by Ellen Datlow
Santiago and Gomez sat very tense, very attentive, and their eyes were hard as fists. Becker gave them an understanding nod and the slightest suggestion of a wink. “It is a very large world, my friends, and even here in lovely Santa Cruz we can all sometimes feel very far from home. I know I do.”
“You talk a lot,” said Santiago.
“I’m old,” said the baker with a shrug, “and old men like to talk. It reminds us that we are still alive. And…well, the world has emptied itself of so many people that I knew that I often have only my own voice for company. So, yes, I talk. I rattle and prattle and I can see that I try your patience. Why, after all, would men as young and healthy as you, my friends, care to waste time listening to the babblings of an old man?”
“That question has occurred to me,” said Santiago. “I am utterly fascinated to know why you feel that it is appropriate to interrupt a private conversation.”
Gomez turned away to hide a smile.
The little baker was unperturbed. “I take such a liberty, my friends, because tonight is the second day of Seelenwoche. All Souls’ Week. Do you know of it?”
Gomez began to answer, but Santiago stopped him with a light touch on the arm.
“No,” said Santiago, “we don’t know what that is.”
“Of course not. It is an Austrian holiday, and you have never been to my country, as you have said. Let me explain. In Austria we do not celebrate Halloween, as the Americans and Irish do. For us, this holiday is about reflection, about praying for those who have been taken from us, for making offerings to the spirits of our beloved dead. And we all lost so many people during the war.”
Gomez kept his gaze locked on Becker, but Santiago looked down at his hands.
“The war is over,” said Santiago softly.
“Is a war ever truly over if people are alive who remember it?” asked Becker mildly. “Can it be over if people are alive who remember the world before the war and can count the number of people and things they have lost? Family members, cities, friends, dreams, promises…”
The corner of the room was very quiet now.
Becker pulled out a chair and perched on it. “Seelenwoche was never a time of celebration, and now that the war has run its course we are left to tally the costs. We honor our dead not only by remembering them but by recalling what they stood for, and what they died for.”
Santiago nodded and lifted his beer glass. He stared moodily into it, nodded again, took a long swallow, and placed it very carefully back on the table.
“Why do you talk of such things?” asked Santiago.
“Because it was always a custom of my family to celebrate Seelenwoche. My family was very…ah…dedicated to custom and tradition.”
“ ‘Was’?” asked Gomez.
“Was.”
The two younger men looked at him, and although they did not ask specific questions, Becker nodded as if they had. Answering in the way that many of the pale-skinned residents of Santa Cruz did these last few years.
Becker touched the curved handle of his wicker basket. “We love our dead. Their having died does not make them less a part of our family. We can see the holes carved in the world in the shapes of each one of them. You understand this?”
The men nodded.
“We believe that during Seelenwoche,” said Becker, “the spirits of our loved ones come and sit beside us at our lonely tables. We know that the dead suffer. We know that they linger in the world between worlds, because the church tells us that all souls are in purgatory awaiting judgment. The priests tell us that only the perfectly pure are then raised to heaven, but the rest must wait for their sins to be judged and their fates decided. It is what all souls must endure, for—after all—was anyone ever without sin? Jesus, perhaps, but who else? No one, according to the priests with whom I have spoken.”
The men offered no comment, nor did they chase Becker away.
“The priests say that when Judgment Day comes, then the souls of all the dead will be either raised up or cast into the pit. Until then, they linger and linger. So it is up to those of us here on Earth to care for them, to remember them, to pray that their sins be forgiven, to offer what comforts we can. That is why we have this holiday. It reminds us to remember them. And to remember that they remember being alive. They may be dead and may have no earthly bodies that we can see except when the veils between worlds are thin—as they are this week—but they feel everything. Hunger and thirst, joy and despair, ecstasy and pain. And fear. Yes, my friends, they know fear very well. During Seelenwoche we leave bread to ease their hunger and water to soothe their thirst. We light lanterns so that the dead know they are welcome in our homes and, for a week at least, not be so alone, and so that they will not be afraid of the dark. These are good customs because they remind us of our own compassion, and of our better qualities, mercy among the rest. And that is why we have traditions, is it not? So that we remember what is important to remember? That is why we go to church so often during that week. We go to pray for the dead and to beg God to call them home to heaven.”
