The boys laugh. Anton does not. Something had unnerved him, then, about the unabated straightness of the road. He hasn’t thought of the march in months, but now he finds that the road haunts him, cleaving its hard, dark, unvaried way into his thoughts. We march inexorably toward our destination. There is no curve or gentle slope to relieve us; straight ahead lies the conclusion of our national folly, the terrible work we set in motion at some unknown point in time. Behind, the long, narrow way of our past, paved in hard history and stretching into blackness.
But there is the church, tall and sturdy, pale as the autumn fields. And there is Father Emil, coming out to the yard to meet them with a handful of friends and neighbors. The women and children hold bunches of wild daisies, gathered from the hedgerows and smiling like hope in their hands. The people wave and call out, “Alles Gute zur Hochzeit!” We all welcome the excuse for a celebration.
Drawn by their school friends, the children run inside, and Elisabeth and Anton pause for a moment in the churchyard, side by side. Once they enter St. Kolumban, they must approach the altar with solemnity. There will be no time for talk, no last-minute negotiation, no chance to admit regret.
She turns to him. She smiles tentatively; her eyes slide away. “You did a fine job mending Maria’s dress.”
“I was glad to help.”
She looks down at her shoes, scuffed gray at the toes but polished all the same. She blushes, caught in the hot rush of some emotion, some thought she will never share with Anton.
He offers an arm. “Shall we go in?”
When the ceremony is over and the bells ring out brightly, Anton feels as tired as Elisabeth looks, as stunned and committed. They have said the holy words before God; they have taken the sacrament and made their pledge. There is no going backward now. Their road stretches out before them, straight and clear toward eternity.
8
The day has held, fine and brightly blue, one of those early-autumn afternoons when it seems October seeks to impress upon you, with warmth and a sense of contented indolence, how brief the summer really was. Residents of nearby farms have filled the orchard with tables and chairs; Elisabeth and Anton sit in the place of honor, she crowned with a wreath of flowers like a youthful virgin bride. Her small, clean hands are folded neatly on a white tablecloth that someone embroidered long ago with turkey-red threads. The threads are fraying now, and the stitches of some letters have been picked out, leaving only needle holes behind. But Anton can read the words easily enough: Wer seine Arbeit gut vollbringt, auch manches Andere oft gelingt! Apply yourself to your work, and success will follow.
With a quiet thrill of discovery, he finds that he likes to watch Elisabeth as she greets each neighbor. She has a charming way with familiar people—a warm clasp of the hand, a kiss on the cheek, and some small compliment for each of them, delivered with a soft, friendly laugh. You look well today, Herr Egger. You seem to be over your sickness. I’m glad you brought your potato salad, Frau Gerhard. Everyone knows it’s the best recipe in Unterboihingen. With him, Elisabeth is stiff and formal—but it’s only her discomfort showing. She doesn’t understand how to be his wife any more than he knows how to be a husband. Among the people she knows—those whom, over many years, she has come to trust—Elisabeth is gentle and clement, gracious and kind. He thinks, Someday we will know each other well, and then we will bring these simple joys to one another: friendship and comfort. Someday. But only God knows how long it may take.
Frau Hertz, the woman who owns the farm—the one from whom Elisabeth rents the old cottage—comes bustling out from her brick-and-stucco house, carrying a cake perched on the pink pedestal of a footed plate. She talks ceaselessly as she crosses the orchard, though no one is near enough to hear; she moves with quick steps, perfunctory gestures that put one in mind of a nervous hen or a plump, gray-haired Oma, sweet and solicitous, easily distracted, smelling of cinnamon and vanilla cream. The Frau’s hair is dark, not the least bit grayed, though she is at least twenty years older than Anton. He can see, however, that Frau Hertz used to be plump, and quite recently: loose skin hangs at the front of her neck, the remnant of a double chin melted away by the privation of wartime rations.
