Anton seizes Elisabeth’s hand to silence her. He can all but feel his wife’s hotheaded reply, for it’s burning on his own tongue: I’d take in a Jewish family, too, if I could—and call myself blessed for the chance. But it would never do to admit such a thing here and now. Not with Franke’s eyes narrowed and darting around the room, searching for sympathizers and traitors.
“Peace,” Emil says from his lectern. “Peace, my friends, peace. It’s plain to see that we all feel strongly about the Egerlanders. Yet we must decide what’s best to be done. For the refugees are coming to Württemberg, whether we like it or not. Do we offer them shelter, or do we leave them to roam the countryside, fending for themselves?”
Carefully, Anton rises to stand beside his wife. “There is one consideration no one has yet raised. We’ve gone largely unnoticed, here in Unterboihingen—but if we take these families into our homes, word will get out. In the cities, they will learn the name of our quiet little village. Newspapers will run the story; they’ll talk about us on the radio. We will no longer be invisible, as we once were. Do we accept that risk?”
“No!” Franke shouts, and his supporters join him, shaking their fists above their heads.
But when a semblance of quiet has returned, Elisabeth speaks again. “It’s true what Anton says. We must be prepared to lose some of our safety. But ask yourselves this: If you leave the homeless to wander without shelter, will you be able to meet your own eyes in the mirror without shame? If you do what’s easy, instead of what’s right, will you ever hold your head up again when your spouse speaks your name? If you turn your backs while children starve in your fields, can you ever again touch your own child’s face without agony?
“Ask yourselves this: Are we good people, here in Unterboihingen? Do we heed the words of Christ, and care for our brothers—even for strangers among us? Or are we selfish as Judas, selling what is holy and good for a few pieces of silver?”
The remainder of the village rises now, shouting support for Elisabeth, for the Egerlanders.
Heart welling with pride, Anton tightens his grip on her hand. He can feel Bruno Franke’s stare on his face—on Elisabeth, too, darkly assessing. Anton will not look at the gauleiter—let him flounder in his defeat. But he takes note of the men and women who storm from the church on Möbelbauer’s heels. Never would he have suspected this serene little village harbored so much hate. And never will he know what’s to be done about it.
The rest of town agrees; only Franke and his handful of supporters are openly against it. Even Bruno Franke’s wife—harried and sad, refusing to meet the eyes of other women—remains in the church. She, too, is in favor of helping the refugees.
From the lectern, Father Emil catches Anton’s eye and smiles. The matter is settled. Let Unterboihingen open its doors and welcome the refugees in.
28
Shoulder to shoulder, Anton and Emil relax in the orchard, their backs against the trunk of the largest tree. Smoke from Emil’s pipe rises and hangs among the new leaves. Dapples of light chase themselves, back and forth, across pools of violet shadow. The grass in the orchard is green and sweet, dotted where Anton sits with curls of soft, pale wood. The chunk of pine in Anton’s hand has become a prancing horse, a gift for the Egerlander girls to share.
“You’re a genius with a carving knife,” Emil says. He exhales a slow stream of smoke.
“This?” Anton stands the horse in the grass. It tips over. “I think I must disagree. This is hardly proper carving. Better call it whittling, and nothing more.”
“Have you always been a whittler?”
“My father taught me when I was a boy.” He shaves a sliver from one hoof. This time, the horse remains on its feet.
“You should teach your boys how it’s done.”
Anton laughs. “I’ve more to learn from Al and Paul than they’ll ever learn from me. And they’re natural teachers. Look at them.”
Across the orchard, in an opposite swath of shade, the boys sit on an old, thin blanket with the two refugee children, Millie and Elsie, who have come to live on the farm along with their mother, Frau Hornik. Albert is showing them how to play the cornet. He demonstrates, playing a high, clear note. He depresses one of the keys, and the note changes. Millie and Elsie look at one another, giggling, and when one takes the cornet from Al’s hands, the boy flinches back as if burned. The girls are twins, so much alike Anton can never tell them apart. They are of an age with Albert, and if the way Al blushes and fidgets in their presence is any indication, they have each given him a kiss or two when no one is looking. One of the girls tries to play. The cornet emits a weak, breathy honk, and all the children collapse into laughter.