Santiago began to speak, but Gomez touched his arm. The young blond man gave Becker a fierce and ugly look. “Perhaps it is in your best interest to go away now.”
“No, please, a moment more,” begged the baker. “I did not come here to tell ghost stories and spoil your evening.”
“Yet that is what you are doing,” growled Gomez.
“I said all of that in order to say this,” Becker said brightly. “I opened my little bakery here in order to preserve more than the recipes of my family. I opened it to celebrate who I am and where I come from. After all, I may live the life of an exile here, but I am Austrian, now and forever. Surely you can appreciate that, even though there are tensions growing between my country and yours now that the war is over. For a while there it seemed as if we would become one country, one people, our old differences forgotten as we all marched together under a shared flag.” He paused and laughed. “Of course I say this as if you are German, which of course you are not. Forgive me. It’s just that I feel that men of the world such as you would understand that when I speak of the ‘old country,’ I mean the land I left behind and the one from which your, ah…ancestors must surely have come. For although you are clearly not European, you could pass for Germans quite easily.”
Santiago said, “It’s possible there is German blood somewhere in our family trees.”
Gomez said nothing.
“So,” said Becker, “in the unlikely event that you might be interested in tasting more of my family’s recipes, why not come by my shop tomorrow night? I would be happy to make you a traditional dinner with all of the delicacies for which we Beckers are—or rather were—famous.”
Gomez cocked his head to one side. “Like what? I mean…I have, ah, heard of your cuisine because of the number of Austrian and German expats living here, but have never tasted any.”
“How sad,” said Becker, then he brightened. “Well, my friends, I would be delighted, indeed honored, to introduce you to tafelspitz, which is lean beef broiled in broth and served with a sauce of apples, horseradish, and chives. Or, if you prefer, there is gulasch, which is a lovely hot pot that should best be eaten with semmelknödel—a dumpling of which my mother was rightly proud.”
Gomez closed his eyes for a moment and breathed slowly through his nose. Santiago must have kicked him under the table because the younger man’s eyes snapped open and he cleared his throat. “You describe it so well,” he said awkwardly, “that I can almost taste it…even though I am completely unfamiliar with them.”
“Of course, of course, these names must be quite foreign to you,” said Becker, giving him a small wink. “Let me enchant you further. If you come to dinner, you can try selchfleisch with sauerkraut and dumplings. And for after you can try my aunt’s recipe for marillenknödel, a pastry filled with apricots and mirabelle plums. The dumplings are boiled in lightly salted water, then covered in crisply fried bread crumbs and
powdered sugar, and baked in a potato dough.”
“Gott im himmel,” murmured Gomez, and again Santiago kicked him under the table. This time, however, Gomez shook his head, and to Becker he said, “You’re killing me.”
“Will you come?” asked Becker eagerly. “Will you allow me the great honor of making such a meal for men who, I have no doubt at all, will truly appreciate it? Here, in this town, I am a simple baker. Most of my day is spent making local goods. Aljafor and chocotorta and—God help me—tortas fritas. That’s what my customers want, and because I need to make a living, it is what I sell. But it is not who I am. It is not the food that I understand, and I cannot sell Austrian goods to the public. Not even here. Not openly, anyway. That would present so many problems, and, unlike you gentlemen, I have no papers that say I was born here. Everyone knows that I am Austrian, although to hostile and suspicious eyes, I am German, and these days everyone hates the Germans.”
Gomez turned and spat onto the floor.
“Argentina is a haven in name but not in fact,” said Becker, lowering his voice. “People are looking for Germans. For certain kinds of Germans. No, you do not need to say anything because I know you are men of the world and understand such things. My point—and I admit that like all old men, I wander around before I approach the kernel of what I mean to say—is that I need to be a good German if I am to live safely. That means letting go of so much of my culture. To abandon it and forswear it and pretend that it never mattered to me at all.”