As she approaches the table of honor—the bride crowned in her glory, the groom sinking in his chair, uncertain what he ought to say and to whom—Frau Hertz marshals her aimless chatter, reins it and directs it. “A wedding celebration needs a cake,” she announces, loud enough for the whole town to hear. “It’s not the same without. You, Elisabeth—you wouldn’t let us do any of the rest of it, shame on you! But you will have a cake, I insist, I insist!” She sets the cake between them—bride and groom. It’s a simple affair, three golden layers spotted with raisins and thin bands of buttercream and marmalade between each. “But it’s humble,” Frau Hertz says. “Ought to have a prettier cake, but you know we all must conserve. I did the best I could with what I had to hand.”
“It’s beautiful,” Elisabeth says, taking her landlady’s hands in thanks.
“There isn’t enough for everyone, but you both must have a good, fat slice. For luck.”
Frau Hertz cuts hearty slices for Anton and Elisabeth, which she tips onto delicate china plates. She mutters as she works, “Who ever heard of a wedding without the dancing, or the fun?”
“Aren’t we all having a good time?” Anton asks. The neighbors are milling about the orchard, and laughter shimmers with the autumn sunlight among golden leaves. Plates are piled high with simple fare: sauerkraut and salads, unleavened bread rolls, slices of liver with onions. This is nothing to turn the head of a Berlin gourmand, but we are all glad for a celebration. Any excuse will do, if we may forget our troubles for an hour.
Quietly, to Anton, Elisabeth says, “I wouldn’t allow Frau Hertz, or anybody else, to make a big show of our wedding. She planned to have me kidnapped and hidden—you know that silly game young girls play at their weddings—and then send you out to hunt for me.” To her landlady, she says, “Herr Starzmann doesn’t want to spend the afternoon tramping around the fields and hedges looking for his wife. And it’s ridiculous to think of—me, sitting on a stool in some thicket, being eaten alive by bugs while I wait for him to turn up and rescue me!”
Anton has the briefest of visions, parting a dry hedge with one hand to find Elisabeth there, looking up at him, blanched white and gripping the edges of her seat with hard, impatient hands. Dead branches framing her face, a cross and baffled expression.
“It’s the tradition.” Frau Hertz is sulking. “And no rice, either.”
“It would be criminal to throw rice when so many people go hungry. Besides, Frau, this is my second husband. Those games are all right for girls who have never married before, but for me—”
“It’s Herr Starzmann’s first wedding. And, mein Liebste, a second marriage doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy yourself. I should know.” Frau Hertz leans close and kisses Elisabeth on the cheek. Elisabeth smiles at her friend, though not without a certain tension around her mouth.
When the woman has hurried off to another corner of the orchard, Elisabeth turns to her slice of cake, sighing, shouldering the burden of duty. “We’d best eat it all. Nothing else will please her. She is the dearest thing, but she’s more mother hen than landlady.”
There is a sudden stillness in the air, a shift in the atmosphere. Anton looks up; what has caught his attention? Then he sees the children gathered under the largest apple tree—not only Albert and Paul and Maria, but their friends, too: half a dozen boys and girls in their church-day finery. They are pressed close together, as if they’ve just been whispering among themselves. And their eyes are fixed on the cake. He gestures to them: Come on, then. They run across, giggling and shrieking with renewed vigor, and the orchard is lively with sound again, sound and laughter.
“Line up,” he says, “one at a time.” He cuts his slice of cake with the side of his fork, carefully, into equal pieces, enough for each child to enjoy one bite. They moon over the
ir small portions, savoring the sweetness of honey and raisins, their eyes half closed.
“Now you’ve given away all your cake,” Elisabeth says. She splits her slice in two and transfers half to Anton’s plate. “Don’t tell Frau Hertz what I’ve done. She’ll make me eat another whole piece. For luck.”
The children dart away. They organize themselves into a game of Katz und Maus without any discussion of the matter, with the instinct for play all young creatures possess. Albert and Paul have bounced back from the morning’s reserve. Maria never seemed the least bit troubled by Anton, nor did the proceedings of the ceremony faze her. Thank God, she stayed quiet and behaved herself; Elisabeth had committed the girl to Frau Hertz’s keeping for the duration of the wedding, and Frau Hertz may be the only person under Heaven who can extract obedience from that child. It is not Sunday, yet Maria is wearing her best dress—that’s all that matters to the girl. Adaptable, as young ones can be, Elisabeth’s children have accepted this new reality: they have a stepfather. Anton has a family. He thinks, I must write to my sister and tell her the news. She will never believe it—not of me.
