One of the shepherdesses waves to Al as he enters the market square, and someone else calls, “Who needs eggs? Young Herr Herter has arrived!” Every home in Unterboihingen has its own hens, of course, but Al’s birds are special. He has bred them carefully, an assiduous boy, with special attention paid to production and lineage. His eggs have a reputation: the best and biggest in Unterboihingen, big as ducks’ eggs, large and rich enough that two for breakfast can fill a grown man’s belly right through until suppertime. Anton watches the boy move confidently through the marketplace; he needs no guidance from Anton or any other man. Al has taken the egg basket from Anton’s arm. He speaks to each customer in turn, driving his bargains with one hand stretched across the basket’s top, protective of his wares. Al holds every egg close, and barters dearly. Only the best squashes will win a trade of half a dozen eggs from young Herr Herter—great, round, ribbed squashes, with skins so darkly green they are almost black and flesh sweet as honey. Al directs the fellow with the squashes to deposit them in Anton’s arms. In the shed beside the cottage stair, Al says, the squashes will keep for months, nice and cold through fall and winter. Mother will make a stew with them. She’ll keep it simmering on the stove for days at a time; one squash will fill our bellies for a week at least. For three more eggs, Al secures two bunches of beet greens. They aren’t Maria’s favorite, but Mother says she must eat them all the same. For eight eggs, he wins a real prize: a fat triangle of ripe cheese sealed in yellow wax.
“Not many boys your age would trade for greens instead of candy,” Anton tells him.
“They wouldn’t?” Al seems surprised.
“How many eggs are left?”
“Ten. I think I can get some honey, if Frau Werner has any left from her beehives. And Kartoffelbauer might have some old potatoes, too.”
“I’m afraid you must tuck whatever else you find in your basket. My arms are full.”
Smiling, Al nods. He works his way into the crowd with the last of his eggs, leaving Anton alone, an island in a sea of friends and neighbors.
Anton hugs the produce to his chest. He turns slowly, taking in the crowd, trying to pick out anyone he may recognize, hoping he can match names to some. It’s long since time he got to know the people of his home village. His eyes slide over faces that may as well be blank and featureless; he knows no one, though surely some of these people attended his wedding. But then, with a jolt of surprise, he spots a single familiar figure in the crowd. Across the square, he finds Elisabeth, her expression more serious than ever before. She is carrying a flat basket by its looped handle. Whatever the basket contains is covered by a checked cloth, tucked neatly in at the edges. She leans close to a tall blonde woman, whispering in her ear. The blonde woman nods, nods again; her eyes are as shadowed as Elisabeth’s, her jaw as firmly set. The flat basket changes hands. The blonde woman makes off across the market square, moving quickly, glancing now and then over her shoulder. Elisabeth watches her go.
“Elisabeth!”
When Anton calls out to her, she jumps, guilty and flushed. Her brow furrows when she sees him, a fleeting expression of annoyance, but she quickly smooths it away. She tilts her head—Come with me, the gesture seems to say—and threads her way through the crowd before Anton can reach her side.
When he catches up, Elisabeth is beyond the market square, walking slowly and alone down an empty street. The murmur of the crowd and the low, insistent bleating of the lambs thins behind them.
“I didn’t expect to find you at the market,” Anton says.
She glances at the things in his arms, the tassel of beet greens spilling over the deep ribs of squashes. “Albert chose well.”
“Are you sure I didn’t choose?” he says, teasing.
Her smile is brief, indulging. “Something tells me you don’t know how to market properly. Not yet.”
“That’s so; I can’t deny it. When I was a friar, St. Josefsheim handed me everything I needed—and Wehrmacht food wasn’t any good, but I never had to trouble myself how to get it.”
“You’ll learn, in time.” She is distracted, eyes and thoughts far away. They walk on in silence for a moment. Then Elisabeth turns to him suddenly, wringing her hands. “I don’t know if I did right, Anton. And I’m dreadfully afraid I’ve done something terrible—something unforgivable.”
