The Baker's Daughter

by Sarah McCoy

  Outside, voices carried down the quiet street, ice crunched, dogs yipped. They were coming. Elsie moved forward, undid the chain, and pulled the icy child into the kitchen. She closed the door behind. He was smaller than he looked on the Nazi stage, his wrists as thick as petite almond rounds, his fingers like vanilla beans.

  “Quickly,” she said. “You’ve got to hide.”

  The voices became shouts. The dogs barked.

  Elsie searched the kitchen. There was no secret place here. The only one she had was upstairs, the crawl space in her bedroom wall, but they’d never reach it in time. There was but one option. Elsie opened the oven, still warm from the day’s baking. She lifted the boy, his whole body as heavy as a double batch of pretzel dough.

  “You’ll be safe,” she told him.

  His bony fingers gripped her arms.

  A light flashed through the narrow kitchen window. They had to hurry.

  She locked eyes with him. “Like you said, you helped me earlier, so trust me now.”

  He let go and scooted deeper into the sooty, brick mouth.

  “Here.” Elsie took off her wool cape. “Cover yourself.”

  He took the cape and did as she commanded.

  Elsie closed the oven with clammy hands. Sweat beaded on her upper lip. The cuckoo clock sang out midnight as two wooden figures emerged from their doors, danced round and return. A steady beam shone through the front windows, followed by a bang on the door. It was Christmas Day.

  ELSIE’S GERMAN BAKERY

  2032 TRAWOOD DRIVE

  EL PASO, TEXAS

  NOVEMBER 10, 2007

  “That,” said Elsie, “was a crappy Christmas.”

  Reba tapped her pen. “How come?”

  “Miserably cold. I got sick. Probably pneumonia, but who could say. There was no legitimate medicine available. We were at war. People were dying—that raisin bread is good.” She finished her slice, cinnamon crumbs sprinkled her blouse. “I will put it on our menu.” She turned to the kitchen. “Jane, make more of that bread. Reba’s Bread, we call it.” She turned back. “You like, ja?”

  Reba nodded quickly and continued, determined to keep Elsie on track. “But in the photo, you’re all dressed up. Where were you going?”

  Elsie picked at a raisin skin from between her teeth.

  Reba listened to the tape gears churn.

  “A Nazi party,” Elsie finally replied.

  Reba’s hand lifted off the page. This was more interesting than expected. She tried to keep a neutral tone. “Were you a Nazi?”

  “I was German,” replied Elsie.

  “So you supported the Nazis?”

  “I was German,” Elsie repeated. “Being a Nazi is a political position, not an ethnicity. I am not a Nazi because I am German.”

  “But you were going to a Nazi party?”

  “I was invited to a Weihnachten—a Christmas Eve party by an officer. So I went.”

  Reba nodded and gave her best pensive look.

  The oven buzzer went off. Jane went back to the kitchen.

  “It’s no different than here,” Elsie went on. “You can love and support your sons, brothers, husbands, fathers—your soldiers—without supporting the political agenda behind war. I see it each day at Fort Bliss.” She leaned back in the chair.

  Reba cleared her throat. “You can hardly compare the Nazi regime to Americans in Iraq. It’s totally different.”

  Elsie’s stare didn’t flicker. “Do we know everything that’s going on over there? No. This was the same then. We knew things were not right, but we were afraid to change what we knew and even more afraid to find out what we did not. It was our home, our men, our Germany. We supported the nation. Of course, now, it is easy for outsiders to look back and make judgments.” She lifted her hands. “So, yes, I went to a Nazi party with a Nazi officer. They weren’t all monsters. Not everyone was Hitler or Dr. Mengele. Some were plain men—some even good men.” She sighed. “We were trying to live. That was hard enough.”

  “Did you ever witness any—any Jewish abuse or violence?” Reba stumbled over her words. How did you phrase a question like that?

