Paul says insistently, “But will you forgive us?”
A bright pang of adoration stalls him for a moment, cripples his heart. It’s his pardon the boys want, not God’s. A father’s acceptance means more to them now than any religious absolution. Anton lays a hand on each boy’s head. The unexpected flash of warmth has stolen his speech away, but a touch says what his voice cannot.
21
Twilight is fast approaching. Hurrying through town, Anton passes the bakery. It’s closed for the night, black shutters drawn over its windows and the shade pulled down to hide the front door’s glass. But the wrought-iron table is still sitting outside with its two simple chairs. He remembers the first time he saw Elisabeth there. He remembers the way she held her teacup and watched him without drinking, wary and speculative. He sees again the way her forehead furrowed as she picked up the newspaper and read her own advertisement. Who would have thought, on that day, that he would fall in love with the woman in the blue dress, the woman who never sipped her tea until it had gone cold?
He stops beside the iron table and drops his hand on its rusted surface, as if he might find in the spaces between the iron some remedy to his confusion. His own thoughts are puzzling him. What is this sudden lump in his throat, the pounding in his chest? Does he love Elisabeth, after all? And how strange, that any husband must ask himself whether he loves his wife! If he were less patient and less committed to God, he might shake his fist at Heaven for leading him here, to this strange place. But he is determined to forebear, to persist, even though there is an ache below his heart, a sweetly hollow pain, this realization that he loves her—or thinks he does—while she feels no affection for him. They have never exchanged more than the most cursory of kisses, the briefest touch. Why should it pain him? All is in accordance with their agreement, the bargain he foolishly offered more than a year ago, here at this cold table. He had still been a friar, then—in his heart if not in practice—and had wanted no more of her than she’d been willing to give. But now he is something more. Elisabeth’s husband.
“Herr Starzmann.” A thick voice, calling from across the street, pulls Anton from his thoughts. He turns away from the bakery table, quickly, swallowing hard, as if he has some reason to feel guilty.
It’s Bruno Franke—Möbelbauer. The man lifts an imperious hand—in greeting, or as an order? Stay where you are.
Möbelbauer comes toward him, scuttling across the empty road. Anton grips the lapels of his jacket, resisting the urge to hunker down in his coat, to hide from this man. It’s a ridiculous thought: tall, lanky Anton Starzmann can’t hide from anyone. Instead, he makes himself release his grip. He waves to Franke, giving the man his most disarming smile. And all the while, as Franke lumbers toward him, Anton thinks, You swine of a man. You’re lucky I’m an instrument in the Red Orchestra, lucky I can’t risk smashing in your smug face for what you’ve put Elisabeth through—and all the other women of our town.
When Möbelbauer reaches Anton, he folds his arms across his chest and smiles in a satisfied manner, a cat with a mouse pinned beneath its paw. “I’ve been meaning to speak to you,” he says.
Anton slides his hand into his pocket. He has already delivered the day’s message, over in Kirchheim. If Möbelbauer jumps him, manages to overpower him, he will find nothing on Anton but Anita’s letter, a pocketknife, and a pipe. And his rosary, of course. His fingers tangle in the beads for a moment, but he soon abandons them and takes the knife instead. The tortoiseshell handle is cool and smooth, reassuring even if it is small. Should he pull his only small weapon now, or keep it snug in his palm? No, there’s no reason for that—not yet. Anton draws his pipe from his pocket instead. He upends its bowl and taps it, though it is clean, nothing inside to fall out. He smiles at Möbelbauer again, patient, disarming, waiting for his doom to come.
“A fine evening,” Anton says, as if nothing in the world is wrong. He puts the pipe in his teeth, just for something to do. He doesn’t pack it or light it—somehow, it seems unwise to occupy both his hands, to let down his guard in this man’s presence. But at least he has something to bite down on, something other than Möbelbauer’s face.
Möbelbauer does not return the greeting. He says brusquely, as if presenting a delinquent customer with an unpaid bill, “You’ve got two boys, now that you’ve married the widow.”
