The Baker's Daughter

by Sarah McCoy

  Riki sat back. “She’s a Nazi?”

  “Is? I don’t think so. Was? I’m not sure.”

  “Either you’re a racist supremacist or you aren’t. There’s no in between.”

  Here was the Riki she knew. “There isn’t?” She’d said it as a statement, but it came out more like a question.

  Riki turned her to face him. “No,” he said firmly.

  “Right, I totally agree.” She nodded. Her head was fuzzy warm. “But doesn’t everyone kind of hold their own above the others?” She swam her hand through the suds.

  “We’re all human, Reba. We’re all people.”

  “People betray each other.”

  The diamond solitaire glinted in the bathwater. Riki hooked his finger through the chain. “It’d look better on your finger, you know.”

  She pulled away, and it fell back into the soapy water. “I don’t want to get into this again.”

  “I’m just saying—”

  “I know what you’re saying.” She washed her legs, the stubble snagging the loofah sponge.

  “I think I’ve been pretty understanding, Reba.” He stood. “But there comes a time when we all have to make a choice, like you said.”

  She kicked the water. “I made my choice. Look! I’m here. Why do you keep pushing?”

  She scrubbed hard until a pink rash bloomed on her kneecaps; her breath came fast.

  “It’s been almost four months and we haven’t set a date, haven’t even talked about setting a date. Shoot, I don’t even think you’ve told your family.”

  She ignored him and continued. The water splashed up the sides of the tub.

  “Talk to me, Reba.”

  She stopped. What could she say? She loved him, but this wasn’t the life she wanted. He said not to put up fences, but that was exactly what he’d done to her. He’d anchored her to this border town, trapped her inside his barbed-wire perimeter. From the moment she’d accepted his proposal, she’d felt the urge to leave, to run as fast as she could. She might’ve abandoned the old Reba in Virginia, but this new Reba didn’t feel right either. It was like Jane said: she was stuck between. Her mind bounced from east to west, from who she was to who she wanted to be. The only thing stopping her crossing was Riki and that ring roped round her neck.

  “I need a Motrin,” she said instead and rubbed her temples.

  Riki sighed. “You need to make a decision. We can’t go on like this.”

  Reba counted the popping bubbles on the water surface, feeling as heavy as a stone.

  LEBENSBORN PROGRAM

  STEINHÖRING, GERMANY

  JANUARY 1, 1945

  Dear Elsie,

  A proposal from an officer! Of course you’ll accept. Elsie, I am so proud. And jealous, I’ll admit. I know it’s all for the good of the nation, but I don’t think it’s disloyal to wish I’d meet a man (whatever age) looking for a wife. We’re making Germans not love, so they keep reminding me. But I do miss the latter and often wonder how different my life might be if Peter were alive. I would have been like you, an SS bride. Of course, if I had known then that I was pregnant with Julius, I would have insisted we marry before he left for Munich. But that kind of thinking does me no good. He is gone. No use fighting fate’s will. Everything happens for a reason. Isn’t that what the minister used to say?

  I haven’t been to church in some time. The Program doesn’t approve of religious sentimentalities, but I stil wear my pewter cross. The ones Papa gave us that Easter when Herr Weiss accidentally threw his mother-in-law’s table in the Osterfeuer bonfire. Though we all know he did it out of spite because she wouldn’t let him smoke his pipe in the house! I laugh still remembering her face.

  That’s when I met Peter, too—–at the spring festival. He was so handsome in his Hitler Youth uniform and so eager to show all the girls his medal for best class marksman. What a wolf in sheep’s clothing! In Gymnasium, he was the quiet boy who always smelled of his mother’s breakfast oranges. Then he went off to the Hitler Youth and came back… changed. A man, ready to conquer the world. It’s odd how you can be with someone day in and day out and never notice until lightning seems to strike their face. Then you see what you never saw before, and no matter how hard you try, you can’t go back to seeing nothing again. Listen to me. I’m rambling. Yes, I loved Peter, but there’s so much more to it than that. At least that’s been my experience. It’s nice that Josef and Papa are friends. Mutti is right. This is a good match, Elsie.

