The Baker's Daughter

by Sarah McCoy

  I understand this is treasonous talk and should this letter fall into the hands of the authorities, they will send me to the camps with the other enemies of the Reich or shoot me on the spot. But I cannot keep silent. The weight of this sadness is too great. I can only write my true feelings to you, Elsie. I know you will not betray me.

  Since my roommates watch my every turn, I’m giving this letter to Ovidia. Hopefully it will reach you. After you’ve read it, please, tear it up and burn it in Papa’s oven. Not for my sake, but for your own and the safety of our family.

  Love,

  Hazel

  LEBENSBORN PROGRAM

  STEINHÖRING, GERMANY

  JANUARY 8, 1945

  Elsie, today I write to you with a spirit burdened by anger and despair beyond all hope of redemption. I’m living with demons so I must already be in hell. My roommate Cata, having recently borne a healthy son to the Program, was permitted into the newborn nursery to wean. There, she saw my daughter, round and blond as an angel, but she overheard the nurses discussing Friedhelm. One of the nurses said that Doktor Ebner was disappointed to learn of the twin Friedhelm’s failure given the Program’s fertility drugs and proscribed prenatal vitamin regimen. To that, one of the nurses claimed that if the mother had a hidden deficiency, then it would surely be passed on to one, if not all, of her offspring. Therefore, Cata said, they have begun testing my daughter to ensure she does not carry some mutation or derivation of our Aryan race. Unthinkable! As to my son, Brigette claims that after too much wine, a Gruppenführer confided to her in bed that they poisoned the Program’s unwanted newborns and threw them in the fire, burying their bones alongside the exterminated Jews in the camps! Oh, Elsie! If the stories are true, then they are damned to hell and I along with them. I pray for the Americans and Russians to come. I welcome them and hope we all are burned to ash for the sins committed here. I do not think I will ever find rest again. It is near dawn now and I must get this letter to Ovidia before the Monday market opens. I love you most dearly, Elsie. Please know that—–whatever comes.

  Hazel

  SCHMIDT BÄCKEREI

  56 LUDWIGSTRASSE

  GARMISCH, GERMANY

  JANUARY 12, 1945

  Dear Hazel,

  The last letter I received from you was postmarked the 27th of December. I asked Postmaster Hoflehner if the mail had stopped due to the fighting in the north. He assured me that it had not and that Reich Postal Ministry is working at the highest standards of German efficiency, albeit at a slightly protracted punctuality. Then he handed me a letter from Herr Meyer to Papa as evidence. I told him one swallow does not make a spring. Herr Meyer lives in Partenkirchen. I could ride my bicycle there and back faster than it took this letter to arrive at the Garmisch Post Office.

  I cannot help worrying. I’ve awoken many nights with you in my dreams. A notion that refuses to leave the mind is a sign, so Mutti has said. A sign of what, she’s never articulated. I try not to tell her anything that will cause her concern. She’s so easily troubled and doesn’t understand our times. The world is not as it was when she was our age. So I keep my nightmares and thoughts to myself. You were the only one I could talk to, Hazel. I understand now that we must be prudent in every written word. Perhaps in my earlier letters, I made the mistake of impertinence. I pray they did not fall into the wrong hands and that is the reason for your silence! I was not thinking of the danger to you—only of myself and my longing to tell you so much. Please, forgive me and consider it the frivolous scribbling of a silly girl. Is it possible to be nearly seventeen yet feel one hundred years old?

  Remember the story Mutti told us of Frau Grunwald whose hair went from red as summer strawberries to winter white after finding her three sons hung in the stables by the French at the end of the first war? To this day, Herr Grunwald’s ancient mother appears younger than his wife. I thought nothing could be as tragic as that. But now I believe I understand. I feel the weight of this war pressing down on me. I see it in Mutti’s and Papa’s faces. We are all growing older too quickly. I barely recognize any of us. Sometimes I forget your face and it frightens me so that I take your photograph and stare hard until I’m sure it’s burned into my mind’s eye.

  I wish you were home, Hazel. I miss my sister. If only you were here. If only, if only, if only. I pray for your safety and health, and the same for all your children.

  Heil Hitler.

  Your loving sister,

  Elsie

  LEBENSBORN PROGRAM

  STEINHÖRING, GERMANY

  JANUARY 13, 1945

  Elsie, promise me you’ll take care of Julius. He is all that is left of the happy life I dreamed for Knowing what I do now, I cannot bear another day here. Elsie, I hope you can understand why I did what I felt I must. I love my children—–all of them. But I am not the mother they deserve—–flawed in my love for them. I pray there is truly a God and he is forgiving. Try to make Mutti and Papa see. I love you all and will miss you, my dear sister, most.

