The Ragged Edge of Night

by Olivia Hawker

  “I also love you,” she whispers.

  He finds her mouth in the darkness. His kiss is long; she allows it to linger.

  PART 5

  BELL SONG

  JULY 1944–MAY 1945

  29

  Summer has unleashed a punishing heat on Germany. It is only the twenty-first of July, yet already the fields are wilting, going brown around the edges, and the scent of hay hangs over dusty roads and irrigation ditches run dry. The barley has begun to lean, weeks too soon. The first harvest will be poor, and with this heat, there is little hope for a second reaping.

  Anton and the boys labor in the shade beneath the cottage, mucking out the pen where the animals sleep. A pile of new straw is waiting nearby, sweet and deep, ready to be spread across the floor. Stink rises from the Misthaufen, clinging to the workers’ damp shirts. The shade is a mercy, but even so, the day is hot. Anton has rolled his sleeves as high as he can manage; the boys have stripped off their shirts entirely. Sweat trickles down their backs as they wrestle with pitchforks and reeking loads of soiled straw.

  “Can’t we have sheep?” Paul asks, not for the first time.

  “Where would we get sheep?” Al rejoins. “What would we trade for them?”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t care. But their dung isn’t as hard to clean up as cow’s dung.”

  Anton says, “Sheep don’t give as much milk as a cow.”

  “I don’t like milk, anyway,” Paul says sulkily.

  “Of course you do. You drink more than anyone else in this family.”

  “Well, I’d give it all up if it meant I never had to shovel cow’s shit again.”

  “Language,” Anton says, with a warning tone.

  Paul is too hot and irritable to apologize. He stabs the tines of his pitchfork into a newly uncovered cow patty. Flies buzz around him.

  “Herr Starzmann!”

  The boys throw down their pitchforks and run to see who has called from the lane—any excuse to shirk this unpleasant task. Anton straightens, peering over the stone wall, and finds one of the Geißler brothers shouting and waving as he hurries through the orchard.

  “It’s an Egerlander,” Al says. “One of the fellows who lives at the church. What do you suppose he wants?”

  Anton goes out to meet him. The young man is panting, his shirt every bit as soaked as Anton’s.

  “Father Emil has sent me,” he says, “to fetch you. It’s urgent; you must come at once.”

  “Is the father well?”

  Geißler nods, blotting sweat from his brow with a kerchief. “He said you must come quickly.”

  Anton glances at his sons, wary now. “Has . . . anyone come for Father Emil?” If the SS had arrested the priest, they wouldn’t have permitted Emil to send for Anton. But might they have forced a confession? Have the SS set a snare for Anton?

  Geißler shakes his head. “No one. He only told me to fetch you, as quickly as I could.”

  Anton can read no fear in the man’s face. No slyness, either. He must take him at his word.

  “Al, Paul—you’ll have to finish the work without me.”

  Paul groans.

  “Come, now; it’s nearly done. And when you’ve finished, you can go swimming in the river.”

  “You aren’t going to see Father Emil like that, are you?” Al says.

  Anton takes stock of himself—saturated shirt, carelessly rolled sleeves, face and trousers streaked with grime.

  “No time to change,” Geißler says. “The father wants you straightaway, mein Herr.”

  “Then I must go to him straightaway. I hope he’ll forgive my bad manners.”

  Anton sets off down the lane with the Geißler boy. The young man leads him at a rapid pace, almost a jog. The afternoon’s work has worn Anton thin; he would beg Geißler to slow down, but quiet dread makes him push on, despite the trembling of his limbs.

  “Have you any idea what this is about?”

  “None,” Geißler says. “The father said nothing to me.”

  “But you’re certain no one unusual had come to the church?”

  “No one whatsoever. I’m afraid I can’t tell you more than that, mein Herr.”

  A host of possibilities tumbles through Anton’s head, each grimmer than the last. Something has gone wrong within the ranks of the Red Orchestra. One of the other messengers has been taken. Someone has proven a traitor to the cause. Or the National Socialist rats have sniffed out Anton and Emil, and the gray bus is coming for them, headed this very moment toward Unterboihingen. By the time he reaches the church, Anton is sick with anxiety, and he has begun to sweat all over again.