“Elisabeth.” Should he call her something else? Dear, darling, meine Liebste? “Whatever do you mean?”
She draws a breath, then shuts her mouth tightly. He is quick enough to catch the look she gives him from the corner of her eye—searching, wary, untrusting.
“Whatever it is, you can tell me,” he says. “I am your husband, after all.”
“Yes, but—” She swallows hard. But you are a stranger to me still. But who really knows whether anyone can be trusted, in this world, in this Germany? As she hesitates, wrestling with uncertainty, Anton can all but feel her heartbeat, thick and racing, tight in her throat. He’s about to say, I will never betray your secrets, or perhaps, Whatever you’ve done, we can undo it, if need be—when Elisabeth turns to him again with that same rush of desperation. “It was pork, Anton. In the basket. I told Claudia to pass along word that it’s beef. And it was smoked, so I suppose that’s all they’ll taste. But what if they know the difference?”
He lets out a slow breath, understanding. “Claudia—that blonde woman—she’s hiding a family?”
There is no need to specify what kind of family. The better part of the nation’s undesirables have already been netted and filtered into camps—the Gypsies, the journalists, the mentally unwell. The men who love men, the women who love women. It’s the Jews who have made the most tenacious stand, refusing to leave—or unable to leave, poor souls. The lucky ones, the ones who might have some frail hope of survival, huddle in ghettos or live like rats in darkness, cringing between our walls, in the attics of our homes.
“Not Claudia,” Elisabeth says quietly. “I don’t know who it is—who in Unterboihingen has opened up their home. Perhaps they aren’t in Unterboihingen at all but some other village along the river. It’s better if I don’t know, of course, for if trouble ever comes here, they’ll punish anyone who knew, anyone who didn’t report it to the gauleiter.”
If trouble ever comes. If the SS come.
“But Claudia knows who.”
Her eyes fill with tears. “You won’t say anything. Please, Anton—I know we aren’t supposed to hide them, but I can’t. I can’t just go on living as if nothing is wrong, when I know what they do, where they send the Jews when they catch them—”
“There, now.” Gently, like soothing a frightened child. If his arms weren’t full of squashes, he would take her hand. “You have nothing to fear—not from me. I’ll never tell a soul, Elisabeth. I promise you that. Certainly, I will never tell that gauleiter.”
She nods. She sighs, a long and shuddering sound, releasing the better part of her fear.
“But you gave them pork?” Anton doesn’t want to laugh. It isn’t exactly funny, and yet there is precious little humor in the world.
“It was all I had.” She shakes her head, caught up, too, in an irreverent desire to smile. “A small ham that Frau Hertz and I smoked this spring. I had planned to save it for the winter, but when Claudia told me about that poor family, how badly they need food . . . The ham will keep better than anything else I could have sent, say eggs or potatoes. I could have spared some oats, but I suppose they have no way to cook, hiding in an attic or a cellar.”
“You did right,” Anton says. “It was good of you. Generous. It’s food from your children’s plates, but you gave it willingly.”
“We’ll do all right, with Albert’s eggs.” She presses her hands to her cheeks, as if trying to cool the heat of embarrassment. “But what if they know it’s pork, Anton? What if Claudia forgets to say it’s beef or lamb? They’ll think I’ve done it to be cruel—that I’m mocking them with a ham.”
“They’ll think no such thing. Even if th
ey can tell it’s neither beef nor lamb, they will be grateful. They won’t turn their noses up, I’m sure.”
“If they can tell, and they eat it, anyway, then I’ve made them break their laws. God’s laws.”
“God will forgive. Of that, I’m certain.” In the worst extremities, God does not resort to pedantry. The creator of all things has more sense than that, or so Anton believes.
“Here, give me those.” Elisabeth takes two of the squashes from his arms. “You shouldn’t have to carry everything yourself.”
“And neither should you. Shall we make our way home?”
“Yes. Albert will bring the little ones home when he’s finished with his eggs.”