“Albert and Paul. Yes.” The heat of fear suffuses Anton’s spine. He feels first weak, weak enough to collapse—and then, with a mad rush, he is a tower of anger, a bulwark of rage. He bites down harder on the stem of his pipe. The smile fades; in another moment, Möbelbauer will see the resistance in Anton’s eyes. Does the gauleiter plan to use the boys against him? Is this the start of it, the first whispered threat? He should have kept the knife in his hand. You won’t take them. You won’t harm a hair on my children’s heads. I’ll kill you first, I swear it. Anton doesn’t bother to repent of the terrible thought. God will understand; and if He doesn’t, then Anton has no use for Him.
But if Möbelbauer notes a change in Anton’s demeanor, he doesn’t show it. He says, “It’s long past time we brought some youth programs into our town, don’t you think? As the stepfather of two growing boys—boys who came to me to get leather for their slings—surely you agree.”
Marginally, Anton relaxes. Not enough to trust Möbelbauer—never that—but enough to unclench his jaw before he chews the stem of his pipe in two. “What sort of programs do you mean?”
It’s the wrong question to ask. Möbelbauer narrows his eyes. “Hitler Youth, of course. And the League of German Girls; I suppose we ought to start that group, too, if we hope to guide our girls along the proper path. What other programs are there?”
Casually, Anton laughs. “Ah, of course! I only thought—well, in my day, you see, growing up in Stuttgart, we had a few other clubs. But there are far better programs now, more streamlined, more organized.”
“Organized, yes. That’s what I mean, exactly.”
It’s only by the grace of God that Anton calls the smile back to his face. He resists the urge to snarl, to crack his knuckles under Möbelbauer’s nose. He says, “Do you think Hitler Youth will really catch on, though? Here, in this sleepy little village? It seems the sort of club city boys might enjoy, but—”
“I don’t see why not. Wernau has had its Hitler Youth program in place for years now—and the League of German Girls, too. The clubs had better catch on here. The children of Unterboihingen need a dose of morals every bit as much as city youth. I’ve seen your stepsons grubbing in other people’s fields. They need direction and guidance.” He says it in a manner that implies, If you and your wife won’t provide that guidance, we’ve no choice but to call on Adolf Hitler to raise your children properly.
“My work, you know.” Anton amazes himself with his perfect imitation of an apology. “It takes me out of town so frequently; I’m not with the boys as often as I’d like. And Elisabeth has both her hands full, with Maria and the sewing.” Why does he do this, explain himself, excuse himself to this man?
“Yes, your work. About that.” Möbelbauer pauses, considering his next words. In the brief silence, the fear and fighting anger return to Anton’s body. He trembles with the need to lash out at the detestable beast before him, but he shifts his pipe instead, from one corner of his mouth to the other. “Since you’re only teaching music, and not building anything or contributing to a healthy economy like the rest of us, I thought you would be the right fellow to lead our youth programs—the boys’ program, at least. We must find a woman for our League of German Girls, but that can be arranged.” Möbelbauer adds belatedly, “And because you were a schoolteacher, once. I suppose that also qualifies you for the role.”
By God, it’s the last thing Anton will ever do. What the youth of this town need is an example of Christian charity, of gentle love. And don’t we all need it, everyone across this nation? If we learned that lesson in the proper time, years ago—generations ago—where would we be now? H
is sons have learned charity and love—they have dug up goodness and generosity along with their stolen potatoes. Grubbing in other people’s fields, they have uncovered better ways to be better men. What a miracle, that Paul and Albert have found morality, surrounded as they are by hatred, by violence and war.
But Anton can’t refuse Möbelbauer—not if he wants to keep his family safe. He can’t even voice his loathing for Hitler Youth, for the crime of indoctrination. That detestable club amounts to the murder of fine young minds, and Anton will never support it.
He responds the only way he can, given how Möbelbauer has trapped him. “It sounds very promising.” He must forestall this dizzy twist of fate—give himself a chance to dodge Möbelbauer’s bullet. “I will need time, of course, to arrange all my affairs. I must be sure my schedule will coordinate; all those lessons I teach in other towns—”
“This is important, Starzmann.” Möbelbauer jabs a finger into Anton’s chest—he dares to touch him, this man who has propositioned his wife. “We need to show our allegiance. Even here in the small towns, we are still German.”