  Today, I bought beautiful fabric for a new dirndl. My friend Ovidia works at the merchant shop, and she says it’s handwoven from Italian lamb’s wool. I’ve sent a portion of it to Mutti to make the skirt. She’s so good at embroidering. I haven’t decided which I’d like, red poppies or white edelweiss. Which do you think? Perhaps Mutti should choose, though she’s always said red is my best color. For my part, I’m sewing a brown bodice to match either. I hope to have it done in time for our spring visit. Mutti may be able to sew a dirndl in a week, but I never had her dexterity or your aptitude in the trades. As well, my body is still swollen from the twins, and I want the dress to fit properly. The Program suggests I begin weaning them early, so hopefully that will help.

  The girl is doing wonderfully, rosy and round as a cherub. The boy, however, has not turned out as hoped. He’s physically substandard but good-natured. He never cries or fusses like his sister. The nurses say he lies in his crib all day without a sound, and sometimes they forget he’s there at all. During feedings, the girl gobbles up nearly all I have to give, but the boy only sleeps at my breast. They are such opposites. It’s hard to believe they shared the same womb. The doctors are concerned about the boy. While I know he is not mine but a child of the Fatherland, I can’t help wanting to protect him. I feel every bone in his body when I hold him. I named him Friedhelm until he is well enough for the Program to christen him with a new one.

  I’m sorry to hear that a Jew spoiled your Christmas. I wonder why they had him come at all. Why not a German youth? We have many boys here who can sing like larks. But I suppose they didn’t want to risk transportation at such a time.

  Word from the Ardennes reached us with more news of lost Program fathers. They have closed down many of the other Lebensborn homes and brought the children here. I now share a room with a mother from Luxembourg named Cata and one from Stuttgart named Brigette. Though Cata is new to Steinhöring, Brigette has been here since the Program’s inception.

  Awarded the Silver Mother’s Cross last year for her abundant fertility, she’s a favorite companion for many admired SS officers. She’s had seven perfect children and calls them by number rather than name. I’m uncertain if that is because their christened names pain her or if she is so wholly committed to the nation that the names do not matter. Brigette used to have the largest private room on the compound, but it has since been turned into a nursery for incoming children.

  We are not friends. Our relations were strained after Julfest when Major Günther chose my companionship over hers. He was one of her regulars, apparently. So I am making the best of this difficult time. I try to stay out of Brigette’s way and make Cata as comfortable as possible in her new surroundings. She has a skittish personality, speaking her thoughts when she oughtn’t. Brigette says she’s as pestering as a magpie. But if Cata is a magpie, then Brigette is a griffon vulture.

  I’m hoping for a swift victory of our fighting men so the New Order of Germany can soon begin. Then maybe I could come home for good, find a respectable officer to marry, and raise our Volk children together. This is what I dream, Elsie.

  Give my love to Mutti and Papa and Happy 1945 Silvester to you all.

  Heil Hitler.

  Hazel

  P.S. There is a random inspection of all incoming post to the Program, but none of your letter seals have ever been broken. I mail my letters directly through the Steinhöring Post Office or give them to my friend Ovidia to do so. Our words are safe between us, sister.

  SCHMIDT BÄCKERE
I

  56 LUDWIGSTRASSE

  GARMISCH, GERMANY

  JANUARY 2, 1945

  Dear Hazel,

  It’s been weeks without word from you. With the fighting so near, I understand that the mail cannot run at its usual timeliness. I’m trying to be patient, but it is difficult. Mutti worries about you and Julius. Our enemies are closer than ever. I pray for your safety. I miss you so terribly.

  I’m still recovering from the sickness I wrote about in my last letter. Despite Mutti’s best efforts, the mustard rubs didn’t do much good. Finally, Papa called for Doktor Joachim who gave me a spoonful of Dover’s powder and instructed Mutti to make me anise tea. He had no medicine to spare—all the drugs going to our fighting men. Thank heaven it wasn’t the influenza! I’ve heard rumors that the illness has taken many lives in the cities, Hamburg and Berlin. I pray it is not there in Steinhöring!