At home, when the squashes and cheese have been installed in the shed, waiting in an orderly row on the shelf over Anton’s trunks, Elisabeth stands in the trampled yard in a shaft of late-morning light. The beet greens trail from her hand, tips of dark leaves brushing the earth. She stares up at the cottage, raised on its stilts, her head thrown back so she can see the highest window, and above it, the peak of the roof and the small attic space it conceals.
11
In daylight, there is no need to draw the curtains. Elisabeth has pulled the lengths of heavy wool aside and tied them back with strips of braided rag, and mellow afternoon light floods the cottage, warming every corner, gleaming on the smooth-worn wood of the ancient floor. The old furniture loses its austerity in the wash of sunshine. It looks comfortable and easy now, and even more so when Elisabeth settles on her chair and sorts through her sewing basket, one knee crossed over the other, her dark head bowed over pincushion and thread. The children have gone outside to play.
Anton lingers beside the window. It’s a simple pleasure, to bask in the sun; its warmth drives away the dark thoughts that plague him, that have followed him from St. Josefsheim. From the cottage’s height, he can see the tops of the apple trees, where a few golden fruits still cling to the uppermost boughs.
“Perhaps I ought to leave the sewing to you,” Elisabeth says comfortably. “Maria’s dress has held where you patched it. I never thought to find a husband who could sew.”
“I’m no tailor, but I learned enough in the order to keep my habit from falling to rags.”
“I could teach you to tailor, if you like.” She doesn’t look up at him, and there is no change to her tone, but Anton takes her meaning readily enough. What will you do for work?
“I had thought I might teach,” he says, “but Albert tells me there’s no need for teachers in Unterboihingen.”
“I believe he’s correct. The two schools are quite small.”
“Naturally. What are you working on?”
Elisabeth lifts her work from the basket—a pair of boy’s trousers in gray-brown tweed. “Albert’s,” she says. “I can let out the cuffs by a few more centimeters, but that’s it; I can do no more with these. And he’s growing so fast. Of course, Paul can make use of these trousers once Albert outgrows them, but I shall have to patch the knees and the seat by then. They’re getting quite worn. I’d rather not send Paul out of the house with patches all across his bottom, but we must make do, I suppose.” She sighs and returns to her work. “Patches will do for Paul, but I must make a whole new pair of trousers for Albert soon. I’ll need good, thick wool, so they’ll last through the next few winters.”
“Good wool isn’t easy to find just now. I don’t suppose the ragpickers find their way to Unterboihingen.” Anton tests one of the curtains between his fingers, feeling the weight and drape.
“We don’t get rag sellers here, no—and I won’t part with my curtains, so don’t even suggest it, Herr. Only a fool would leave their windows uncovered. The plain truth is, Anton—we need to buy new fabric.”
“It’s terribly expensive.”
She frowns over her stitches. “Of course it is, but there’s no getting around it. In a city, I might make do with rags, but there’s nothing I can hope to scavenge in this village. I’ve already begged and traded with the neighbors for their old clothing—anything I might alter to fit the children. But Unterboihingen exhausted its supply of secondhand goods years ago. If we don’t purchase a few yards of wool soon, I hate to think how we’ll fare next winter.”
Now, at last, she does look up, holding Anton’s eye with an expression that says, You’re my husband now. What are you going to do about it?
Sheepish, Anton says, “Albert gave me much the same lecture this morning. I should have thought more carefully about what I could do to support the family.”
“Have you anything to sell? Anything valuable?”
“Nothing, I’m afraid. Friars don’t live extravagant lives. You say the schools have plenty of teachers, but with my experience, perhaps I might tutor students in the evenings.”
“This isn’t Munich or Stuttgart. No one has money to spare now for something as frivolous as tutoring.”
“Frivolous?” He smiles.
Elisabeth is not smiling. “Tutoring is frivolity, in times like these. No parent would choose history or geometry over food for their child’s belly. Or clothes for their child’s back,” she adds pointedly.
He had hoped to tutor children in music, not geometry, but it’s likely that parents have even less use for private music lessons. Now it’s his turn to sigh. “You’re right. Perhaps I should go down to the church and speak with Father Emil.”