Becker paused and dabbed at the corner of his eye, studied the moisture on his fingertips, and wiped it off on his shirt.
“I have had to become a stranger to the man I used to be,” he said. “So much so that my family, were any of them still alive, would not know me were it not for the things I prepare in secret. For me. For them. That is why I ask you fine gentlemen to come to my shop after it is closed and share a feast in celebration of Seelenwoche…to remember all of those who we loved and who died in the war. Will you grant me that kindness? Will you tolerate further the company of a talkative and sad old man who wants nothing more than to offer that taste of home? Of…my homeland? Can I entice you? Will you taste what I so eagerly want to prepare for you?”
It took a long time for either of the men across the table from him to answer. Eventually, though, Santiago croaked a single word.
“Yes.”
2
Becker’s Famosa Panadería
El Chaltén Village
Santa Cruz, Argentina
November 1, 1948
THE KNOCK WAS DISCREET, and Josef Becker answered it at once.
He opened the door, stepped past the two tall men, and looked quickly up and down the crooked street. There were no streetlights, but cold moonlight painted the cobblestones in shades of silver and blue. A dog barked off in the distance, and a toucan—very far from his jungle home—sat on the eave of the shuttered jeweler’s across the street. There were no people at all, though the chilly breeze brought the sound of laughter from some distant party in a house around the corner.
“Come in, my friends,” said Becker, and he patted the backs of the men as they passed through into the bakery. When they were all inside, Becker pulled the door shut and locked it with a double turn of a heavy key.
The shop was small, but the space had been used with care. There was a long glass-fronted counter in which were set square platters of baked goods. There were small cakes dusted with powdered sugar, round chocolate double-wafer cakes, cornstarch biscuits covered with coconut, glistening cubes of quince, vanilla sponge cake ladyfingers, and many other delicacies particular to Argentina. There were French and Italian cakes and sweets, too, and even some pastries of American invention.
But what dominated the store were the breads. So many of them. Aajdov kruh, the Slovenia bread made from buckwheat flour and potato, dark Russian sourdough and crisp Japanese melonpan made from dough covered in a thin layer of crispy cookie dough, michetta from Italy and taftan from Iran, and dozens of others from dozens of places, including a whole tray of sugary pan de muerto. And, of course, central to all were the breads from Austria and Germany. The light brötchen wheat rolls; whole grain rye vollkornbrot; dreikornbrot rich in wheat, oats, and rye; five-seed fünfkornbrot. Even thick, dark salted brezels.
The two guests stood staring through the glass, eyes wide, lips parted with obvious hunger.
“Gentlemen,” said Becker, beaming with pride, “I can say without fear of contradiction that there is no finer selection of baked goods to be found anywhere in Santa Cruz.”
“Anywhere in this entire godforsaken country,” breathed Santiago.
Becker chuckled. “Pride is a sin, they say, but if so, I will accept whatever punishment is awarded me, for I am very proud.”
Gomez kept licking his lips like a child. “May I…?” he began, then stopped and gave Becker a quick look. “Are these for sale?”
“Nothing here is for sale,” said Becker, then laughed aloud at the crestfallen looks on his guests’ faces. “I am only teasing! Nothing is for sale to you because you are my guests. Which means that everything you see is yours for the asking. Come, come, we will eat dinner and then have some wine and conversation, and when you go, I will overburden you with bags and bundles of goodies to take back to your home. Come, gentlemen, come into the parlor and let us sit.”
Still chuckling, Becker passed between the folds of a drapery hung over a doorway and waved for the two men to follow. They did, and within minutes they were all seated at a large wooden table set near a crackling fire. A fine linen cloth had been placed upon the table, and places set at each chair. Santiago frowned across the table at three additional settings.
“Are we expecting others?” he asked.
