Emil sets the bucket beside his door, the little side entrance only the priest ever bothers to use. “I’m sorry to hear it,” he says, flat and defeated.
“But I won’t let them do it, Father. They can’t.” Through the darkness, Emil watches Anton. The priest’s eyes pinch at the edges with sympathy, but not enough, not enough understanding. He doesn’t understand.
They already took the children. They can’t have music, too. They can’t have the full bronze throat of joy and sorrow. They can’t take the light from the world. He remembers the parachute opening above him, the calm of his fall toward Riga.
“Those bells have rung since before the Reich existed,” Anton says, his voice cracking with the strain. “And by God, I will see to it that they will ring long after Hitler falls.”
Emil pauses, one hand on the doorknob, and the hard lines of his face soften. His silence says, You really believe he will fall?
Anton takes him by the shoulder. The rules that govern men don’t permit him to do more, but Emil seems to understand. The priest nods, heartened—as much as one may be uplifted, knowing the gray buses are coming.
“You should plan how to do it,” he tells Anton. “We should both plan. Tomorrow. Can you find your way back home in this darkness?”
“I can. But there’s nothing for me to go home to.”
“Then stay here.” Emil opens the door. “I’ve got candles enough to work by.”
38
It takes six nights for Anton and Emil to dig their pit in the unused field behind the church. They do it under cover of darkness, or by moonlight and starlight when the clouds part, for no one must know, no one must see, even those whom they call friends. They take it in turns, one swinging an old pickax into hard, frozen earth, the other working with a spade, clearing away the loosened soil. When they strike layers of stubborn, ice-hard frost, they boil kettles of snow over Emil’s tiny stove. They carry the water out into darkness and pour it on the steaming ground, and in this way the earth is made to yield.
Six nights of work; they sleep by day, so weary from the digging that they dream no dreams. And then, when the pit is as deep as Anton is tall, and wide enough that a farm wagon could fit inside, they know their plan is ripe.
On the seventh night—the night of their final act of resistance—Anton and Emil ascend the bell tower together. They have draped their shoulders with lengths of heavy felt, which trails behind them as they climb. Up there, by the light of one tiny candle in a pierced brass shutter, they examine the bells. Even in virtual darkness, the ancient bells are beautiful, gleaming wherever a speck of light slides along their metal. A holy air hangs about them, captivating, sublime. Anton runs his hand over the nearest, tracing its graceful curve, and the bronze trembles beneath his palm. He can feel, in that caress, the echo of a thousand peals. The memory of these bells reaches back hundreds of years and more to a different world, when we were a different people. In the curve of their deep-bronze flanks, you can sense all the lives, long gone, that have listened to their tolling. He could never count the people who have heard the song. But he feels their presence, more numerous than stars, shuddering faintly under his touch.
He thinks, I will take this with me, too, into the gray that waits. I will feel memory and music alive in my hand.
Carefully, working on their knees, Anton and Emil wrap the heavy clappers in felt to silence St. Kolumban’s bells. When they have finished, Anton rests his hand on one of the old bronze singers again. This time, his touch is an unspoken apology. We must silence you for a time, my friend, though not forever. One day, when we know we are free, we will hear your voice again.
It seems impossible, that two men should be able to move the four massive bells—especially Anton and Emil, who are no longer young. But by the grace of God, the strength comes. They free the knots in the ropes and lower each bell carefully, laying hard against the great, rough lines, struggling and panting as they ease each sacred relic to the ground. It takes half the night to coax the bells out of the tower and the other half to roll them over the ground to the dark, frozen pit. With their ropes, they lower each bell again, until it stands upright at the bottom of the grave. Down there, not even moonlight can reach them. They are invisible, swallowed up by the earth.
The first light of dawn pinks the sky; time is running out. Exhausted, aching, trembling with weakness, they shovel soil over the bells, flatten all evidence of their work, and push snow atop the disturbance. Then, wracked with weariness, they kneel on the spot and pray. They ask that God might divert their enemies’ eyes from this place—make Unterboihingen invisible once again.
Neither man presumes to ask the same mercy for himself. It’s too late now to evade their fate. They can only beg the Lord to send them swift and easy deaths, and to shelter those they love when they have left this world behind.
39
Anton drops into sleep on a small cot in the corner of Emil’s room. When he wakes, groggy and disoriented, the low yellow light of a late-winter morning pools beside the window. The smell of old snow hangs heavy in the air—snow and fresh ink. He thinks, I’ve had an hour or two of rest, at least—a small but notable blessing.
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.
The officer nods a curt greeting to the priest. “You’re here; excellent. I’ve come to claim your church bells.”
Not come for them—Anton and Emil. Not yet.