Emil sighs. “What a blessing, to see young people so full of happiness. With everything these girls have been through—losing their home, the ravages of war—it’s a wonder they aren’t damaged in some way.”
“I’m constantly amazed by the resilience of children.”
“I suppose you saw that resilience often enough, teaching with the order.”
Anton nods. He plucks up the curls of pine and sorts them into a tidy pile. He still doesn’t like to speak of his days at St. Josefsheim—how they came to an end.
“This work, opening up her home to others—it suits Elisabeth well.”
Anton follows Emil’s gaze to the flat yard outside their old cottage. Elisabeth and Frau Hornik are busy with the washing; they have rolled their sleeves up past their elbows and covered their dresses with thick linen aprons; they splash in the tub and wrestle with the washboard, giggling like a pair of twelve-year-old girls. Maria is making mud pies beside the women’s feet.
“I haven’t seen Elisabeth so happy in all the time I’ve known her,” Anton says. “She likes Frau Hornik tremendously, as you can see. They’ve hit it off like sisters. Frau Hornik’s husband died several years ago, before the war got so bad—just like Elisabeth’s first husband, so they’ve got something in common. But there’s more to it than simply liking our guest.”
“Yes,” Emil says. “I’ve always known her to be warmhearted, but I never knew what great love was in Elisabeth, until now—until she could be of some real service to those in need. She finds her strength in love.”
Again, Anton nods but says nothing. Elisabeth is prepared to love everyone, it seems, wholly and without reservation—everyone except him. If he knew the way to win her heart, he would have done it by now.
Emil says, “Elisabeth would be one of the brave ones—the ones who hide Jews in their own homes—if she hadn’t any children to think of. It’s only the little ones who have prevented her from opening her heart so wide. But what a big heart she has, all the same. The children must take priority, of course—that’s the way God made mothers. I suppose He knows best about such things.”
“She is brave, nonetheless—even without any Jews sequestered in the attic. But I know she would do more, save more people, if she could. It eats away at her soul, knowing she must choose between her children and someone else’s.” As it eats at my own soul.
“I admire her very much. She has lived a hard life—losing her first husband, facing poverty with three children to care for. Yet she never fell into despair. And the way she spoke for the Egerlanders—the way she stood up to Bruno Franke . . .”
“I fear that man,” Anton says. “I don’t mind admitting it to you.”
Emil draws on his pipe. He nods, exhaling.
“I fear him, and I hate him.”
“Anton, we mustn’t hate.”
“I know.” Hate is a foul and useless thing. It taints too much of this world. “You can give me my penance when next I come to confess.”
Emil smiles. He blows a smoke ring. “What do you know? I’ve always wanted to make a smoke ring—tried for years, and never could get it right. Now I do it without even thinking about it.”
The children come running through the orchard. “Ah,” Anton says, “the very girls I wanted to see.” He holds up the carved
horse; Millie or Elsie takes it, and both girls admire it in silence. They bite their lower lips in exactly the same way when they smile.
“Vati Anton,” Paul says, “on market day, may we bring Millie and Elsie with us?”
“They want to see how we do the trades,” Al says.
“I think that’s a fine idea. Albert, you’ll be just the fellow to show them how to drive a bargain.”
Al’s freckles disappear as his face heats red. He won’t look at the twins, but he nods and says, “I’ll show them.”
“I might join you, if you’ll have me,” says Father Emil. “I need to pick up a few necessities—I’ve six single men from Egerland staying at the church, sleeping on bedrolls in the nave. They do go through candles and bread rather quickly. Would it suit you boys—and you girls, too—if I came along?”
“You are always welcome in our family,” Anton says. “There is no need to ask, my friend.”
When they reach the market square, Al hands his basket of eggs to one of the Hornik girls. He leads Paul and the twins into the crowd, explaining as he goes: “My eggs are the best in town, because my hens are the best, so my eggs are worth more, you see. We must be careful to get only the best things in trade.”