“Hmm?” murmured Becker, then he smiled. “Ah, remember that this is Seelenwoche, my friend. I have set an extra place for each of us so that we can offer food and drink for those we have lost and perhaps bring them here to share our feast and be warmed by the fire and by our company.”
Santiago looked uneasy, but he nodded. Gomez briefly looked down at his empty place.
“Would you gentlemen prefer a local red wine or something from my country?” Becker leaned on the word “my,” and it brought the two men to attention.
“What do you have?” asked Gomez.
“Yes,” agreed Santiago, “if it is from your country, I would be interested to take a taste and judge it.”
“How delightful,” said Becker, springing up and fetching a heavy bottle from a large terra-cotta wine cooler. He uncorked it and filled all six of the glasses on the table, then uncorked a second and third bottle and set them close by. “This is a Riesling from the Wachau region of Austria. You will notice, perhaps, just a hint of white pepper.”
“This will do very well,” said the black-haired man after a sip.
“What shall we toast?” asked the baker. “Or, may I suggest something?”
“It’s your house,” said Santiago. “The first toast is yours.”
“Most gracious,” said Becker. He raised his glass and said, “Genieße das Leben ständig! Du bist länger tot als lebendig!”
Always enjoy life! You are dead longer than you are alive!
His guests paused for a moment, then they nodded and drank.
After the glasses had been refilled, Becker vanished into the kitchen and returned with the first of what proved to be many courses. Not only had he prepared the delicacies with which he had tempted the men to join him, but he had gone further and set dish after dish on the table. More than any three men could hope to eat. More than a dozen men could manage. With each course, the baker served his guests first and then placed small portions of every dish on the plates set aside in honor of the dead. Soon those untouched plates were heaped high with slices of rare meats, with strong cheeses and steaming vegetables; and bowls of soups and stews were set in place beside the plates.
Gomez picked up his fork and then frowned. “Excus
e me, but I do not have a knife.”
“Do you not know the custom?” asked Becker, raising his eyebrows. “On Seelenwoche many people hide their knives so as not to tempt evil spirits to acts of mischief. Granted that is usually only done on Halloween night, but in my town we hid the knives all week.” He sighed. “Strange, though, how mischief found us regardless.”
After only a brief pause the guests attacked their food, and soon thoughts of knives were gone. As promised, the slices of roast beef and boiled pork and baked chicken were so rich and tender that their forks easily cut through the flesh. The men devoured the food, often in long periods where there was no conversation and the only sounds were that of chewing and crunching, swallowing and sipping, of forks sliding along plates and spoons scraping along the rims of soup bowls. And throughout there were gasps of delight and sighs of contentment. Bottles of wine were opened and emptied. The faces of the three men grew flushed, and their eyes took on a glaze as bright as that on the cooked hams.
It was only when the feast began slowing that conversation began. At first it was questions about ingredients and origins of the recipes. Becker told them about how one aunt would prepare a dish and how a cousin would do it differently but equally well. He spoke of town fairs and Christmas feasts and wedding banquets and funeral luncheons and the menus appropriate to each. Then, as he refilled their glasses once more, he sat back and said more wistfully, “But that is all what was, not what is, my friends. We speak of ghosts, do we not?”
“Ghosts?” inquired Gomez, his mouth filled with a large bite of a schnitzel that was so spicy that sweat beaded his upper lip and forehead and glistened along his hairline.
“Surely,” said Becker. “The ghosts of everyone who created the recipes on which we dine. None of them are my own, of course, but were crafted by members of my family. Sisters and aunts, cousins and nephews, and my dear mother and grandmother. Even my father was a veritable demon in the kitchen. The schweineschnitzel you seem to be enjoying so much was his personal recipe. It was as if he stood beside me in spirit as I prepared it, as if the ghosts of everyone I loved were with me in my kitchen, guiding my hand. I often feel them with me, though perhaps because of the holiday, I feel them more acutely this week. And I have no doubt they each added a touch of this and that when I was not looking.”