  Seven bitter cups of tea later, I awoke with a full bedpan, but my coughs had subsided. I had an angel watching over. By the last day of 1944, my constitution was weak, but I was finally able to rest. I missed Silvester, sleeping into the new year. It’s an odd feeling to lose important moments such as this, like something valuable was stolen, but there’s no thief to blame. Perhaps that is why 1945 feels especially strange.

  On Silvester eve, Frau Rattelmüller stopped by to do the annual bleigiessen fortune. Did you do bleigiessen at the Program? If so, what shape did your future make? Papa’s lead made into the shape of a feather—change in his household. He attributed it to the coming victory of the Fatherland and business improving. Mutti’s took the shape of a cow—a cure for sickness. She’s had me drinking different herbal brews ever since. They dropped the molten lead into the water on my behalf. It formed a ring. Mutti, of course, interpreted it as a forecast of my marriage to Josef, but Frau Rattelmüller reminded her that a ring shape is also a warning of forthcoming escapades. It would be like the frau to give me a bad prediction. Perhaps the old witch has put a curse on me for badgering her about the brötchen.

  Last night, I dreamed that Josef was tied like a suckling pig and put into our oven with the broggenbrot. I tried to save him but couldn’t open the latch and woke drenched in sweat. In another, you stood on the back stoop with a gun and told me to run. I asked where, but you wouldn’t say. You simply said “run” and so I did, through the empty streets and up Kramer Mountain until I reached St. Martin’s Hutte. There, I stopped and looked down over Garmisch, which wasn’t there at all, just one black hole in the valley. You used to tell me that dreams had meaning. Do you stil believe that? If so, what does this mean? I’d rather forget the nightmares altogether—too horrible to think about. Demons, Mutti claims, and so I dust off my bible and pray, pray, pray.

  I accepted Josef’s proposal. Mutti and Papa are delighted, and seeing their happiness brings me courage, but still. I wonder if this is enough.

  I hope that you are able to visit in the spring. Your opinion means everything. Having you with us during these difficult times would make everything so much easier. I must tell you, Hazel, I have a secret. I haven’t the bravery to write it down, but can tell only you—and the sooner the better. I’m so consumed by it that my mind has no peace. I worry I’ve made a grave mistake. I pray that if I have been wrong, the consequences will not affect you, Mutti, or Papa. Please write soon, Hazel. The days between letters have been so long.

  Heil Hitler.

  Your loving sister,

  Elsie

  Mutti’s footsteps creaked across the floorboards. Elsie glanced at the loose wallboard to ensure it was secured.

  “You must feel better?” Mutti asked as she entered with a tray of parsnip onion soup. “It’s good to see you awake.”

  Elsie pointed to the letter on the side table. “I was writing Hazel.”

  Mutti set the tray down beside. “Shall I mail it for you?”

  Elsie scooped it up. “It’s not urgent.”

  While Mutti hadn’t the prying nature, Elsie couldn’t chance it. “I’ll take it to the post office as soon as I’m well. It helps to talk to her like she’s close.” She fingered the papery corner. “I miss her.”

  Mutti pulled the covers high up on Elsie’s chest. “I’m glad she writes to you. Papa and I haven’t received a letter in over a month.” She straightened the spoon on the tray. “She’s busy and with the war as it is …” She placed a palm on Elsie’s forehead. “Good. No fever. I’m sure Josef is anxious to see you.” Mutti patted Elsie’s hand. The rubies gleamed in the dim light. “We need you fully recovered. Thank God this wasn’t an infection. Doktor Joachim says there’s not an ounce of medicine—not even on the black market.” She wrung her hands. “I pray they have better supplies in Steinhöring.”

  Elsie put a hand over her mother’s. “Hazel said to give you and Papa her love. She sounds as though she’s faring the best of any of us.”

  She didn’t want Mutti to worry.

  Mutti massaged the tips of Elsie’s fingers to circulate the blood. “Gut. That brings me comfort. Be sure to send her our love when you write again.” She let go. “I must get back to your papa. There was a lull so I brought your lunch. Eat while the soup is warm.” She stood and headed for the door.

  “Mutti.” Elsie stopped her. “Is there a spare roll or two I might have?”

  Mutti nodded. “Appetite. An excellent sign.”

  Elsie listened to the creaky stairs’ diminuendo then crescendo, and the door reopened.

