The Ragged Edge of Night(8)

“You need not fear,” he says quickly. “In truth, I… I can’t engage in…” He clears his throat, uncertain what to say.

Elisabeth’s brows lift again. She watches him, waiting and silent, but curiosity has replaced her shame.

Anton tries again. “I’m unable to father children.” It’s technically true. If he has no appetite for the act—if he is still a friar in his heart, bound by his vows—then it hardly counts as a lie. “I was injured in the Wehrmacht. You understand.” Let her believe the injury was severe enough to render him incapable, if she chooses to believe it. It will make no difference; she’ll never learn otherwise. Elisabeth needs a protector and partner, not a lover. Anton needs redemption for his sins. Each of them can give what the other seeks; there’s no need to complicate this arrangement with the things ordinary husbands and wives take for granted.

“I see.” Elisabeth’s businesslike manner has returned. Some of the color has come back to her cheeks, too. The prospect of sharing home and bed with an impotent ex-soldier seems appealing.

“That’s why I’ve sought out just this sort of arrangement,” Anton says. “A widow, a good woman with several children of her own—she wouldn’t expect more from me, now, would she? A girl who had never married and never known the joys of motherhood—she wouldn’t care to take on a husband with my… limitations.”

“But if you are”—her cheeks color again as she searches for the most delicate word—“incapable, then why marry at all?”

“Surely there’s more to gain from marriage than that.” He laughs lightly. “I’m seeking what all men seek: purpose. I want to be useful—do some good before the Lord calls me home.”

Elisabeth nods. She seems to understand. Under her breath, she says, “The saints know, there is an imbalance of good and evil just now.” Then she straightens suddenly and fixes Anton with a hard stare. “In one of your letters, you mentioned you’re not a member of the Party.”

He offers a small bow of acquiescence, hand to heart.

“Have you ever been? Might you be in the future?”

He says quietly, “The NSDAP stripped me of my place in this world. They disbanded my order, closed my school—and did more, besides. I will never be loyal to the Party. If that troubles you—”

“It doesn’t trouble me,” Elisabeth says at once. She smiles, then—the first smile she has shown. It is small, self-conscious, and restrained, but it suits her round face beautifully.

“It seems we see eye to eye, where political matters are concerned.”

“It seems we do.”

“I’m no expert on marriage, but I believe that gives us some small advantage—a chance for success.”

“If you are content to be… well, shall we say, a companion—”

“I am quite content. So long as I may be useful.” So long as I may find forgiveness. A chance to do right—to protect those who cannot protect themselves, as I should have done when God first gave me the opportunity.

“Then I… I am…” Elisabeth breathes deep, presses a hand to her stomach as if she seeks to quell a bout of nausea. She is not ready to say it, not yet. She can’t release the past as easily as that. Who among us can? What has gone before drags behind. As we move through our lives, our workaday habits, we trail our ghostly wakes.

He gives her the courtesy of time and silence to order her thoughts, to set her heart upon the path. He feigns interest in the men across the street, walking slowly past a fabric shop (long closed, painted sign peeling), with their coats slung over shoulders and their armpits darkened by sweat. Anton can’t help squinting as he watches the men pass, as if by narrowing his eyes he might see through flesh and bone, past the unassuming fa?ade we all must show in the open, into their hearts and spirits. Who are these men, really? For that matter, who is Elisabeth? Even in quiet Unterboihingen, you can’t be too confident, too careful. No place is free of disease. Hitler has breathed his hatred over the whole of Germany; there is no telling who is festering inside, who has succumbed to the black fever.

From the side of his gaze, even as he watches the men, Anton still sees Elisabeth. She seems to occupy the whole world. Her presence is looming, dominating—commanding in the urgency of her need. He has fixed his attention to the pale roundness of her face, the meticulous part of her hair, a straight line of scalp pinked by the sun. Or she has taken his attention and now holds it, a mild surprise to him. How long has it been since he looked at a woman this way? Twenty years? Even as a friar, he was still a man; to appreciate what God has made is no sin. But there was no possibility of romance in those days. No woman left Brother Nazarius sleepless—such longings would have been impractical—and if visions of feminine beauty haunted his thoughts when he ought to have been concentrating on his rosary or the Stations of the Cross, they did so no more often than memories of a rose garden or an especially moving line of music. Twenty years of celibacy have left him unprepared to confront his own heart. Elisabeth is attractive, in her way. Somewhat younger than he. She is no great beauty, though if her eyes were not so desolate and her mouth not so hard, she might come close. But outward beauty indicates nothing of real value—not to God and not to Anton. Little though he knows her, he can’t help but admire her courage, her fortitude, the great towering force of her faith. He is willing to make this marriage work, provided she is also willing. Provided God forgives him for the lie—the second one he has told today. He can find the redemption he needs with this hard-eyed woman. He feels certain of that. And he can do her good, too; yoked together, they might find it easier to toil in the traces of life.