  Elsie narrowed her eyes. “Yes and no. What is the difference? You would never know the truth. If I say no, does that make me a good person? Innocent of everything you understand about the Holocaust and Nazi Germany? But what if I say yes? Does that make me bad—does it spoil my whole life?” She shrugged, brushed a crumb off the table to the floor. “We all tell little lies about ourselves, our pasts, our presents. We think some of them are minuscule, unimportant, and others, large and incriminating. But they are the same. Only God has enough of the story to judge our souls.” Her olive eyes penetrated. “So I’ve told you one of my secrets. It’s your turn now.”

  Reba’s heart sped up. “My turn?” She gave a nervous laugh. “No, no. I’m interviewing you.”

  “That doesn’t seem fair.” Elsie crossed her arms. “I won’t say another word for your tape recorder if you don’t answer my questions.”

  Reba weighed her options. She’d never had an interviewee who didn’t get the traditional process. Journalists questioned; interviewees answered. Done. There was no role reversal. However, her deadline was fast approaching. No time to play hard to get.

  “Okay. What do you want to know?” she relented.

  “Jane says you are engaged. What is your fiancé’s name?”

  Reba sighed. “Riki.”

  “Is he a good man?”

  “As good as they come.”

  “What does he do for work—his occupation?”

  “He’s a US Border Patrol agent.”

  “Border Patrol!” Elsie laughed. “Then he is a busy man here.”

  Sergio finished the last of his coffee. “Have a good day, ladies.” He handed his empty plate and cup to Jane behind the till, and it seemed their hands lingered a moment past casual.

  “See you mañana,” said Jane.

  On his way out, he rubbed his belly affectionately. “Your crullers might put me in my grave, Missus Meriwether.”

  “This you have been saying for years,” replied Elsie.

  Jane laughed. “At least you’ll go down with a smile and a belly full of sugar!”

  He nodded to her as if tipping an imaginary hat. The door chimed behind him.

  “He seems like a good customer,” said Reba.

  “As good as they come,” she countered. “So please explain. Why have you not set a wedding date with this Riki?”

  Reba turned to Jane and scowled.

  Jane shrugged. “Sorry, you never said it was a secret.”

  Reba squared her shoulders. “I’m simply not ready.”

  “Not ready! Do you love him?” Elsie asked.

  The directness caught Reba off guard. She fumbled her pen. “Of course. I wouldn’t have said yes if I didn’t, right?”

  Elsie leaned forward. “Then take advice from me; it is not often fate gives you a good man to love. Fact. All those movies and television shows with people saying, ‘I am in love!,’ the bachelors and bachelorettes picking people like different kinds of cookies in a jar—pshaw! Nonsense. This is not love. This is nothing but sweat and spit mixed up. Good love …” She shook her head. “It does not come often. I hear on the news last night: fifty percent of marriages end in divorce and the newsman says, ‘Oh, that is awful. Can you believe it?’ and I say, ja, I can, because those people lied to themselves and to each other—all sugar hearts and giggles. The truth is, everyone has a dark side. If you can see and forgive his dark side and he can see and forgive yours, then you have something.” She gestured to the necklace dangling in the middle of Reba’s chest. “Wear that ring or give it back. This is my advice.”

  The bakery was empty. It was the quiet hour between the breakfast and lunch crowds.

  “Can I interrupt?” Jane came to the table with a bowl of icing. “Mom, taste this. The buttercream’s got a funny tang.”

  Elsie stuck a finger in the frosting and suc
ked. “Throw it out,” she said. “Bad egg whites.”

  “They looked fine in the bowl.” Jane stomped a booted foot. “Damn it, I got an anniversary cake to frost by this afternoon.”

  “No one is at fault. Sometimes you cannot tell until you try,” said Elsie.

  SCHMIDT BÄCKEREI

  56 LUDWIGSTRASSE

  GARMISCH, GERMANY

  DECEMBER 25, 1944

  Upstairs, Mutti and Papa stirred. Elsie brushed the fallen chamomile leaves out of sight under the table. What little was left, she put into a mug and poured hot water over, her hand surprisingly steady. Josef’s ring lay on the floured board.

  Outside, shouts followed another bang.

