The Ragged Edge of Night(87)

She pauses. Still holding Anton’s arm, she stoops toward the tall grasses and picks a simple blue flower. She twirls the stem in her fingers; the flower spins.

“We did marry. That same evening, in fact, as soon as the train stopped at Stuttgart. We scarcely had two coins to rub together, but with each other, we felt we were more than blessed. Those were some of the happiest times in my life, though we were so very poor. We made do with what we had and never felt we lacked the finer things in life. What does one need, beyond love?

“Soon enough, Albert came along, and little Paul not long after. We moved here to Unterboihingen when Paul was a baby, just before Maria was born, because of his allergies. He couldn’t take the city air, the poor little mite—he used to cough all night until he was too weak to cry. I feared if we didn’t get him out of the city, he would die—and once we arrived in Unterboihingen, he began sleeping through the night again. He thrived. We all thrived here, in fact, though I’d been sure I could never come to love country life—not truly. In a farming community, there was always plenty of work for Paul; he improved many of the farmers’ holdings, with his knowledge of plants and the earth.

“But then, shortly after Maria was born, it all fell apart. Paul cut himself—such a simple thing. The cut wasn’t deep, but the wound festered. And then… he was gone, almost before I could realize that his death was a possibility.

“I look back on the time I spent with him, and it seems a miracle. I knew things weren’t right with the nation—beyond the boundaries of our private happiness, I was aware the world was falling under some dark shadow. But I still felt safe, secure, for I had my husband, and I thought, ‘God will soon set everything right. He won’t allow evil to go unpunished.’ I had my little family—what could truly go wrong? I would give anything to go back to those times.”

She turns to him, eyes brimming with a sudden, forceful passion. “Do you think me terrible? Because I—”

“Because you still love Paul? No.” Anton brushes her cheek, tucks the stray curl behind her ear before she can reach for it. “He sounds like a wonderful man. If I’d known him, I think I would have loved him, too. Your devotion does you credit.”

“I wonder, when I get to Heaven someday, will I be his wife, or yours?”

Anton doesn’t ask which she would prefer.

“I understand,” Elisabeth says. She bends the stem of her flower, crushing it in her fingers, and the scent of green sap rises between them. “I understand why you’re doing it. What you said about the children you taught—I understand why you can’t leave the Party alone. God knows, none of us should leave them in peace. None of us should allow them to work this evil without any resistance. But it’s all I can manage, to care for my children. To see that my children survive.” She pauses and closes her eyes. In the silence, a dove calls from the trees overhead, nasal and lazy in the August heat. “I think, sometimes—sometimes, I am sure—that God will punish me. For not doing more. We are meant to care for our neighbors as if they’re our brothers and sisters, aren’t we? What kind of a Christian am I, if I turn my back on the persecuted? But unless I turn my back and look to my own home, my babies will suffer. I can’t, Anton—I can’t do better than I’m doing now. God will damn me for it, but at least my children will survive.”

There is only so much one person may give before it exhausts your shallow well of courage and leaves you damned and dry. Before outrage becomes commonplace, and you grow used to the horrors of this life. They count on it, the Nazis—and other villains, too. Mussolini in Italy and Baky in Hungary, Ion Antonescu, purging the streets of Old Romania—and those who, in some future time when civilized people think themselves beyond the reach of moral failings, may rise to stand on foreign soil. They want you tired and distracted. They plan to burn this world down—our old ways of being. From the ashes they will build the world anew, after a fearful pattern, after their own bleak design. But the flames can only devour what we leave unguarded. So they will force you inward, if they can, to huddle over whatever small treasures the Lord has given you. When your back is turned, that’s when they’ll strike the match.

“God will not damn you,” Anton says. “You gave up your bed to refugees. You taught your children right from wrong. You stood by your husband, when you knew the extent of it—what I’ve tangled myself in, the dangers I’ve exposed us all to.”

“About that.” Elisabeth opens her eyes. Unclouded now by fear or regret, they skewer him in his place. “I don’t know how much longer I can take it.”

“Let me do the work you can’t do. Let me fight, let me resist, when you cannot.”

“You endanger my children by doing it—our children, Anton.”

“The last thing I want is to harm our children.”

“Then you must stop. You must. No more carrying messages, or whatever it is you do. No more visits to other towns. M?belbauer isn’t stupid. He sees the way you come and go; he must see it. How long until he realizes—?” A thought comes to her, too terrible to speak aloud, though this can’t be the first time it has haunted her. She presses the tips of her fingers against her mouth. What if M?belbauer has already realized?

“I can’t stop now. We’re so close, Elisabeth—so close! Everything is in place now. We’re positioned to act.”