  Young Geißler leads him to Emil’s side door. “I’ll leave you here. The father is expecting you; he told me to send you straight in as soon as we arrived.”

  Anton shakes his hand and prays Geißler can’t feel his shivering, the weakness of his bones. Then he lets himself into Father Emil’s small private sanctuary.

  The room is simple and spare, as one would expect of a priest’s quarters. Emil is waiting for Anton, seated on the edge of a narrow bed. The only other furnishings are a small writing desk and an iron woodstove. Emil’s hands are folded in his lap, his back straight and resolute. He looks at Anton, graying brows raised, but Anton can’t read the priest’s expression.

  “What is it, Emil? What has gone wrong?”

  “Close the door,” Emil says softly. “These young fellows from Egerland—one would expect refugees to harbor no great love for the Party, but one can never be too careful. I’ve been shocked and dismayed more times than I can count, when someone I’d previously thought fine and sensible professed admiration for the Führer.”

  That’s true enough. Anton hasn’t forgotten how many people rose in opposition when he and Emil proposed sheltering the refugees. Even in Unterboihingen, there are loyalists. Sympathizers. Why not among the Egerlanders?

  When the door is shut, Emil whispers, “What has gone wrong, Anton, is nothing you could have imagined. And yet, it’s no cause for us to fear.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ll tell you. You know we work in a chain of sorts, we who do . . . this work. The man I report to—the one from whom I receive my orders, and your orders—he received a telegram this morning. Yesterday there was an attempt.”

  The wet shirt turns to ice against his skin. He takes Father Emil’s meaning at once. No need to clarify; there is only one end we are working toward, we who resist.

  “Only an attempt? It wasn’t successful, then.”

  “No. Not this time.”

  Not this time, or any time before. They have tried it in beer halls and museums, on parade routes and in the air while the Führer flew back from Smolensk. Tried and failed, again and again. The beast will not lie down and die.

  “What happened?” Anton says.

  “It was at his stronghold in Prussia—the one he calls the Wolf’s Lair. A briefcase, stuffed with explosives—carried in, would you believe it, by one of his own colonels.”

  “Did the colonel know what he was carrying?”

  “Oh yes. He was quite complicit. No one is certain, yet, just what went wrong. The bomb exploded. Four men died, but not the fellow we want dead—not the one who counts. Though I dare say he was somewhat surprised. His trousers were ripped to shreds, I hear—he can’t have escaped without injury. But he is as stubbornly alive as ever. Showing off his torn-up trousers, by my friend’s account, and bragging that he is invincible.”

  Anton sighs. He can see what will unfold next. The SS won’t hesitate to track down those directly responsible—surely they have names already. Soon enough, they will sing. And everything Anton and Emil have worked for—all they’ve built, one scrap of paper at a time—will crumble.

  “It’s over, then,” Anton says. “We’ve failed. If it hadn’t happened in the Wolf’s Lair—if it had been a crowd on some city street, there might be some question of who was responsible. But now—”

  “W
e?” Emil says. “No, not we. This was not our resistance, but another—one I didn’t even know existed until I read the telegram. And, Anton, this resistance came from inside the Wehrmacht. It’s no mistake, and no coincidence, that a colonel was involved.”

  Slowly, Anton sinks onto the stool at the writing desk. He’d had no idea there was resistance among the military. Nothing in his experience, his short but memorable service with the Wehrmacht, has led him to expect resistance. And to hear that senior officers are involved . . . The news robs him of sense for a long moment. He paws at his trouser pocket, searching for his pipe, before he recalls that he is in his shirtsleeves, drenched in sweat and stained with grime—and at any rate, he is in Father Emil’s private residence. He can’t smoke here.

  “The Wehrmacht?” Anton finally stammers. “How can this be? It’s the last place I’d look for opposition.”

