The Ragged Edge of Night

by Olivia Hawker

  “What is it?” he whispers. “Tell me.”

  “It’s about those students from Munich—that group that called itself the White Rose.”

  “Yes?”

  “The SS arrested two more students today, Anton. They aren’t even proven to be White Rose members; they’re only suspected of having some connection to the resistance.” She pauses, fixes him with an unblinking, significant stare. “You know they’ll be executed.”

  “I know.”

  He can sense the fretful storm inside her, the need to say more. Still, she hesitates, drawing a deep breath. She presses her fingertips between her eyes, as if fighting back a headache or her own dark thoughts. The words claw their way out at last, though she won’t give them more than a whisper. “It’s too dangerous to fight back. We can’t stand up to the Party.”

  “It is too dangerous; you’re right about that. But we must fight, all the same. You know in your heart it’s right. I haven’t forgotten the ham—do you remember? You were beside yourself, fearing you’d insulted that poor, hidden family with your gift. I’ve seen the way you look at our house sometimes—the way you eye the attic. I know you’ve wondered whether we could hide any innocents there.”

  “But I would never go that far. I have my own children to think of—our children, Anton. I can’t risk their safety. Neither should you.”

  Anton knows Elisabeth is right. But neither is he wrong.

  Once, in Munich, he found a pamphlet published by the White Rose. It was a small thing, a leaflet, and what’s more, it was half burned and discarded behind a wall when Anton came across it, as if whoever dropped it there had been ashamed of having read it and had tried to destroy the evidence. But what shame could those words have roused in any honest soul? What he read on that charred scrap of paper still blazes in his heart. He has never forgotten those words—not a one. Like scripture, they rise whole to the surface of his thoughts. Like his wedding vow.

  Nothing is so unworthy of a civilized nation as allowing itself to be governed, without opposition, by an irresponsible clique that has yielded to base instinct. It is certain that today, every honest German is ashamed of his government. Who among us has any conception of the dimensions of shame that will befall us and our children when one day the veil has fallen from our eyes and the most horrible crimes—crimes that infinitely outdistance every human measure—reach the light of day?

  Those students were children when they started the White Rose and laid the foundation of resistance. Only children, hardly older than Albert and his friends. He remembers a building in Munich, the great green letters painted on its flat, windowless wall, the words of the White Rose: “We will not be silent. We are your guilty conscience. The White Rose will never leave you in peace.” When he came across the graffiti, the paint was still wet and dripping. He pressed his fingers against the words to feel the life in them. Threads of vibrant green remained embedded in his fingerprints for days.

  The Schutzstaffel, with their hard eyes, their guns, their black boots marching in lockstep—they may put us all on trial. They may try to break the spirits of our youth, but the young people are Germany’s guilty conscience, the teeth gnawing on the bone. And we are Germany’s conscience. The words of the White Rose are truer now than when they were written. The longer this party remains in power, the harder we must work to tear away the veil of our shame.

  “You can’t keep doing this,” Elisabeth says, “whatever it is you do for . . . them.”

  He hasn’t told her, I am only a messenger, and surely messengers are in the least danger. We only carry words. He hasn’t told her; it’s better if she knows nothing. One day her ignorance may preserve her, if God is merciful. He has only reassured her that his involvement is peripheral, incidental, and that much is true. But these days, mere association with suspected White Rose members is enough to get you arrested. In Munich, they will kill you for who you know. There is no point trying to reassure her, no point in telling her, I am safe. It would be a lie, at any rate—and Anton has promised himself he will never lie to his wife again.

  She says, “I can’t lose you, Anton. I need you. I need you in my life.”

  He takes her hand. He risks a careful touch, running his thumb along her knuckle. Her hands are roughened by endless work. “I will stay safe. I promise you that.”

  But he will not give up this work. Wir schweigen nicht, wir sind euer böses Gewissen.

  25

  It is a bright Sunday morning. The birds of early spring are singing as beautifully as they ever did in the days before there was war. Maria, dressed in her white finery, a little bride-like figure ready for her First Communion, can’t leave the breakfast table alone. Elisabeth tries in vain to keep Maria distracted from the porridge and apples to which her brothers attend with their typical appetites.

