The Ragged Edge of Night(99)

She smiles at him through her tears. “God willing, we will escape.”

“The children need their mother.”

“God willing,” she says again, stubborn as ever.

Anton wouldn’t gamble on God’s willingness. “When M?belbauer hears what you said and did, he’s sure to write to his contacts. He’ll tell them you and I are married. They’ll arrest you, too, for lying to an officer.”

“I know they’ll learn the truth,” she says, “sooner or later. I know they’ll be back. You don’t think it was easy for me—do you?—to leave my children.”

He is almost weeping now. “Then why did you do it? Why return?”

“You are my husband. We will stay together, no matter what happens.”

He pulls her tightly to his chest and wraps his arms around her body. If only he could be her shield and spare her from what will come.

Emil places a hand on each of their heads, a silent blessing. “Go home,” the priest says. “Go and be together, while there’s still time.”

Together, Anton and Elisabeth walk the dirt road. They turn down the lane that leads to the old farmhouse, the orchard, the raised cottage beyond—their home. The whole way, Elisabeth holds on to him. She doesn’t release Anton’s hand until they reach their bedroom door.





41

It is easier to hope with Elisabeth beside him, but still Anton wishes she were back in Stuttgart. Winter gives way slowly to a gray, wet spring. The crocuses bloom, painting the milk cow’s pasture and the yard at the foot of the stair with strokes of purple and white. There is no one to build the rabbit garden this year, but with the few coins that remain to him, Anton buys a bar of chocolate from the bakery and sends it to the children in Stuttgart.

The crocuses fade, the season of resurrection passes, and still the papers bear witness only to the Führer’s immortality. But where there is love, there is hope. In his moments of despair, Anton takes Elisabeth’s hand. He tells himself, Be patient. In hope, we are saved. Hope that is seen is no hope at all; who asks for what he already has?

Anton and Elisabeth, husband and wife, fall into a quiet pattern of waiting. They rise in the morning, and they go about the business of life. Between the greetings they exchange with their neighbors, in the meaningful spaces between words, they search for the miracle they’re still waiting for. The radio broadcasts and papers all proclaim that Germany is mighty, Germany is strong, our dear leader is indomitable. But whispers tell another tale. In January, the camp at Auschwitz was relinquished to the Soviets, and what prisoners had survived were freed. In March, the Americans took Cologne—there is no word yet from Frau Hornik. Himmler is gone now, replaced by General Heinrici; the stronghold in Copenhagen has been bombed and destroyed. On the last day of March, General Eisenhower demanded Germany’s surrender. You won’t hear it on the radio, but that’s what rumor insists, and rumor has made its way even here, to our insignificant village.

The black tide is turning, but not swiftly enough. The NSDAP still holds Germany, but when a wolf is cornered, it’s far more apt to bite. Anton and Elisabeth listen and wait, but they don’t allow hope to bloom. In the evenings, they hold one another, surrendering for an hour or two to the fear that never abates. Sometimes she cries, already mourning what she has not yet lost—and sometimes it’s Anton who weeps. When sleep comes, their dreams are black and gray, shot through here and there with spots of light, like a candle hidden in a pierced shutter. And in the morning, they rise again. They pull back the curtains; they read the news. But still, news of Hitler’s fall refuses to come.

First the crocuses, then the daffodils. Then the tulips, blushing pink. Anton dreams at night of a place underground, deep in the earth, where only the roots of flowers may go. The dark ground shakes from a ghost’s voice, a memory’s voice. He wakes to the sound and feels its echo ringing in his palm.

He lies still, watching the sun’s light move slowly around the edge of the curtain. It’s late in the morning. He should wake Elisabeth, but she looks so peaceful in sleep. Let her have the mercy of dreams for a while longer.

He woke to a sound, and it comes again—so faint, so distant, that he mistakes it for a memory. He’d heard the toll of a bell, and it had sounded like a boy’s voice calling.

“Father!” The voice is closer now. Louder. And there is no mistaking to whom it belongs. “Father! Vati Anton!”

Albert. Anton could swear he has actually heard the boy, out among the orchard or running down the lane. He sits up slowly, but the movement is enough to wake Elisabeth. She stirs, yawns, and rubs a knuckle in her eye.

“Anton? What is it?”

“I thought I heard—” He won’t say, I thought I heard our son. They have lived without the children for months now—four cruel months, when it seemed winter would never end, a new spring would never come. Every day he has seen the pain in Elisabeth’s eyes. Every day he has known what it costs her to be here with him. He won’t raise hope without cause.

But she murmurs, “I had the strangest dream. I dreamed I heard Albert calling for me.”

Then, waking fully, she hears the boy again. They both hear. “Father! Mother!”

Elisabeth stares at Anton for a moment, pale and frightened. He can read her thoughts, for they are his own. Is this a trick of the Devil? Or has the boy died? Is our child’s spirit trapped between Heaven and Earth?