  Emil says, “The resistance is everywhere. Didn’t I tell you once that love couldn’t be erased from the world so easily?”

  “Those brave, determined men—”

  “Those poor men. The perpetrator must have been arrested already. How not? If the plan had come off, he’d be lauded as a hero. Now I’m afraid he’ll meet a swift and unjust end.”

  While the Führer goes on crowing about his immortality.

  Anton and Emil lapse into silence, a moment of reflective appreciation for the courageous soul who almost managed to rid the world of Adolf Hitler. May God grant him peace in eternity.

  At length, Anton says, “What does this mean for us? How many times, now, have would-be assassins attempted to kill that creature with explosives? And if your telegram is accurate, this plan nearly succeeded. No one can hope to try again. He is already guarded day and night, I hear; no one will ever be allowed in his presence with any sort of package in his hands.”

  “You’re right about that.” Emil’s smile comes very close to smugness.

  “Even if one of our company wasn’t responsible, it seems we still must give up all hope. His guards will be warier than ever before.”

  “We will succeed where the others failed.”

  “God help me, but I can’t imagine how.”

  Emil leans toward him, across the narrow space of that small, humble room. He whispers what he knows. “We don’t intend to use explosives, Anton. We’ll rely on something far more subtle, when the time is right. Poison—slow-acting enough that it will never be detected by his food tasters, until it’s too late to save him.”

  “Poison.”

  “I know very little, of course, for safety’s sake. But I do know this: we’ve a man positioned already, capable of delivering our blow. It hardly seems right to call it a ‘blow’ at all. Only a small drop—perhaps two or three—and we’ll claim our victory at last. Slow and steady—slow and unstoppable. That’s how we’ll win, my friend.”

  30

  By the time the full heat of summer has descended, most of the Egerlanders have moved away. They have found jobs and homes in the cities, in Hamburg and Cologne, in Frankfurt and Düsseldorf. The Hornik family is no exception; Frau Hornik has found a steady job in a munitions factory in Cologne.

  “I’ll earn enough to keep the three of us alive,” she says.

  “That is something,” Elisabeth answers, twisting her kerchief in anxious fingers. Beyond the railway platform, the train’s whistle cries. The whole family has gathered to bid the Horniks farewell. The sun makes them all squint, but only Elisabeth blinks and dabs at her eyes when she thinks no one can see. “But are you sure you don’t want to stay with us? City life can be so dangerous.”

  Frau Hornik takes her hands. “You’ve been so kind, Elisabeth—all of you have. You must know we aren’t ungrateful. But it’s time we made our own lives again. It’s time we got on with it. Besides, you can’t go on sleeping on the floor forever.” She lays a hand on each daughter’s head. “Millie, Elsie, say goodbye to your friends. The train will be here soon.”

  The girls begin to weep as they embrace Albert. Each gives him a kiss on the cheek—one the right, the other the left. Al can’t bring himself to look at his brother or at Anton; his face is redder than a ripe apple.

  “We’ll write to you,” says one of the twins. Anton thinks it might be Elsie. The other says, “Will you write back?”

  “Yes, of course,” Al replies, though he keeps his eyes on the ground and shuffles his feet. “I will, if you like.”

  The girls ruffle Paul’s blond hair. They kiss little Maria on her forehead. Frau Hornik kisses the girl twice, and says rather sternly, “Be a little angel for your mother. Don’t drive her to distraction. If you do, she’ll write and tell me, and then I won’t be able to send you any paper dolls from Cologne.”

  Frau Hornik takes Anton’s hand. “I can’t thank you enough for all the kindness you’ve given—you dear, good man.”

  “It’s no more than anyone would do.”

  “It’s a good deal more than most people would do. You saved us, you and Elisabeth—it’s simple as that.”

  When it’s time to say farewell to Elisabeth, Frau Hornik folds her in sisterly arms. Elisabeth presses herself against her friend’s shoulder, trying to hide her tears. She remains in the woman’s embrace for a long time, until the train pulls alongside the platform and hisses to a stop. Only then does Elisabeth lift her face and let Frau Hornik go.

