The Ragged Edge of Night

by Olivia Hawker

“A funny thing, to thank God,” says the man beside her. “What do you mean by that?” Silent, listening, Anton watches the countryside pass by. A hedgerow of sunflowers splits a mown field. He remembers playing among the sunflowers as a boy—their dry-smelling stalks like a palisade, the whisper of their leaves. Yellow light that came down, filtered through the petals. His sister made a playhouse among the sunflowers: Anton, you must be the father of my house, and tell my little children: if you don’t wash up for supper, Mother will be cross! “I mean,” says the man, “there isn’t any sense in bringing God into the war. What has He to do with any of this? Don’t tell me you think anything the Führer has done is part of God’s plan.” The woman does not speak. Nor does Anton. The sound of his sister’s voice vanishes from memory. At length, the woman says, “You talk as if you don’t believe in God at all.” She sounds as if she might cry. Her companion is quick to answer, quick to defend. “It’s only this: I’ve never seen God. Why should I credit Him for a blessing, or leave Him any blame? Men are quite capable of destroying the world on their own, as we can plainly see. They don’t need any help from above.”