls. He leads Paul and the twins into the crowd, explaining as he goes: “My eggs are the best in town, because my hens are the best, so my eggs are worth more, you see. We must be careful to get only the best things in trade.”

The boy and his voice disappear in the noise of the market square. Anton remains with Father Emil; Elisabeth and Frau Hornik have already sought out a gathering of women. They will put out word that Maria needs bigger shoes. Who has a child’s shoes to trade, and who needs a small pair, worn but still useful?

“It has been weeks since I came to market last,” Emil says. “Does Herr Derichs still have candles?”

“The best in Unterboihingen. He has been sick lately, but even so—”

Abruptly, Anton falls quiet. Over the bustle and noise of the crowd, a jolly sound rises. A skip and bounce of rhythm, the bright, smiling notes of brass. He and Emil thread across the square—and there, at the edge of the crowd, in the mouth of a narrow alley, he finds a handful of his music students playing a march. Their eyes light up when they see their teacher. Some of them blush. But they don’t stop playing, even when the notes fall sour. More people gather beside Anton and the priest, watching, listening, pausing to set down their cares for a moment of guiltless joy. When the march has finished, the crowd applauds. The boys bow to their admirers and then scatter into the alley, thrilled and embarrassed, laughing.

“I can scarcely believe how far they’ve come,” Anton says. He calls, “Well done, boys!”

Emil says, “You work even more wonders with your band than you do with your carving knife.”

“The children deserve your praise, not I. They’ve done the difficult work.”

“Don’t be so humble. It’s unbecoming.”

“Unbecoming?” Anton grins. “Doesn’t the Bible tell us we should be humble?”

Emil delivers a friendly blow to Anton’s shoulder. “I forget you were a friar. There’s no sneaking any point of doctrine past you. But accept a little praise, my friend; you deserve it. Your band has brought us all considerable happiness, when we have little other cause for feeling glad.”

Anton lowers his voice. Even in Unterboihingen, one never knows who might be listening. “My band has achieved exactly what I set out to do. Those boys in the alley—they won’t be pinning swastikas to their sleeves anytime soon.”