“We are still German. How right you are.”
“I can’t let this slide any longer—we can’t. Let us not put it off past Christmas. You’ll be ready by then, won’t you?”
“Certainly.” He adds, smiling, “Thank you for thinking of me. It’s such an important role, shaping the minds and hearts of our youth.”
Möbelbauer extends his hand, and they shake. Inwardly, Anton recoils from the touch, and more so when he considers what he has agreed to do. But how could he refuse this man’s request—his order? Even if Möbelbauer hasn’t yet discerned the reason for Anton’s comings and goings, the gauleiter’s eye has already narrowed its focus on Anton’s family. Elisabeth’s refusal will not sit well with a man of Möbelbauer’s sort. They walk the razor’s edge, now—Anton, his wife, and their innocent, unknowing children.
As he makes his way home through the dusk, Anton scrubs his palm against his trousers again and again, trying to erase the lingering feel of Möbelbauer’s grip. He must find a way to stop the gauleiter’s plan. He will not see his sons, nor any other children of Unterboihingen, indoctrinated into hate. They will not become a part of the evil that spurs on our government to ever worse and ever more horrific deeds. Anton can’t save all of Germany—he is only one man. But he can, he must, save this one small town.
He only needs to find some way to do it—some way that won’t end with Elisabeth and the children loaded onto a gray bus, with Anton choking on the smoke left behind.
22
Anton rises early the next morning, long before the sun is strong enough to seep around the edges of the wool curtains. His family is sleeping. In the un-light, quiet as a shadow, he dresses and takes his jacket from a hook beside the bedroom door. Across the small room, Elisabeth moves in her sleep: a rustle of bedding, a brief, baffled sigh. He sees her through the gray dawn gloom. Her hair is in disarray; she has thrown one hand up on the pillow, as if defending herself from her dreams. But her face is peaceful in sleep, as always. When she’s sleeping, it’s the only time she looks entirely fearless. She has grown used to sharing a bed with Anton. She no longer goes rigid when he lies beside her, and there are times when he would like to hold her, comfort her if he can. But he knows she will never accept comfort—not from him. Each night, as they lie side by side, as he edges into the blurred world of sleep, his arms seem to hold the ghost of his wife, a small, warm body grateful for protection. He can feel her, pulled close to his chest, and yet she is never there.
Anton slept very little last night, and when he did drift off, his fragmented dreams were all of the children he had already failed—those at St. Josefsheim. The calls of night birds, distant over the forest, echoed the wails of little ones torn from the friars who had sworn to protect them. They are lost souls now, frightened and unsheltered, vulnerable and small. By night, they weep across the dark and endless fields.
Anton leaves his cold bedroom behind and slips from the cottage, down the stairs into the damp chill of dawn. Sluggish with despair, he pushes the old shed door open and moves through the space inside, dragging dark and heavy thoughts.
It has been many months since Anton brought his clothing into the house—his other small possessions, too. His humble belongings now share the dresser and closet with Elisabeth’s things, though everything he owns, what he has brought to this marriage, seems to crouch in the presence of her life, frozen and panicked, like a rabbit that has forgotten to run from the hunter. Between what is hers and what is his, there is always a margin of emptiness—a gap between their hangers in the closet, a gulf between their folded sweaters and matched stockings, as if she can’t bear even for her possessions to touch his. But Anton has left the instruments in the old chests, locked up now so no one can find them. Cobwebs shroud the old trunks, clinging between wooden ribs. No one has touched the trunks for months, but they are not empty, despite what the spiders would have you believe.
He finds his key ring in his pocket and unlocks the nearest chest. There they all lie, cold, dull, and silent. They are creatures from a fairy tale, cast into endless sleep by a witch’s sorcery. He touches one, the cornet, and runs a finger along the rolled edge of its bell. Do they call me Herr Cornet, they who wait for the Red Orchestra to play?