  “Two straight from Papa’s oven. And a pat of the butter I’ve been hiding in the icebox.” Mutti set the plate on the tray. “I told your papa we need to bake extra batches of brötchen in the mornings. Frau Rattelmüller bought a dozen before we even opened!”

  “She’s been doing that for months,” said Elsie. “I told you she’s lost her mind.”

  “As long as she pays with hard coin.” Mutti winked and closed the door behind her.

  Elsie sipped her soup. The rising aromatic steam made her chest feel balmy and full. Mutti’s soup with Papa’s bread—there was nothing better in the world. She held the bowl as close as possible without burning herself.

  Downstairs, Mutti’s voice carried through the pine planks, greeting customers and taking orders.

  Elsie checked the door and listened for footsteps before pulling herself from the feather comforter with key in hand. The floor was warmer than the air, and her feet welcomed the heat. Once the lock had been turned, she whispered, “Tobias?”

  The wide board in the far wall pushed out.

  “Parsnip soup,” said Elsie.

  Out of the crawl space squirmed Tobias wearing a thick, cable sweater that looked more like a dress. Papa’s midsection had long outgrown the item, and it lay unused at the bottom of his cedar trunk. He’d never notice its absence. In the cold of the upper rooms, Elsie couldn’t risk Tobias catching a cold and sneezing himself to discovery.

  She moved the bread off the plate and ladled on parsnips and onions, carrots and cabbage, then split a roll and placed the butter inside. “Here.”

  “For you?” whispered Tobias.

  Elsie shook her head. “For you.”

  His eyes sparkled.

  Up until that day, Elsie hadn’t been able to stomach much more than tea, broth, and pretzels that she sucked until the pieces turned mushy in her mouth; so Tobias had eaten the same. While Elsie grew thinner from the diet, Tobias had surprisingly managed to gain plumpness in his cheeks and through his middle, making him less apparition and more boy. Though he rarely spoke, Elsie had become somewhat attached to his company, like the imaginary elves of childhood that lived in garden sheds and wooden armoires.

  “Go back and eat where it’s safe,” she instructed.

  Tobias nodded and tiptoed to the wall, shimmied through the plank, and pulled the plate inside.

  This had been their routine since Christmas. Initially, Elsie panicked each time her parents came to take her temperature; her heart beat fast, and she broke out in a sweat from hea
d to toe, making her symptoms appear worse than they were. When Doktor Joachim arrived, she nearly fainted with fear. But Tobias seemed divinely cloaked. Even Elsie forgot he was there until a cough gripped her chest and her breath came shallow. Then he’d appear, bringing water to her lips and a hum to ease the pain. She tried to forget he was a Jew. It was easier that way. She had yet to think past concealing him.

  In a fever pitch, she’d dreamed she called the Gestapo and said she’d discovered a boy hiding in the woodpile—saving herself and her family and being championed by the authorities. She awoke to Tobias’s gentle hum at her side and winced at the macabre thoughts. She couldn’t cast him off. Not anymore. Things had changed. He was someone to her now.

  At every meal, she broke half her bread with him, and she’d shown him the secret items she’d collected in the hollow wall. His favorite was the advertisement for Texas baked beans, which featured an illustration of an American cowboy riding through a field of sunflowers. Tobias would run his fingers over the man’s smiling face, drawing up and down the sharp letters U-S-A. She also had an Edelweiss pin; movie stills of Jean Harlow, Myrna Loy, and William Powell; a copy of A Boy’s Will with the covers torn off; a jar of pebbles from the coast of Yugoslavia; a small vial of rose shampoo; and a bar of Ritter Sport Schokolade still in the wrapper. For fear Tobias might be greedy, she warned that if he ate the chocolate, they’d surely find him, the smell too distinct and familiar to a baker’s senses. But after a week of scraps, she learned he hadn’t the gluttonous nature.

  Minutes after he’d moved back into the hiding place, the plate slid out. Elsie pulled back the covers and took up the plate. Under the lamplight, Josef’s engagement ring shimmered red droplets against the wall. She still wasn’t used to its ruby glare. The decision to accept his proposal had come suddenly.