The Ragged Edge of Night(89)

“And now to march,” Anton calls, keeping time in the air with his white baton. “Left, and left, and left—”

The band shuffles forward, their first fledgling attempt at marching. This is not a skill that comes to anyone overnight. It’s far harder than it looks, to step in time while you play, and more difficult still to coordinate your movements with the fellow beside you. Anton leads the band from the church toward the town square. He can hear the occasional clash of one horn colliding with another, and now and then, a sour note as the children lose their place in the music. But they are trying; practice brings perfection.

“Sch?n ist die Nacht” finishes just as the band arrives at the square. A few villagers have stepped from their shops and houses to applaud the effort, to cheer the band on. Someone shouts from a balcony, “Bravo!” and one of the Kopp brothers hoots wordless approval from his truck, idling in a narrow lane.

The children shift on their feet and mutter to one another, both embarrassed and thrilled by their grand foray into the public sphere. “Well done,” Anton tells them, but even as he says it, he can feel a sly prickle between his shoulders.

He turns. There is M?belbauer, lounging against the door of his shop. Two men linger beside him: Hofer and Janz. They’d been among M?belbauer’s supporters months ago when the gauleiter shouted down the Egerlander boys.

Anton makes a note of their presence now—the loyalists creep from the woodpile day by day, emerging from beneath their hidden stones, emboldened to wear their hate proudly and openly, even here in Unterboihingen. But he only nods at them, a pleasant greeting.

M?belbauer grunts in reply.

“What do you think?” Anton says.

M?belbauer stands up straight. He tugs at his lapels, certain of his own importance, and swaggers out into the square. “You want to know what I think? I’ll tell you. I was just standing there, wondering when you plan on teaching these youngsters some real German music.”

“‘Sch?n is die Nacht’ is German.”

M?belbauer spits into the dust. “It’s modern trash—practically jazz. You should be ashamed of infecting our youth with such filth, Herr Starzmann.”

Hofer and Janz mutter their agreement from the sidewalk.

“This is a simple piece,” Anton says. “We’re working up to more complex music. Besides, one can’t march to Wagner. It’s not the right kind of music.”

“I thought this band of yours was going to provide a way for Unterboihingen to honor our dear leader, the great values of the Party,” M?belbauer says. “That’s what we agreed to. But you seem more interested in playing your Catholic tunes and this American-tainted filth. What am I to think of that? Eh? Answer me that, Anton: What am I to think?”

Even the children in the band have begun to shift uncomfortably. Anton raises a hand to settle his students, to calm their fears.

He longs to say to M?belbauer, You thought this band would raise you up, so Hitler could see you and honor you. Or if not the Führer, then some other man of great power. And why not? I told you to expect as much. But I’ve played you, better than I play the church organ. This is my band now, my group. And I will keep these children safe.

But then he remembers Elisabeth, her desperate plea never to cross the Party again. He’s already walking a thin line, where his wife is concerned. If she decides the band is too dangerous, she’ll convince Anton to stop, one way or another. He knows when Elisabeth delivers her final ultimatum, begs him earnestly to give it all up, he won’t find it in his heart to deny her again.

“What about ‘Horst-Wessel-Lied’?” M?belbauer demands. “‘The Flag on High,’ our Party’s anthem? Surely that song is not too complicated for loyal German children to play.”

“If you want to hear us play good German music, approved by the Party—by the Reichsmusikkammer itself—we will be happy to oblige.” Anton lifts his baton; the instruments snap to position. “‘Emperor Waltz,’” he calls to the children, and before they can collect their wits, he counts them into the piece.

The arrangement of the Strauss piece is far more complex than the tune they have just played, yet not nearly as difficult as the children make it seem. They understand the importance of playing poorly now—such is the connection between a leader and his band. We anticipate one another; we carry our friends. With one mind, one body, we move. The children honk and chirp through the waltz, each losing time and picking it up again, careless and unconcerned. The display of ineptitude draws a satisfying cringe from M?belbauer.

When the band has struggled through a few more terrible bars, Anton cuts them off. His back is turned to the gauleiter; he winks at the children, and slyly, his band smiles behind the bells of their horns.

“As you can hear for yourself,” Anton says, “we need more practice before we’ll be ready to do justice to real German music—the great old classics in particular.”

Again M?belbauer spits. He slinks back to his friends, back to the lair of his shop. “I hope to see some improvement soon, Herr Starzmann. Otherwise, I’ll be forced to believe you never had any intent of making music to honor the Führer. You should know by now, I don’t consider liars to be my friends.”





33

A week later, the band assembles again outside St. Kolumban.