  “You can have your breakfast after church,” Elisabeth reminds her. “You mustn’t have anything to eat before your First Communion. That’s the way it’s always done.”

  Maria sags against the back of Albert’s chair, wilting for sympathy. “But I’m so hungry!”

  “Think of how proud Vater Emil will be,” Anton says, “if you can be brave and strong, and take your Communion on an empty stomach.”

  That does the trick. Maria dances away from the table, twirling so her white skirt lifts and floats around her quick little legs. “I’m glad I’ll take my First Communion from Vater Emil.”

  “Who else would you take it from?” Paul says. “He’s the only priest we have.”

  “But I’m glad, anyway. I like him best out of all the grown-ups I know . . . except for Mama and Vati.”

  Anton suspects she has only added that last as a sop to his and Elisabeth’s feelings.

  “I’ll go outside and play,” Maria announces, “so I won’t have to see the rest of you eating.”

  “You’d better not,” Anton says. “You might stain that pretty white dress, and then what would Father Emil think?”

  She throws herself down on the faded sofa, arching her back and rolling her eyes in a display of intolerable suffering.

  Al edges close to Anton’s chair. “When you’re through eating, will you show me how to clean the cornet?”

  “Of course. It’s fairly simple.”

  “I’ve been practicing,” Al says eagerly. “I can play a whole octave now without having to stop and think about it.”

  Paul adds, “I’ve practiced, too!”

  “I’ve heard you both, out there in the orchard.”

  From the bathroom, Elisabeth calls, “It’s a wonder Frau Hertz hasn’t evicted us. You boys shouldn’t subject her to all that ungracious honking.”

  “But we’ll never learn if we don’t practice,” says Paul. “I want to play as well as Vati Anton someday.”

  “You will,” Anton says. “I have no doubt. When I was your age, I—”

  Elisabeth emerges from the bathroom, fastening her pearls around her neck. “Where has Maria gone?”

  Anton and the boys turn to look at the sofa—empty. The cottage door is hanging open, morning light spilling inside.

  “No,” Al groans.

  Elisabeth clicks her tongue. “Go out and catch her, boys, before she can get into trouble.”

  “I’ll go,” Anton says. “The boys are already dressed for church.” And he’s wearing only his workaday trousers—simple, faded blue, with his mauve shirt half tucked in.

  He steps outside and peers down from the staircase. He can see the edge of Maria’s veil below as it disappears beneath the house. Anton would allow her to play, if he could—let her frolic in the springtime warmth. Let him witness this joy, at least, for he will miss the rest of it—his little girl’s First Communion. He hasn’t yet told Elisabeth that he won’t be at the church to see it. Last night, as he made his way home from the Forst place, Father Emil met him along the road and passed an urgent message with his handshake. He has never been required to carry a message on a Sunday before. That, he assumes, i
s one of the perquisites of working with a priest. But today’s duty can’t wait until after the Sabbath. It must be today. Elisabeth will be angry and hurt when he breaks the news, but there is nothing to be done. The fire of resistance burns hotter by the day; the secret networks are boiling with sudden activity, with an intensity that heightens his hope and his fear in equal measure. Something is going to happen, and soon. We are on the verge of a great change. We can only pray we will come through this trial alive and unbroken.

  If only he could linger, enjoying Maria’s happiness for a few moments longer, before he must admit it all to Elisabeth and ruin the day—but if Maria stains her dress, the day will be ruined anyhow.

  He hurries down the staircase, circles the cottage, and steps across the ditch that drains the muck out into the Misthaufen. He searches across the grazing yard, but the only whiteness is the goats’ hides; there is no sign of Maria in her Communion dress. Then, as he faces the house again, he spots the girl. She is walking along the stone wall, the one that forms the downstairs pen where the animals sleep. Maria puts one foot in front of the other, arms flung wide for balance. She hums as she walks. Stunned, Anton stares; Maria teeters, and her little arms spin like the blades of a windmill. That spurs him into action; he dodges around the corner of the foundation to where he might be able to reach her. Should he call out to her? Should he shout and scold? The last thing he wants is to surprise the girl into falling.