I can’t do this, he tells himself. I can’t lead children into sin. I can’t teach them to do evil, to worship anyone other than God—especially not the beast who calls himself the Führer. I swore in Riga I would never again work for Hitler’s good. I can’t do this. I cannot, my God.
But what choice does he have? The gauleiter, with his notes and letters, with his contacts in Berlin . . . if Anton doesn’t obey, Möbelbauer will surely bring him to heel.
And that will be the end of Anton’s family.
Something is stuck between the cornet and a French horn below. Small, gray, papery, its dry leaves are bent and soft around the edges. He pulls it free of the horns and turns it over in his hands. It’s his workbook from his Wehrmacht days. In this small book, in a neat teacher’s hand, Anton recorded all his doings, the everyday drudgeries of military life. Struck by a sudden urge to see what kind of man he was then—longing to find some difference in his spirit, some proof that he is someone better now—he goes to the doorway, where pink morning light spills in. He opens the workbook, but the lines of his writing bleed together into black and formless shapes, and he can’t make out the words.
His service in the Wehrmacht was not long—one ill-fated march and then his escape, with his injured back for an excuse. Nevertheless, his leap from the plane and the march on Riga come back with vivid clarity. Against the dawn sky, he can see a tower of flames, a church spire wreathed in fire—and to either side, darkness rolling out toward a faraway horizon. He is trapped now in that same snare, forced to do the Reich’s bidding. No matter which way we turn, no matter how we resist, there is a fist of power ready to close around us. The road is straight and unvaried. It leads us on, merciless, toward ash and fire.
Since he took Father Emil’s offer and joined the resistance, there have been times when Anton has felt himself beyond his depth. When he was new and inexperienced, he couldn’t deny that he had flung himself into treacherous water, and it was far above his head. But he never doubted his ability to swim. No matter how deep the mire, no matter how swift the current, he could fight his way up to the surface—he knew it; his faith was unshaken. But this—the gauleiter assigning him a repellent task, and no safe way to refuse . . . For the first time since taking up the secret cause—indeed, for the first time since coming to Unterboihingen—he feels he can do nothing but fail. It leaves him stunned and absent, with a taste like copper on his tongue. He is weak, powerless, as all men are against the forces that assault our humanity.
Leaning against the doorframe, he breathes in the scent of morning. Dew hangs heavy in the air, and the irrigation ditches are thick and fragrant with water. The earth is
wet and weeping. The ground exhales the moisture of sleeping children’s breath; memory of the ones he lost hangs between Heaven and Earth, an unseen mist he can feel brushing his cheek, as he once felt their small hands, patting, holding to his habit, slipping into his own large, protective grasp. He is too tired to cry, too far surrendered to his grief.
He turns a page in the workbook; the lines unblur. The words assert themselves with brutal clarity. In his own handwriting, he reads: Church burned at Riga. And the vision is still there, beyond the page—flames leaping up the side of the spire, black smoke billowing, the road straight as truth, never bending, never changing.
Anton’s hand trembles as he turns another page. This one is blank. The pages after are blank, too, all the way to the end of the book. They had intended him to fill this book with accounts of his doings, his brave service to the Party. But he never set his pen to the workbook again.
We are troubled on every side yet not distressed. We are perplexed but not in despair. Persecuted but not forsaken; cast down but not destroyed. Not yet. And until they do destroy me, I can fight on. I can always fight, even knowing it is futile. Always bearing in my body the dying of Lord Jesus, that the life, also, of Jesus might be made manifest.
Anton cannot win, but they haven’t destroyed him yet. What is he now, if not a resister? If not a father and a husband, protector of widows and children? God’s command is the only one he will obey, the only voice he will hear, until they take him, too, and redistribute him to his grave.
He closes the workbook. There is a coin in his pocket, a five-reichsmark piece, with the worn-down face of von Hindenburg, all disappointment and jowls. Coin in one hand, he stares for a moment at the book’s cover, chestnut brown against military gray. The eagle, hard-eyed and angular, spreads its wings below the words “Deutsches Reich.” In its talons, it holds the oak wreath and the swastika, symbol of Hitler’s ascendancy.
The Ragged Edge of Night Page 19