The boy and his voice disappear in the noise of the market square. Anton remains with Father Emil; Elisabeth and Frau Hornik have already sought out a gathering of women. They will put out word that Maria needs bigger shoes. Who has a child’s shoes to trade, and who needs a small pair, worn but still useful?
“It has been weeks since I came to market last,” Emil says. “Does Herr Derichs still have candles?”
“The best in Unterboihingen. He has been sick lately, but even so—”
Abruptly, Anton falls quiet. Over the bustle and noise of the crowd, a jolly sound rises. A skip and bounce of rhythm, the bright, smiling notes of brass. He and Emil thread across the square—and there, at the edge of the crowd, in the mouth of a narrow alley, he finds a handful of his music students playing a march. Their eyes light up when they see their teacher. Some of them blush. But they don’t stop playing, even when the notes fall sour. More people gather beside Anton and the priest, watching, listening, pausing to set down their cares for a moment of guiltless joy. When the march has finished, the crowd applauds. The boys bow to their admirers and then scatter into the alley, thrilled and embarrassed, laughing.
“I can scarcely believe how far they’ve come,” Anton says. He calls, “Well done, boys!”
Emil says, “You work even more wonders with your band than you do with your carving knife.”
“The children deserve your praise, not I. They’ve done the difficult work.”
“Don’t be so humble. It’s unbecoming.”
“Unbecoming?” Anton grins. “Doesn’t the Bible tell us we should be humble?”
Emil delivers a friendly blow to Anton’s shoulder. “I forget you were a friar. There’s no sneaking any point of doctrine past you. But accept a little praise, my friend; you deserve it. Your band has brought us all considerable happiness, when we have little other cause for feeling glad.”
Anton lowers his voice. Even in Unterboihingen, one never knows who might be listening. “My band has achieved exactly what I set out to do. Those boys in the alley—they won’t be pinning swastikas to their sleeves anytime soon.”
“Let’s pray they will not.” Smoothly, Emil changes the subject. “I was just thinking, ‘There never was a crowd so big at the Saturday market. When did our town grow?’ But it’s the Egerlanders, of course.”
“Thirty-six families in all,” Anton says. “And how many single men, like the fellows who sleep on your pews? Frau Hertz has taken in four young men; they’re a great help around the farm.”
“There are twenty young fellows, at least, and five old gentlemen that I know of. These Egerland folk fit right in. One would never know they haven’t been in Unterboihingen all along.”
As much a part of the landscape as the ancient houses and blue hills beyond.
Once more, a sharp sound rises above the din of the crowd, but this time, there is no glad music. It’s a coarse shout like the bark of a dog, hard-edged with anger. Anton and Emil glance at one another, and there is a sudden tightness in the eyes of the priest. Caution has eclipsed his happy mood. They jostle through the crowd toward the market’s eastern edge. There stands Bruno Franke—Möbelbauer—confronting two of the newcomers, refugee men. A handful of Unterboihingen fellows stand behind Franke, lending their support. They watch the Egerlander men with narrowed eyes. Anton makes note of their hard, hateful faces. They are the same men who rose in opposition at Father Emil’s meeting, the day Unterboihingen voted to take in the refugees.
“Those are two of mine,” Emil says quietly. “They’re brothers—Geißler is their family name. They were the first to take shelter at the church.”
The Geißler brothers are no older than twenty-five. They’re standing side by side, arms folded over their chests, holding their ground against Franke and his friends. Brave, for men so young. But then, if they knew they confronted the town’s gauleiter, would they be so bold?
“These two wretches took too much flour,” Möbelbauer shouts. He intends the whole town to hear, an impromptu tribunal. “I said two measures; they took three.”
The elder brother says, “You told me to take three.” The younger adds, “At least speak honestly, now that you’ve got the attention of the whole village.”
“Do they know?” Anton murmurs to Emil. Do they know they’re speaking to a gauleiter?
Emil shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I haven’t told them. I should have thought to tell all the men at the church—warn them to be careful. The blame lies with me.”