  Maria turns her head, golden curls bobbing. She sees him now—squints at him, and quickens her pace.

  “Get down from there,” Anton says. “Your mother will be angry. Running around in your Communion dress—what are you thinking?”

  “I won’t fall!”

  “I’ve seen you nearly fall half a dozen times already.” He edges closer and reaches up to grab her around the waist, but she darts from his hands, bright shoes tapping gaily along the stones.

  “You must get down at once! Go back inside, and wait for the rest of the family to finish dressing. It will soon be time to walk to the church.”

  “It’s boring inside! I don’t want to be there.”

  With an effort, Anton smooths the anger from his voice. All sugar, he says, “I know it’s boring, but you won’t be there for long. Then you’ll get to see Father Emil and stand up in front of everyone in your fine white dress. Isn’t that something to look forward to? Come along, now, mein Schatz. Let me help you down.”

  But at that moment, the door bangs open and the boys run downstairs, shouting Maria’s name. There is an urgency in their voices; Elisabeth has sent them off to catch their little sister and bring her to heel. Distracted, Maria turns toward her brothers—and misses her step. In an instant, she dips to the side; her arms flap helplessly in the air. Her little face is all round eyes and round, open mouth as she topples from the wall, falling on the inside—where the animals sleep. A tremendous crash follows the little white figure’s disappearance. And then, a moment later, a cloud of stench rises from the Misthaufen trench.

  Anton sprints to the back of the house and throws open the gate of the pen. He hurries through the straw bedding, kicking it this way and that. The dairy cow, dozing in her bed, lumbers to her feet with a frightened bellow. He finds Maria at the bottom of the muck trench, lying flat out in the urine and dung. The poor thing has smashed right through the light wooden planks, a perfunctory screen that, until now, has hidden the trench and its unappealing contents. For a moment, Anton fears she is seriously injured, perhaps fatally—she lies so very still. But then Maria sits up slowly. She looks down at herself—at the Communion dress, so lovingly made by Elisabeth, brown and reeking now, ruined with filth. She sucks in a tremendous breath, throws back her head, and lets out a long, piercing scream.

  The boys join Anton below the house just as the cow trots away, driven off by Maria’s earsplitting cry.

  “What have you done?” Albert cries, while Paul shouts with entirely too much glee, “Mother’s going to burn your backside!”

  Anton reaches for the girl. The boys move as if to help him, but he waves them back. “Don’t you get filthy, too. Your poor mother has enough to worry about.” He lifts Maria in his arms, though the smell nearly chokes him. “Are you hurt?”

  “No,” she wails, “but now I’m all dirty!”

  “Didn’t I tell you this would happen?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t believe you! I didn’t think God would be so mean to me on my First Communion day!”

  “It wasn’t God who did this, you silly girl. You’ve no one to blame but yourself. This is what disobedience gets you!” Still cradling Maria, he carries her out from under the house. His own shirt is smeared with the same foulness, but there’s nothing to be done about it now. He stands Maria upright in the grass, surveying the damage. The filth is everywhere—soaking the front of her smocked dress from bodice to hem, splattered on her red face, matted in her hair.

  Elisabeth has come to the sound of her daughter’s cries. Maria’s distress has summoned Frau Hertz, too; she runs from the farmhouse, already talking to no one in particular and wringing her hands. Out of breath, Frau Hertz can only cluck with worry, but Elisabeth is mute from shock.

  After a few moments of useless gasping, Elisabeth musters her words. “We have only half an hour before we must leave for the church! Maria, you will be the death of me!” Tears spring to Elisabeth’s eyes. Anton is surprised—he hasn’t seen her weep since that day in the lane, when he played his cornet. “Whatever can we do?”

  Frau Hertz takes Elisabeth under her comforting arm. “Be calm, my dear. It’s not as bad as you think. I still have my old Communion dress; I know just where I’ve stored it. It should fit Maria. It’s old-fashioned, of course, but it will serve.”