A consultation with their priest seems as good a use of his time as anything else Anton can devise. In any case, the father is likely to know best whether Unterboihingen can support a music tutor. It’s always the local clergyman who knows the intimate details of every family, every sheep in his fold.
At St. Kolumban, he lets himself into the narthex—the door is never locked—dips his hand in the holy water, and makes the sign of the cross. Emil enters from somewhere beyond the lectern, from an unseen passage behind the pierce-work screen. The priest halts, surprised by the sight of Anton with his fingers still dripping holy water. But Emil recovers quickly and smiles in welcome, his aging face all crags and lines. He is somewhere near the tail end of middle age—just on the brink of being old but still retaining a notable strength, the resolute, upright posture and square shoulders of a man undaunted. Certainly, Father Emil exhibits the enthusiasm of a much younger man.
“Herr Starzmann, my friend.” He stretches out his hand and takes Anton by the shoulder. “How do you find married life?”
“It’s hard to say. I’ve only been married for a day.”
“But even so.”
He shrugs. “I’m doing as well as can be expected of a man like me.” A man out of his depth, disoriented and, for the first time in his life, without a clue as to how he should proceed.
Emil laughs good-naturedly. Together they sit, as before, on the frontmost pew.
The priest says, “Do you know what I think? I believe being a father suits you. There’s a gladness about you I hadn’t noticed before, a certain lightness of the spirit. I can see it in you already.”
“I do enjoy the children—very much. They’re such good, earnest little people; Albert especially. Maria is contrary, but she doesn’t mean to be. She’s only young. She’ll mellow, with time. And Paul—he makes me smile every minute I’m with him.”
“I have always been quite fond of the Herter children. Or are we to call them the Starzmann children now?”
Anton says distractedly, “They can go by whichever name they please. I’ll care for them just the same, either way.” A pause, and then: “Yes, the children make me feel quite content. I only hope I’ll find the same joy in being a husband—but I fear it will be some time before I do.” Friars do not live by the same codes as other men, but even so, he knows it’s a shameful thing, for a husband and father to admit to such a failing. How can a man be so confounded by his wife?
“Elisabeth is . . . a complicated woman,” Emil says carefully. “She has her defenses. But don’t we all?”
But will she ever let me in, past th
e walls she’s built around her? And have I any right to expect it? He says only, “Times are hard, you know. I’m worried about the children, and Elisabeth.”
“Times are hard, indeed. But that is why God brought you here—to worry over this precious family.”
“I need to find some way to provide, Father. That much is clear already. The boys are growing too fast; Elisabeth needs to make new clothes for them both, but we haven’t enough money for cloth. You know how expensive it is these days. If we had ragpickers here, like in Munich, we might hope to find good cloth we can afford. But no ragpickers would bother trekking out here to Unterboihingen.”
“And Elisabeth has inquired, I suppose, of other mothers in the village?”
“Yes, but no one has clothing to spare—not that will fit the boys. We’re in a bad place, with winter coming. If I had a little income, I would go to the city and find whatever Elisabeth needs. But what are we to do? No one will accept eggs in trade for wool or canvas. It’s a job I need.”
Emil nods thoughtfully, eyes fixed on the altar. He strokes his chin, waiting for Anton to say more.
“I had initially thought I might take up with one of the local schools. But Albert and Elisabeth both set me straight; there are enough teachers already.”
“That’s so.”
“Then I thought I should offer music lessons—but as we agree, these days are difficult for everyone. Who can afford to pay a music tutor?”
Father Emil frowns at the cross, gilded yet small above the altar. His eyes are distant as he searches and sorts through a long corridor of thought. At length, he says, “I think you can expect to make some money by teaching music, Anton. You won’t earn a fortune, that’s certain—but I believe you will make enough to get by. Even a small income will help stretch the trades young Albert makes at the market—and that, I’m sure, will relieve some of Elisabeth’s fears. Tell me, can you play the organ?”
The Ragged Edge of Night Page 9