Anton lays a hand on his chest. “No time now for regret. We need to help those boys. If they fall too far on Franke’s bad side—”
Möbelbauer has puffed himself up at the younger brother’s cheek. Like a toad roused from its burrow and jabbed with a stick, he has inflated himself. He takes a menacing step toward the Geißlers. “Look at you, the both of you—young and hale, but here you are, hiding from your duty with the women and children. You should be fighting for our country, defending the German way. You should be on the Ostfront—better men than you have died there already, for the sake of our land.”
In the next moment, Möbelbauer will accuse the brothers of disloyalty. It’s a short drop from there to the gauleiter’s letter desk, a message winging off to the NSDAP.
“All right,” Anton murmurs, stepping forward. “I’m going to speak to Herr Franke.”
Emil catches his arm. “Don’t. You know it’s too risky for either of us to draw Franke’s eye.”
“If we don’t intervene, those young men will—”
Before Anton can finish speaking, another figure has pushed her way out of the crowd. He recognizes the dark-blue dress, the stoic marching step of her walk, before the danger registers—before fear strikes him.
Elisabeth.
She stands beside the brothers. “Leave off, Bruno. It’s only a misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding?” The gauleiter’s voice slinks low, low as a snake on its belly. “These disloyal dogs have invaded our land—”
“They are Germans!”
“—and you have let them in. Don’t think I’ve forgotten it was you, Frau Starzmann, who convinced the rest to open their homes and their larders to this trash. You’re the one to blame. Indiscriminate—that’s what you are. If these useless mouths to feed had left me with a single reichspfennig in my pocket, I’d wager my last coin that you would take in any foul creature, any impure thing that came your way.”
This talk is too dangerous. Anton can’t allow it to stand. He breaks away from Emil, shaking off the priest’s restraining grip. He strides across the cobblestones and steps between Elisabeth and the gauleiter. Then, heart pounding, he moves closer still, until Möbelbauer is forced to look up at him. The man seems quite small now, shrin
king in the shadow of Anton’s superior height.
“Say one more word to my wife, Franke,” Anton mutters. “Just one.”
Möbelbauer squints at Anton. His gaze slides to the crowd—the tense, silent watchers. He doesn’t dare accuse Anton now. No one will believe that the man who brought us music, the man who gave us joy, is any sort of villain. Here before the eyes of the whole town, Franke can do nothing but back down.
He does, throwing up his hands and turning away. “Let the lot of you starve, then,” Möbelbauer says as his friends fall in line behind him. “It won’t be on my head.”
Möbelbauer vanishes behind his shop door, taking his fellows with him. The moment the gauleiter has disappeared, the crowd relaxes, sighs, buzzes with conversation. Shielded by the sound, Anton rounds on Elisabeth.
“What were you thinking, confronting Möbelbauer that way? You know he’s dangerous.”
Elisabeth has gone pale. He can see the faint trembling of her shoulders. He takes them in his hands and presses, trying to hold her together.
“I know he’s dangerous,” she says. “But someone had to stop him.”
“Leave it to someone else, then—anyone else. Not you.”
“Why not me?”
“Because I love you.” The words are out of his mouth before he can think better.
Elisabeth turns away at once. She will not meet his eye, nor speak to him, as she calls for Frau Hornik. She counts the children as they assemble around her. Then she points them all in the direction of home.
But late that night, after Elisabeth has seen to supper and tucked the children into bed, she finds her words. The house is quiet, soft with shadow. She carries a candle to Frau Hornik. Anton and Elisabeth have given their bed to the widow; the twins take turns, sharing the bed with their mother and sleeping on a straw-stuffed mat beside the dresser. Elisabeth steps from the bedroom, only one candle in her hand now. By its simple light, she glows in her humble white nightdress. Candlelight surrounds her with gold; it gleams in her hair, it makes fine shadows of the lines at the corners of her eyes. Once Anton had thought those lines were carved by weariness. Now he knows they are traces of her rare but luminous smile. She checks the curtains, pulls them more tightly closed. Then she sets the candle on the floor beside the pallet near the stove—their bed, since the Egerlanders came—and slides beneath the blankets. Cool air comes with her; it raises the hairs on Anton’s arms and on the back of his neck. Elisabeth blows out the light, but she doesn’t settle at the edge of the pallet, far from his touch. Instead, she presses herself against his shoulder.
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