  “I want to wear this dress,” Maria cries. “It’s so pretty!”

  Paul says, “It’s not pretty anymore,” which only makes Maria cry all the harder. Elisabeth clouts Paul on the back of his head, sending his blond hair ruffling. The boys bite their lips to stifle their laughter.

  “Come along.” Frau Hertz guides Elisabeth toward the big farmhouse. “We’ll get her cleaned up and dressed. There will be enough time, Elisabeth; don’t you fret. Albert, run ahead and fill up that big copper tub, the one I keep in my kitchen. The water will be cold; there’s no time to heat it. But we must wash her hair. There’s muck all through it. Anton, you carry Maria.”

  As Frau Hertz marches her away, Elisabeth glances back at Anton. “You must change your clothes as soon as we’ve got Maria into the tub, Anton. She’s smeared dung all over your shirt; you can’t go to church in such a state.”

  Anton does change, when he is free to do so. But when he enters the Hertz home several minutes later, freshly dressed, he is still not wearing his Sunday best.

  Wrapped in a large towel and shivering, Maria is bent over an ironing board with her hair spread flat along its length. Already she has been thoroughly scrubbed; Frau Hertz can work wonders when wonders are called for. Elisabeth has clamped both arms around Maria’s middle, trying to keep the girl from wiggling. Frau Hertz applies a hot iron to Maria’s hair. The iron hisses like a serpent, and a cloud of steam rises, beading moisture on the windowpane.

  “I was about to start my ironing when I heard Maria scream,” Frau Hertz says. “The iron was already hot. That was good luck; otherwise, we couldn’t hope to dry her hair in time. I’m afraid you won’t have curls today, Maria, but straight hair is better than muck-covered hair.”

  Albert and Paul sit at the ends of Frau Hertz’s velvet-covered sofa. Between them lies a painfully old-fashioned Communion dress, spread out to air. Time has yellowed the fabric, and even at a distance, Anton can smell the residue of mothballs.

  “Hold still,” Elisabeth says to Maria. “If you don’t, you’ll only burn yourself on the iron. Wouldn’t that be a fine addition to the day?” She glances at Anton—then looks again, dismayed. “You aren’t going to church in that outfit, are you?”

  He feels
like a dog who has made a mess of the rug. “I’m . . . not going to church today, Elisabeth. I must work—in Wernau.”

  Her mouth falls open. “Not going? Anton! It’s bad enough, working on the Sabbath, but missing your daughter’s First Holy Communion?”

  “I’m sorry. If there were any way . . .”

  “There is a way. Go to church. Don’t abandon your family for mere work.”

  They can’t discuss the matter in front of Frau Hertz and the children. “You know I can’t do that. This work is too important.” What must the Frau think? She has no reason to believe Anton is anything other than a music teacher. But she minds her own business, goes on pressing the damp out of Maria’s hair while the girl struggles and complains.

  “I’m sorry,” Anton says again. “I’ll find some way to make it up to you. To all of you.”

  Elisabeth will no longer look at him. The lines of her face—what little he can see of it, turned away—are hard and forbidding. “It’s Maria you owe an apology to, not me.”

  Maria seems untroubled by the news. “Why can’t I wear my hair in curls?” Then, as Frau Hertz pushes her head down again, she shouts to Anton, “If you’re going to Wernau, I want paper dolls!”

  “I’ll bring you some paper dolls to celebrate your Communion. Boys, help your mother mind Maria. Don’t let her get into any more trouble.”

  He edges close to Elisabeth, meaning to kiss her cheek, but she pulls back. “You had better go.” She flicks one cold look at him, then her eyes dart away again. But he can see more than anger in her eyes. There is fear, too.

  26

  In Wernau, the shops are all closed. In a secluded alley, Anton manages to find a few discarded sewing catalogs stacked beside a garbage bin. The covers have faded, but the pictures inside—of ladies in smart dresses and men in tailored suits—are bright and cheerful enough to please any little girl. He tucks the catalogs under his arm and makes his way toward the bus stop, eyes open for his contact.