The Ragged Edge of Night(90)

Father Emil, leaning against the graveyard fence, calls out to Anton. “Your musicians have come far, my friend. The whole village is impressed.”

“Not quite the whole village, I’m afraid.”

Emil chuckles. No need to specify who is dissatisfied. “But will they be ready for the parade?”

Young Erik answers in Anton’s place. “We’ll be ready, Vater—just wait and see!”

“I have every faith in this group,” Anton says. “They’ll do Unterboihingen proud.”

The band’s marching skills have certainly improved. They can step along to the music with a respectable degree of coordination. At least they no longer run into each other; he’d begun to fear for the safety of his brass. Too many dents, and the sound will be affected forever.

Facing the band, walking backward, he counts the children into their song, and they begin in near-perfect unison.

“And here we go,” he chants, in time to their music, “and left, and left, and—”

The band hasn’t progressed more than a few yards when the horns stutter to a stop. One awkward crash of the cymbals rings out and is hastily silenced. Anton spins on his heel to learn what has distracted his students—and freezes, disbelieving what he sees. Beside the old church, the ivy curtain on the hillside wall shivers and stirs. The steel door creaks, groans, and then screams on its hinges as it opens. Emil staggers back from the fence into the middle of the street.

“Lord preserve us,” Anton mutters.

The priest makes a hasty cross over his chest.

In the sunstruck metal doorway, a man appears. He staggers into the churchyard on legs as weak as a newborn colt’s, one arm thrown up to shield his eyes from the pain of sudden light. The man breathes hoarsely; Anton can hear the rasp of his lungs from where he stands. The newcomer is wearing a brimmed helmet and the unmistakable green-gray uniform of the Wehrmacht. A soldier.

A soldier, come up like a demon from the depths of the earth.

As the man stands panting in the graveyard, wiping sweat from his brow, another appears in the doorway. Then another. The hill disgorges them more rapidly by the moment, two by two and three at a time; they scramble to get through the door, clawing at its steel jamb, tearing at one another like rats. They fight their way out of the tombal earth into fresh, clean air.

God have mercy, what are they doing here? Will Unterboihingen soon be overrun with soldiers? The Wehrmacht has resurrected the warren of tunnels, the passages that have laced the unseen depths of Germany since the time of kings. If this village becomes a regular hub for the transport of soldiers, the town will lose its precious invisibility. The bombs will find us, without fail.

Anton can’t allow himself to fret about it now. There is no time for fear, no time to stand and wonder. His mind leaps into action, seizing the strange opportunity God has presented. In the unexpected appearance of the soldiers, Anton finds his chance to put M?belbauer in his place—to disorient the gauleiter and prove to the man that his band must play on. As the soldiers assemble in the churchyard, awaiting the emergence of their commander, Anton lifts his baton again. His students, well trained, raise their horns in response, though they can’t take their eyes from the spectacle unfolding outside St. Kolumban.

“‘The Flag on High,’” Anton calls.

“But we stink with that piece,” Denis protests. The other children mutter agreement.

“Time to stop stinking. Come on, now—” He flicks the baton, setting the rhythm, and the band begins to play.

And they play well—as well as one can hope for, considering Anton has allowed only the most cursory rehearsal of the nation’s new anthem. The soldiers mass together in the shade of an oak, milling between the gravestones. They stare at the band, transfixed, as more of their number struggle up from the tunnel. Tentative smiles appear on a few soldiers’ faces. The music is already making them forget the horror of the tunnels, the groping through cold and damp, the weight of the unseen earth bearing down from the blackness overhead.

But the soldiers aren’t the only ones drawn to the band. A handful of spectators arrives from the center of town. They had thought to cheer the children on as they marched—but when the villagers see the Wehrmacht soldiers pulling themselves up from the earth, they stop and stare, disbelieving. They whisper behind their hands. What does this mean?

“Keep playing,” Anton calls. The children’s eyes dart about, and a few notes land false, sharp from tension. But they trust their conductor. They keep the rhythm. They do as their leader tells them and play on.

When the children arrive at the anthem’s bridge, Anton hears a rumble on the road, feels it pulsing against the beat of the song. He knows the sound of that truck’s engine. He heard it on the first day he came to Unterboihingen.

Anton glances over his shoulder. M?belbauer, the only man in town who could possibly have known the soldiers were coming, scowls at Anton as he cuts the engine, gets out, and slams the door of his truck. Anton pins the gauleiter in place with a challenging stare. You thought you had me, Herr Franke, but here’s the proof you wanted. Here: my band playing the National Socialist anthem, even though it kills me to glorify those devils. But better this than Hitler Youth. Better this than all these boys’ minds and hearts rotted by your poison. You thought you could put me out of the way—and punish Elisabeth for rebuffing you—but I’ve outwitted you. Now, even Wehrmacht soldiers believe I’m loyal to the cause. You can’t touch me. The Red Orchestra will play the final chord. We’ll outwit the whole damned lot of you.