Anton slides a wary look in the priest’s direction. Their eyes do not quite meet, but Anton can feel a fresh current of hope running through his friend—running between them, shared.
Anton says to the officer, “But . . . mein Herr, you already took our bells.”
“Nonsense. I haven’t come through this town yet.”
“Not you exactly, mein Herr.” He gives the man a grin, wide and friendly. Anton Starzmann is every man’s friend; his ready smile proves it. “It was another captain of the Schutzstaffel. When did it happen, Father—a week ago? Ten days?”
Emil taps his chin. “I believe it was—”
The officer silences Emil with a terse gesture. “No one came here. No other officer would intrude. This shit hole of a village is in my territory; it’s my responsibility. No one would be foolish enough to canvass my towns without seeking my permission, and I do not shirk my duties.”
Anton lifts his hands in a gesture of bafflement. “But it’s true.”
Father Emil nods. He points, indicating the bell tower—empty, a perfect square of blue sky showing at its peak. “You can see for yourself, mein Herr—our bells are already gone.”
The crowd murmurs and shivers. The villagers break away in little groups, making for the heart of Unterboihingen as quickly as they dare to move. The arrival of an SS officer would not have gone unnoticed, seven days past or ten. The villagers know Anton has lied. They know their priest has lied. And none of them wish to be questioned.
The officer’s voice rises an octave. “Do you think us fools? Do you think we can’t keep our affairs in order?”
“Certainly not,” says Emil calmly.
“Those bells were mine, meant for my quota. Why didn’t you stop the man who took them?”
Emil shrugs. “We had no idea our town wasn’t in that man’s jurisdiction.”
“And,” Anton adds, smiling again, “you don’t think we would say no to an officer of the SS, do you, mein Herr?”
The captain is rigid with anger, his jaw clenched so tightly Anton can count the striations in the muscle of his cheek. Then he leans close to Anton, so close he can smell the man’s breath. “Wipe that grin off your face, you small-town scum. This isn’t a laughing matter.” He turns to the few people who still dare to linger near the churchyard. “Who among you can corroborate this man’s story? Speak with care; I have ways of sniffing out lies.”
No one speaks. No one dares to move. Anton breathes deeply. He thinks, I gave it my best effort. From here, I’ll go to the camps, like my students before me. But I can be proud of the work I’ve done. A thorn in the wolf’s paw, however small that thorn may be.
From among the small crowd, a familiar voice speaks. “I can vouch for their story, mein Herr. I was here when the officer came. I saw it all; it was nine days ago, not ten.”
Elisabeth. She has come back. Anton can’t take his eyes from her face as she walks toward the officer—that familiar way she has of moving, her back strong and unbent. He clenches his jaw to blank his face, so the captain won’t see love in his eyes. He tightens his fists at his side to keep himself from moving, keep himself from standing between Elisabeth and danger.
“Who are you?” the captain barks.
“My name is Elisabeth Herter. I’m a widow; I’ve lived in this town eight years.”
The last watchers finally scatter. They won’t remain as witnesses while Anton and Elisabeth lie to this dangerous man—but neither are they willing to betray two members of their tightly knit community. And these two are better loved than most.
The captain stares at Elisabeth for a long time, searching her face for a flinch, a draining of color, any sign of weakness or fear. She stands her ground. She gazes back unfazed, the very picture of a good German woman, open and honest, loyal to her country, with nothing to hide.
Finally, the captain turns away. “If the bells aren’t there, then they aren’t there. But I will get to the bottom of this. I’ll know the truth of what has happened here, and then we’ll see who’s to blame.”
The truck’s door slams, and the engine coughs to life. The next moment, the truck is rumbling away, its canvas cover flapping, back down the main street toward open fields, toward Stuttgart beyond.
Anton and Elisabeth hold themselves apart, though for him, the urge to run to her is crushing, overpowering. He watches as she closes her eyes, still and silent, composing herself, bracing for whatever will come next. As soon as Emil whispers, “The officer is gone; I can’t see the truck any longer,” she flings herself toward Anton and throws herself into his arms. She weeps with relief against his chest.
“Merciful Mother.” Anton’s voice trembles. “Why did you come back?”
“I couldn’t leave you to face your fate alone.”
“But the children—”
“Your sister has them in her care. She agreed, if anything should happen to you and me both, that she would look after them.”
Gently he pushes her away, holding her by her shoulders. “You must go back, Elisabeth. You can’t stay here with me. We
had a close shave just now—but we won’t escape a second time. Whether they learn the truth about the bells or not, they will be back, someday, for Father Emil. And for me.”
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 Möbelbauer 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 Ragged Edge of Night Page 30
