The Ragged Edge of Night(82)

It has been several months since Stuttgart was last bombed, but no one who is wise ever feels complacent. And only the good Lord can say how Cologne fares, or what might be in store for that place.

Anton takes her hand. She doesn’t pull away anymore, not since the Egerlanders came. Sometimes—rarely, when the children are not there to see—they even kiss. The briefest touch of their lips can set Anton’s heart pounding. It still amazes his old self, the friar self, when he pauses to think of it. In the order, he was perfectly content with a chaste life. But now he knows it was only because he never knew what was missing.

That night, the bed is theirs again, and the house is quieter than it has been for months. It feels empty of everything, hollow and brittle as an abandoned snail shell. In their nightclothes, they slip beneath the warm covers, and, in unison, they sigh.

Elisabeth laughs—such a happy sound, a strange contrast to the air of melancholy. “You’re thinking the same thing I am.”

“We slept on the floor for—how long? Two months? Three?”

“Near enough.”

“I always thought this bed was ordinary. Perfectly serviceable, but ordinary. Now I see it’s soft as a cloud.”

She rolls over and cuddles up against his arm. Anton’s breath seizes in his chest; she has done this only once before, drawing so close of her own accord.

She murmurs, “It is a good bed, after all.”

Slowly, fearful she will pull away or take flight like a frightened bird, he reaches across his body and lays his hand on Elisabeth’s shoulder. She is warm through the cotton of her nightgown, and she smells like Frau Hornik’s rose-petal soap. Elisabeth raises no protest. He slides his hand a little lower, tracing the graceful curve of her rib cage. He enjoys the feeling of a woman in his arms—and never thought to enjoy it until now. Oh, you friars and monks, you dedicated priests. If you only knew!

He asks her, “Will you be all right, now that the Horniks have gone? I know how much you loved caring for a family in need.”

“I only hope I gave the Horniks more happiness than I got from them. God willing.”

“You did, my darling—I’m sure of it.”

“Then I will be well.” She pauses. Crickets sing in the silence; from the sleepy orchard, a night bird calls. She says with a small, rueful laugh, “I’ll be well once I stop worrying about them. Frau Hornik and I have promised to write at least once a week. I need only wait until she’s settled in and sends me her address.”

“I heard,” he says with a chuckle. “Such oaths you made to one another, I have no doubt the mail carriers between here and Cologne will soon be staggering under the weight of all your letters.”

The thought makes her giggle. It’s such a girlish sound that it startles him. He has never thought to hear the like from his sober, quiet wife. It brings a smile to his face; soon Anton is laughing, too.

This is a small happiness, in a mad and dangerous world. But it’s better than gold, better than music, to know you made another person happy. To know you’ve kept them safe.





31

No duty calls him out the following day—no message to carry, no organ lesson in a foreign parish. He walks to town alone, determined to spend a little of his money at the bakery—something sweet for Elisabeth, to conjure up one of her elusive smiles.

But just as he reaches the main street and turns past M?belbauer’s furniture shop, a familiar figure catches his eye, tall and blocky and gray. The man is walking on the other side of the street. There is no cane this time, no spats on his shoes—but still Anton recognizes Detlef Pohl in the space of one startled heartbeat. He blinks and darts his head to look again. Surely he is mistaken. But he can’t deny what he sees: Herr Pohl has come to Unterboihingen.

This isn’t supposed to happen. There is a fixed order to their dealings, a way things are done—a way things are not done. Anton goes to Pohl’s towns, wherever the man is scheduled to turn up. His contact doesn’t come to him. No one, so far as Anton knows, was ever intended to come to Unterboihingen. His pulse pounds in his ears, and his stomach swells with sudden sickness. Something has gone wrong. Or worse, something is about to go wrong, here and now, where any of his neighbors—or his children—might see.

Anton sees at once that he must speak to the man, find out what he is up to. But they can’t speak where anyone may see. You’re never alone in a town so small. He is uncomfortably aware of Franke’s shop, just behind his shoulder. He can all but feel the gauleiter’s eyes watching him, prying into his back, into his soul. He ignores the feeling and walks on without any show of fear or hurry until he has drawn abreast of gray Herr Pohl. By chance, each man looks up at the same moment. Their eyes meet across the street, briefly and blandly. Anton turns and goes casually toward the church. But before he reaches St. Kolumban, on an empty stretch of road, he steps across a drainage ditch—dry, in the late-summer heat—and hides behind the crackling hedge that conceals the oldest corner of the graveyard.

He counts seconds. Then minutes. He peers through tiny spaces between yellow brambles and twigs shedding their first leaves—autumn is already eager to begin. There is Pohl, turning down this very road, strolling unconcerned in the direction of St. Kolumban.

Anton waits. He saves his breath until the man is close enough to hear. Then he whispers, “Pohl. I’m here.”