He tastes his wedding cake. His first wedding; his only. Simple the cake may be, but the rich sweetness of honey and brandied raisins sings on his tongue. How long has it been since he has eaten anything so delicious? For years, life’s sweetness has been dulled and salted by the ash of war, but no longer. He closes his eyes.
“Frau Hertz does know how to bake,” Elisabeth says, “even if I think she’s foolish to squander her butter and flour on us.” Amusement in her tone at Anton’s reaction—and warmth, too. They smile at each other over their plates. It’s a moment of unexpected connection—an intimacy he never thought to find with his wife. His wife. He blushes—another unsettling surprise—for now he realizes, now it strikes him that he has shared this moment with Elisabeth in front of so many people, virtual strangers. It embarrasses him, for the unexpected intimacy, so sudden and raw, feels almost carnal. He is far beyond his depth; when was the last time he had anything to do with a woman personally, privately? As a friar, there was always the barrier of impossibility between Anton and the women he knew—those he met at the school or in his daily business or going about the streets of Munich. The gray habit and knotted belt had ensured his protection, visible reminders that he was a man apart, not to be considered. And he had never considered any woman, except as one must regard all people, as brothers and sisters in Christ. This military uniform, tight around the waist and growing tighter—it makes him conspicuous. It makes him vulnerable and male. Dizzy, he sees himself as if from far away, watching his movements, his every gesture across the orchard, across the whole of the village. When he stood at the altar with Elisabeth, repeating Father Emil’s prompted vows—and later, kneeling in prayer beside his new wife—he felt no emotion worth remarking. Nothing but resolve and comfort in the knowledge that this was what the Lord intended; this was his next calling. But now, beneath the apple trees in the mild October sunshine, with the laughter of neighbors and children all around, the full weight of reality descends upon him and sinks into his chest. The vow he has taken today—it cannot be unsaid.
He longs for the habit, his gray armor. He doesn’t know how to be himself in layman’s clothes. He never knew who he was in a soldier’s uniform, either, and so he doesn’t know himself now. The children, playing, dash by. They slip on rotten apples hidden in the grass and go down, shrieking, bob up again, turn and run. They climb up into the trees and lie like cats along the warm branches until their mothers scold them down and tweak their ears for staining their best shirts. How free they are, how unaware of duty or responsibility. They have taken no vows. Sometimes at St. Josefsheim, when his pipe could no longer hold his attention, he would play in the yard with the children. On days when fine weather put an early end to his lessons, he ran with his students in the field behind the school. He can’t run as well now—that’s the price of aging—but the longing for freedom and the innocence of play is no less powerful. He thinks, Lord, I have done what you asked. I have gone where you sent me. Now make me good at my work—better than I was at protecting my students from harm.
Three young men arrive late, shaking hands as they make their way through the orchard. Elisabeth leans close—not close enough to touch, but he is aware of her nearness and the unfelt pressure of contact that will never come, a phantom warmth against his shoulder. She lifts her chin in the direction of the newcomers. “The Kopp brothers. They own that big potato farm; you know the one. Out on the east side of the village.” She tells him the children call the Kopp brothers, collectively, Kartoffelbauer—“potato maker.” It is their private joke again, their habit of naming every citizen in Unterboihingen after his or her profession.
Kartoffelbauer make their way to the bride and groom. One must look closely to discern their differences—the nose a bit sharper on this brother, the chin stronger on that one, and the third with the first light lines of age traced in the corners of his eyes. They could almost be triplets, with their pale-blond hair and the same tenor note to their voices. In their three strong and youthful, sun-browned bodies, they make one polite, unison bow before the table of honor. They straighten at exactly the same time. Below the table, where Kartoffelbauer cannot see, Anton pinches the skin between his thumb and finger to keep himself from laughing.