  “What’s going on?” Papa’s voice carried down the steps. He turned on the electric light. “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

  Elsie snatched the ring into her palm just as Mutti pattered into the kitchen. “Elsie, what is it?”

  “I don’t know. I was having chamomile and then …” She turned her back to Mutti, dropped the ring in the teacup, and tried to keep her eyes from the oven.

  Four Gestapo entered with guns. Two flanked Papa.

  “Search what you want,” he said. “We have nothing to hide. It’s the middle of the night and Christmas Eve for heaven’s sake!”

  “My apologies, Herr Schmidt, but we have orders,” said a stocky soldier with an oak leaf on either collar.

  “What’s happened?” asked Mutti. Bare feet against the tiles, she shivered.

  “A Jew escaped,” replied the man.

  “There are no Jews here, Standartenführer,” said Papa. He patted the oven. “Only pastries and bread.”

  A chill ran through Elsie. The hairs on her arms stood on end.

  “Where were you?” A trooper motioned to Elsie fully dressed beside her night-capped parents.

  “She’s come from your party,” replied Papa. “With Lieutenant Colonel Josef Hub.”

  “It was an excellent evening until now,” she said flatly.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you. This shouldn’t take long,” said the standartenführer. “May we?” He pointed up with his truncheon.

  “Yes, of course, go—search what you want,” said Papa.

  Two went up, their boots clomping the aged floorboards. The other two stayed in the kitchen.

  Mutti gave a huff. “I left my girdle out,” she whispered.

  Elsie rolled her eyes. From Hazel’s description of the lace garter belts her SS companions sent her as gifts, she guessed men like these had seen far more prurient novelties.

  “I doubt they’ll mind your old underwear, Mutti.”

  “Hush,” commanded Papa.

  Elsie pushed the teacup away from the ledge and crossed her arms over her chest. Mutti clutched her nightgown under her chin. One of the soldiers cleared his throat and went to search the front.

  The remaining guard walked around the kitchen, stopped beside the oven, then turned to Papa. “Your lebkuchen are my favorite. Are you making more?”

  “We’re closed on Christmas.”

  The soldier nodded. “But it’s warm?” He put a hand to the metal.

  Elsie’s heart beat like a juggernaut in her chest; her muscles locked tight.

  “Doch, brick ovens don’t turn to ice overnight.” Papa yawned and scratched his neck.

  The soldier caught the yawn, took off his cap, and wiped his brow. In the lamplight, Elsie saw how young he was. No more than fifteen.

  “Here.” Papa went to a tray and uncovered a handful of distorted gingerbread. “Take as many as you want. These are the misshapen ones. Just as tasty.”

  His hesitation lasted a fraction of a second. “Thank you, Herr Schmidt.” He came to Papa’s side and stuffed cookies into the front pocket of his uniform. He stopped as soon as his comrades returned.

  “Clear,” said the standartenführer. “Let’s go to the next. Gute nacht.”

  The soldiers filed out, but the boy-soldier lingered. “Happy Christmas,” he said. His eyes twinkled with youth and sleepiness.

  “A blessed Christmas to you and your family,” said Papa.

  He gave an awkward grin, then ran after his unit.

  Papa bolted the front door after the men.

  “Can you believe it?” Mutti tapped her fingernails on the wooden baker’s board. “An escaped Jew! On the eve of our Savior’s birth. Unbelievable.”

  Elsie’s head began to pound. The room went topsy-turvy. She took a gulp of the weak tea, lukewarm and slightly bitter. Gold flickered back at her from the bottom. She set it down beside a bowl of Christstollen dough, fat and leavened under its cloth. Papa would bake it for breakfast. She had to get her parents upstairs and the child out.

  “I left this open.” Mutti quietly slipped her hand up the closed back door to the loose chain. “For the carp.” She turned to Elsie, head cocked.

  “Let’s get back to bed,” called Papa from the stairs.

  Elsie’s fingers and toes went numb. “I was cold.”

  Papa’s footsteps thudded up, up, up.