  Yours eternally,

  Hazel

  SCHMIDT BÄCKEREI

  56 LUDWIGSTRASSE

  GARMISCH, GERMANY

  JANUARY 19, 1945

  Elsie nearly dropped her tray of sweet honigkuchen squares when Josef came through the bäckerei doors midmorning. He’d been called away from Garmisch on business for three weeks. This was the first she’d seen him since Christmas Eve. It was one thing to use her affianced status to save her family from the Gestapo, but quite another to take on the responsibility of being the wife to a man she didn’t love. She wore the ring, though each glimpse of it shamed her. The truth must be made known, or she risked living the lie forever. But keeping Josef close was her only guarantee that she and her family were protected. With Tobias hidden upstairs, she couldn’t jeopardize them now by revealing her true feelings.

  “You’re back!” she welcomed.

  “Just yesterevening.” He nodded and kissed her hand.

  “Papa, Josef is here,” Elsie called over her shoulder. She pulled the handkerchief off her head and smoothed her hair. “It is very good to see you, Josef, but what brings you to us at this hour?” He had never come in before noon before.

  “Your papa sent a telegram this morning.” His face was tense.

  Elsie’s palms grew moist. A telegram was serious. The fact that she hadn’t known about it made it even more significant.

  Josef glanced at the ruby ring on her hand. She gave him a shaky grin. Their time apart had made her nervous and unsure of where their relationship and alliances stood.

  They know about Tobias, she thought, and she wondered if Josef’s undisclosed business away from Garmisch had something to do with her. She tried to imagine how someone might’ve seen Tobias through her bedroom window. He was so small, and she’d made certain to keep her bedroom door locked, the rouladen shutters closed tightly at an upward angle. Only the birds and clouds could’ve caught a glimpse. Perhaps the Luftwaffe flew over and surveyed her room. She heard they had such technology. Mutti and Papa never went upstairs during the day, and Tobias had been instructed to be as silent as a ghost or risk discovery and death.

  Her imagination swelled and with it, her pulse. “Papa?” she called. Though her fever had long passed, her cheeks blazed hot.

  Papa came out wiping his hands clean. “Josef, my future son-in-law, it is good to see you. Thank you for coming so quickly.” He patted him on the back and matched Josef’s somber expression.

  Elsie cursed herself for putting her family in jeopardy. She’d surely pay the price. Her head spun.

  Papa motioned for them to take a seat in the far corner. Pulling her along by the elbow, he whispered, “I don’t want your mutti to know of this yet.”

  She sat heavily in the wooden café chair and gripped the table ledge to keep her arms steady. Josef sat close beside. Checking over his shoulder one last time, Papa pulled a letter from his apron pocket.

  Unspoken anxiety swayed the room like a ship’s deck. Els
ie wondered if the Gestapo had intercepted her letters to Hazel and she was being charged for some flippant remark made therein. She tried to recall everything written but couldn’t. Her mind scrambled back and forth from her pen to her room to the Hebrew ring on her finger and the starched cotton of Josef’s uniform against her arm.

  Whatever it was, she’d take responsibility. She’d tell the authorities that her parents had no knowledge of her letters’ contents or Tobias. It was all her.

  Suddenly, Mutti leaned her head through the doorway. “You want me to make the pumpernickel, Max?” She lifted her hands, gooey with dough.

  “Ja, ja, pumpernickel.” He waited until she’d returned to the kitchen before unfolding the letter.

  Elsie immediately recognized Hazel’s script.

  “I received this yesterday, and thank God I was the one to get the mail and not Luana.” Papa placed weighted palms on it as if he could knead the words smooth like piecrusts. “Hazel is in trouble. She is not—of her right mind.” His rough fingers, stained with spices, lay in stark contrast to the ivory page. “You must understand, Hazel is a faithful daughter of the Reich despite the things she says here. Please, Josef, I trust that what I share with you will stay between us?” His breath quickened, and he continued before Josef answered. “She is one of Germany’s finest. This is a difficult time for her. If we could find a way to get to Steinhöring, we could help her return to her good nature.”

  It was only then that he allowed them to read.

  Elsie’s chest tightened. Papa was right. Hazel was in great danger. In all her life, Elsie had never heard her sister speak with such hopelessness, such anger, and with such scorn for authority. If the Gestapo found this letter, Hazel would be arrested or worse. And what of the baby boy? Could it be true that they intended to give away her flesh and blood?