“Herr Starzmann,” says one of the brothers, “we stopped by Franke’s place and loaded up your things.”
“How thoughtful! Thank you, my friends.”
“We’ve moved all your chests to the shed outside the house,” another says. He jerks his thumb toward Elisabeth’s stilt-legged cottage. “We didn’t want to go inside without your permission.”
“You know you’re always welcome,” Elisabeth says. “It was so kind of you to think of moving Herr Starzmann’s things. I had entirely forgotten to see to it.”
“So had I,” Anton admits. He shakes the three right hands of Kartoffelbauer.
“Any time you need help,” the eldest says, “I hope you’ll call on us, mein Herr.”
These days, everyone is inclined to band together, even in the cities. Now we look out for our fellow man. We anticipate needs and give small tokens of comfort. We offer the milk of human kindness, free to drink all you will, for every other kind of sustenance is rationed on the stamps, with never enough to satisfy.
The brothers disperse into the crowd, eager to join in the celebration while it lasts. Anton watches them go. He thinks, If we had taken up this habit of kindness long ago, before we fell into darkness, what suffering might we have spared the world and ourselves?
The bleakness of his own musing embarrasses him anew; again, he feels his face burn red. A man ought to cultivate happier thoughts on his wedding day. But Anton has never done this before.
9
Dusk comes earlier as autumn takes hold. It steals the light from the world so fast that the wedding celebration has barely broken up, the tables and chairs carried back into Frau Hertz’s house and the embroidered white cloth shaken off, folded in a neat square—and then full darkness has come. Anton and Elisabeth herd the sleepy children inside. The stairwell creaks and groans as they climb it together, this new-made family.
Inside, while the children cluster together in the dark, Elisabeth walks with her hands out, slowly and carefully, feeling her way toward light. She keeps a supply of candles in a small cupboard near the improvised kitchen: a porcelain sink, supplied by a hose from the farm’s cistern, and a woodstove in the corner, walled on two sides with terra-cotta tiles. A match strikes in the black room—a quick hiss, a crackle of flame, a spot of orange light flowering. The smell of sulfur, acrid and sharp. She nurtures the light with a steady hand cupped behind the candle, a sheltering curve of amber.
“There has never been any electricity in this old house,” she says, half apologetic, “so we’re used to candlelight. The good news is, we’re never troubled by blackouts, since we haven’t any electric lights to mis
s.”
The lone candle glows, revealing itself in an old-fashioned holder of plated brass with a dented handle. Behind the candle, behind the cupboard on which it sits, the wall plaster is pitted and cracked. Elisabeth produces from some shadowed corner another candle, whose wick she bends over with her stub of a match. The second flame catches. Then a third, and a fourth. The interior of the old house reveals itself, coming shyly out of hiding. It’s the first time Anton has seen the inside of Elisabeth’s home—his home, now. Curious, and with a tight lump in his throat, he examines the place. The sitting area, which takes up the better part of the main room, is neat and orderly. Sewing work lies folded in a basket, which is placed precisely next to a chair, with not a thread overhanging its edge. All the books are put away on a shelf below the window, in proper order with spines neatly aligned. There is an old-fashioned sofa against one wall, dark green fading to white on the worn cushions, but not a speck of dust on the upholstery. Everything is as tidy and ordered, as rigid as Elisabeth herself. Children never keep a home so well; their mother must spend every waking hour on housework when she isn’t sewing shirts for the few clients who can still afford to pay. This ceaseless cleaning, endless organizing—is it something she does because it is in her nature? Or do those chores distract her from the world, from the things she knows are happening out there beyond the walls of her home?
Even with the candles burning, the house is dark. The curtains are drawn across the windows, which are not large at any rate—thick woolen curtains, made to smother the life out of any wayward flicker of light. Anton goes to the nearest window and pulls a curtain aside by no more than a handsbreadth. He is gripped by an urge to see the stars tonight, as if he might fix in his mind the date and time, the celestial map of the moment when his life changed forever. Chart the planets in their courses.
The Ragged Edge of Night Page 7