  They held each other’s gazes for a long moment. Sweat trickled between Elsie’s breasts.

  “I’m sorry.” She tried to make her voice casual.

  Mutti rechained the door, cracked it open, then scanned the kitchen. “You are tired,” she finally said. An icy breeze fluttered her nightgown, and she hugged her arms across her chest. “Finish your tea and go straight to bed.” At the bottom of the staircase, she stopped to look around once more before slowly ascending.

  It was only then that Elsie’s hands began to shake. She poured the tea out and collected the ring. Not knowing where else to put it, she slid it back on her finger. The house quieted, and she wished it could stay that way, wished there was nothing inside the oven but coals and ash. She wanted to crawl under her eiderdown and pretend this night was all a terrible nightmare.

  An old woman, haggard and white, reflected in the small kitchen window. Elsie looked over her shoulder. The woman did too. And then she recognized herself, sighed, and ran a hand through her hair. What was she doing? She should put the boy out in the snow. The Gestapo would find him soon, and he’d go back to where he belonged. Elsie cringed imagining him in a work camp, so thin and frail; but if they found him in the bakery, her family could lose everything. Her head whirled, and she grasped the oven latch to keep from falling. She regretted her earlier actions. She should have shut the door and been done with the Jew. But she hadn’t. So what now?

  Carefully, she opened the oven. Blackness, then a pale face emerged like the moon from behind a cumulous cloud.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Tobias,” he whispered.

  “Come.” She extended her arms.

  MUNICH, GERMANY

  12 ALBERTGASSE

  KRISTALLNACHT

  NOVEMBER 9, 1938

  Second Lieutenant Josef Hub stood on the doorstep with a holstered gun and a heavy sledgehammer. The three comrades in his charge eagerly awaited his command to carry out Gestapo orders; but the twenty-three-year-old lieutenant paused, unsure of himself and the power of his hand against this door. The yellow star gave no counsel. To use the brass knocker, stained and marred by the painted “u” of Juden, seemed inappropriate for the occasion.

  “Should we break the windows first?” asked Peter Abend, a nineteen-year-old graduate of the Hitler Youth. The ranks were full of soldiers like Peter, boys just out of lederhosen shorts who converged in the cities from the German countryside, determined to demonstrate absolute devotion to the Reich. Naive stories of war glories filled their heads; rifles, their hands; and their lives were suddenly imprinted with a new purpose that transcended hayseeds and pig corrals. None of them had studied at the university. All were students of one school of thinking and one course of action.

  “Nein,” said Josef. He pounded the sledgehammer on the door. “Open!”

  Nothing.

  “Open or we must come by force.”

  Sil
ence.

  It was time. His orders were clear. He wore the uniform, trained in the ranks, fell in line and step at the grand parade for Führer Hitler. It was time to act the part, despite all reservations and all personal convictions. “The individual should finally come to realize that his own ego is of no importance in comparison with the existence of the nation.” Those were Hitler’s words. The unity of the nation. Pure Germany.

  He reluctantly blew his whistle, and the three young sturmabteilung charged the familiar door. The oak held at first but then cracked and split the frame. A woman yelped inside.

  “We are here by order of the Third Reich for Herr Hochschild,” said Josef.

  The family huddled in the dark hallway. Frau Hochschild stood strong at her husband’s side, four children behind them. The three girls cried “Papa,” and the youngest, a four-year-old boy, valiantly held his father’s hand.

  Herr Hochschild stepped forward. “I have committed no crime.”

  “You are a Jew. Your very nature is offensive,” said Peter.

  “Quiet,” said Josef.

  Peter hushed, but he cocked his gun audibly. The two soldiers at his side followed suit.

  Josef moved in front of their barrels. “Herr Hochschild, please come with us and there will be no harm to your family. On my word.”

  He could carry out these orders without barbaric measures. He was an officer of the Third Reich and had read Mein Kampf. He understood that one could influence the individual and group by way of rhetoric more than any other force on the planet. These soldier-boys at his command knew nothing but target practice and military games.