The Ragged Edge of Night(97)

Father Emil is across the room, sitting up in his own narrow bed, back propped against his pillow. He is writing a letter on a small wooden lap desk.

“Anton. You’re awake.”

Anton prods his own forehead, baffled by the thick fog that has swallowed his thoughts.

“How long did I sleep?”

“An entire day and half of another.”

So long? Anton sits up quickly—too quickly. He groans at the pain in his body, stiff and aching from their week of work, their nights of mad rebellion.

“Easy,” Emil says. “Move slowly. Trust me on this; I seem to have come through the worst of the pain.”

“Elisabeth and the children—they should be with my sister by now.” How will he know for certain? He must return to the cottage behind Frau Hertz’s farmhouse—the only place the letter carrier will think to find him. But the thought of entering the cottage, emptied now of everything he loves, is far too painful to bear.

“I slept, too,” Emil says, scarcely looking up from his letter. “Almost as long as you. The neighbors were concerned; they came knocking. I told them I’d caught a nasty cold and to keep their distance so it wouldn’t spread. That ought to explain my stiffness and absence. It kept their eyes off you, too.”

Emil finishes his letter, seals it in an envelope, and writes out the address in a slow, unhurried manner. Then he rises—slowly—and takes something from his desk.

“A letter for you. I sent a friend around to Frau Hertz’s place. She kept this, in case you ever came back. I’ve put your glasses there, on the little stool beside your cot.”

The letter is addressed in Anita’s unmistakable hand. He opens it hastily, greedy for news, and lies back on the cot to read.

Dear little brother,

I was only too happy to meet your Elisabeth and the children when they came knocking on my door. She gave me your note. You mustn’t apologize for surprising me this way, and you mustn’t feel any guilt. Of course I will take your family in, Anton, and give them all the care and protection I am capable of giving.

We make a tight bundle here—Elisabeth shares my bed, Albert has the sofa, while Paul and Maria sleep on the floor at night. But we are cozy, and no one is ever lonely. I think we can count that a great blessing in times like these. Your children are dear to me already; I love them as much as if I’d known them all their lives. I never looked to be an auntie, but now that I am one, I’m glad to be.

Elisabeth means to write you, I know. But she has been so sad. She cries all the time—I don’t tell you this to hurt you, only so you will know how much she loves you. I will see to it that she writes you soon, so you will have some word directly from your wife.

I know from your note, and from what little Elisabeth has told me, that there has been some fearful trouble. I don’t like to think of my baby brother in that sort of trouble. But whatever has happened, whatever you have done, I know you have done it with your whole heart, and with righteousness your aim.

You mustn’t worry about your family, Anton, whatever may come. I will care for them and love them, even if there comes a day when you cannot.

We will meet again, Brother, in this life or the next.

Love,

Anita

He lets the letter fall. Relief strikes him so hard and fast that he shakes as if in the grip of a fever. His glasses fog with the heat of his tears. They will be well. They will be safe—as safe as anyone can be.

Emil takes a long breath, on the verge of speaking, but he leaves his words unsaid. After a moment, Anton hears the priest’s pen scratching again, beginning another letter, telling his story all over again to whomever must know. He is content to leave Anton be, with his grief and his joy. Men cry—all the time. Our tears are the glass of our compass case, and the needle that points our way.





40

When the day comes—when the SS finally arrive—it’s the loud stir of the village that draws Anton and Father Emil out into the street. The sound pulls them from an afternoon prayer at the feet of Mary’s statue—not a sound of shouting, exactly, but of loud disbelief, a surging instinct of denial. When he hears it, whispering outside the walls of St. Kolumban, Anton rises from the prayer bench. Father Emil crosses himself, and then he stands, too. They consider one another in silence. Neither man sees fear in the other—only readiness to face what has come.

“That sound,” Emil says. “Someone has arrived in the village, someone who doesn’t belong.”

Anton nods. It can only be the SS. “Come for the traitors at last. Shall we go out and greet them?”

They need not go far. As soon as they step outside St. Kolumban, they can see the black truck approaching, dark canvas rolled down to cover its bed. The truck comes to a stop in the dirt road opposite the church door. A crowd of townsfolk follows on foot, shouting objections, raising their fists, though surely they must know it’s dangerous to do so. Any show of resistance, no matter how small, is apt to be punished.

To Anton, Emil says, “God keep you, my friend.” Then he strides forward, head up, to meet his fate. The black robe of his office flares at the hem, fanned like the stork’s wings. Anton hurries after his priest.

How his throat tightens with despair and hate when the officer steps down from the truck. Black from head to foot, his long coat falling just above his polished crow-dark boots, the Schutzstaffel man seems some hellish twin to Father Emil, made in the image of mockery. He is every inch as tall as Anton, but the eyes that narrow in the shadow of his cap are harder than Anton’s could ever be.