  The engineer calls the departure. The Horniks hurry onto the train before they can change their minds. The girls call out the window—“Auf Wiedersehen, auf Wiedersehen” and “ahoj.” Anton stands in the hot sun with his wife and children, waving as the train pulls away, coughing in its smoke. The shriek of its whistle, the rumble of its wheels, cover the sounds of weeping, but nothing can hide the quick, darting motion as Elisabeth dashes tears from her eyes.

  As they walk slowly home, Elisabeth waits until the children have run ahead before she speaks. There is no sense upsetting the children, causing them to worry over playmates. “I hate to think what may happen to them in a big city.”

  It has been several months since Stuttgart was last bombed, but no one who is wise ever feels complacent. And only the good Lord can say how Cologne fares, or what might be in store for that place.

  Anton takes her hand. She doesn’t pull away anymore, not since the Egerlanders came. Sometimes—rarely, when the children are not there to see—they even kiss. The briefest touch of their lips can set Anton’s heart pounding. It still amazes his old self, the friar self, when he pauses to think of it. In the order, he was perfectly content with a chaste life. But now he knows it was only because he never knew what was missing.

  That night, the bed is theirs again, and the house is quieter than it has been for months. It feels empty of everything, hollow and brittle as an abandoned snail shell. In their nightclothes, they slip beneath the warm covers, and, in unison, they sigh.

  Elisabeth laughs—such a happy sound, a strange contrast to the air of melancholy. “You’re thinking the same thing I am.”

  “We slept on the floor for—how long? Two months? Three?”

  “Near enough.”

  “I always thought this bed was ordinary. Perfectly serviceable, but ordinary. Now I see it’s soft as a cloud.”

  She rolls over and cuddles up against his arm. Anton’s breath seizes in his chest; she has done this only once before, drawing so close of her own accord.

  She murmurs, “It is a good bed, after all.”

  Slowly, fearful she will pull away or take flight like a frightened bird, he reaches across his body and lays his hand on Elisabeth’s shoulder. She is warm through the cotton of her nightgown, and she smells like Frau Hornik’s rose-petal soap. Elisabeth raises no protest. He slides his hand a little lower, tracing the graceful curve of her rib cage. He enjoys the feeling of a woman in his arms—and never thought to enjoy it until now. Oh, you friars and monks, you dedicated priests. If you only knew!

  He asks her, “Will you be all right, now that the Horniks have gone? I know how
much you loved caring for a family in need.”

  “I only hope I gave the Horniks more happiness than I got from them. God willing.”

  “You did, my darling—I’m sure of it.”

  “Then I will be well.” She pauses. Crickets sing in the silence; from the sleepy orchard, a night bird calls. She says with a small, rueful laugh, “I’ll be well once I stop worrying about them. Frau Hornik and I have promised to write at least once a week. I need only wait until she’s settled in and sends me her address.”

  “I heard,” he says with a chuckle. “Such oaths you made to one another, I have no doubt the mail carriers between here and Cologne will soon be staggering under the weight of all your letters.”

  The thought makes her giggle. It’s such a girlish sound that it startles him. He has never thought to hear the like from his sober, quiet wife. It brings a smile to his face; soon Anton is laughing, too.

  This is a small happiness, in a mad and dangerous world. But it’s better than gold, better than music, to know you made another person happy. To know you’ve kept them safe.

  31

  No duty calls him out the following day—no message to carry, no organ lesson in a foreign parish. He walks to town alone, determined to spend a little of his money at the bakery—something sweet for Elisabeth, to conjure up one of her elusive smiles.

  But just as he reaches the main street and turns past Möbelbauer’s furniture shop, a familiar figure catches his eye, tall and blocky and gray. The man is walking on the other side of the street. There is no cane this time, no spats on his shoes—but still Anton recognizes Detlef Pohl in the space of one startled heartbeat. He blinks and darts his head to look again. Surely he is mistaken. But he can’t deny what he sees: Herr Pohl has come to Unterboihingen.