  Elsie balled her fists on the table, the selfish fear from minutes before changed to panic. “Papa, it can’t be true. They wouldn’t do such a thing—take a child from its mother.” She looked to Josef, but his gaze remained steadfast on the letter.

  Her anger flared, and before she could stop herself, she blurted out, “It’s barbaric!”

  Josef’s head jerked high like a puppet by a string.

  Elsie covered her mouth, but her eyes burned on.

  A customer came in; the snap of the door hinge cracked the air. “Hallo!” the unfamiliar woman called, rapping her mittens on the glass display when no one greeted her.

  From the kitchen, Mutti yelled, “Elsie! My hands are kneading! We have a customer.”

  Papa stood slightly and bowed to the woman. “I’m sorry, frau, I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  The woman sniffled against the cold and perused the tray of marzipans. “Fine.”

  Josef cleared his throat. “Night travel is nearly impossible. If you want to get to Steinhöring, you’d have to leave early and you’d need an escort.”

  Papa nodded firmly.

  Josef leaned back in his chair, scratched his chin. “It won’t be an easy trip. I warn you. You won’t be able to stay away long. It would cause suspicion. But …” He turned to Elsie and his face softened. “Hazel means a great deal to us.”

  Elsie nodded. Her eyes welled.

  “Tomorrow at dawn,” he told Papa.

  “Ja, dawn.”

  The woman at the counter clucked her tongue. “I’m ready.”

  “Elsie, go,” said Papa.

  Though she loathed leaving the conversation, this was not the time for disobedience. So she rose and went to the baskets of bread.

  “What would you like?”

  “The bauernbrot.” The woman pointed to the farmer’s bread.

  Reaching for the loaf, Elsie strained to hear what Papa and Josef were discussing at the table—something to do with their departure route. She was glad she hadn’t refused Josef’s proposal yet. She would use whatever she could to help Hazel. Whatever the cost.

  The woman paid with ration coupons and left. Papa called Mutti from the kitchen.

  “Ja, ja, what is it now?” she asked, her hands powdery with the SS flour that mixed like concrete and hardened just as fast.

  “Luana.” Papa sighed. “We must go to Steinhöring.”

  Mutti brought her fists to her chest. Silty flecks of gray dough fell to the floor. “What’s happened? Is it Hazel? Julius?”

  Papa took her by the shoulders. “Wash up and pack our bags. Hazel is …”

  Mutti’s lower lip trembled.

  “She’s ill,” he said.

  “Ill?” asked Mutti. Her floured fists left balled imprints on her dirndl. “Is there a fever epidemic?” she asked Josef. He looked away. “The bleigiessen cow,” she murmured. “Dover’s powder and tea is the cure.” She blinked back tears. “What about the bäckerei?”

  “Elsie will have to run things while we are gone,” explained Papa.

  “But the roads aren’t safe. The reports say—”

  Papa put a hand on Mutti’s cheek. “Hazel needs us.”

  “I’ll be escorting you, Frau Schmidt,” said Josef. “You’ll be safe with me.”

  ST. SEBASTIAN CHAPEL

  CEMETERY

  GARMISCH, GERMANY

  MAY 23, 1942

  Josef had come to the cemetery late in the day. Wild poppies sprung up between slate and granite crosses. The setting sun cast long shadows, giving the flowers height and life. They moved with each passing breeze, reaching their rainbow of petals to some unseen spirit high above.

  He was on his way back from an afternoon of Watten cards and raisin kuchen with Herr Schmidt when he saw the sign for St. Sebastian Chapel. Peter’s death still haunted his waking and dreaming, but he’d grown accustomed to the ghostly presence, an aching in his vision that rarely abated. The methamphetamines and weekend holidays to Garmisch helped. The town had become as familiar as his own, but he’d never ventured here before. It seemed illogical when he knew Peter’s ashes had been swept up by the western wind and probably settled in Munich’s Hofgarten’s hemlock and clover. He imagined park visitors walking through the grassy topsoil not knowing their toes gripped the mud of men, not knowing Peter Abend.

  That afternoon, he wasn’t sure what drew him to the church. Nonetheless, there he stood above the small marker: PETER KLAUS ABEND, BELOVED. 1919–1938.

  A dried daisy chain encircled the dates, and Josef wondered who placed it there—Peter’s sister, Trudi, perhaps. Josef hadn’t any siblings. His father had been hit by an automobile when Josef was too young to remember. Embittered by her loss, his mother had been a strict disciplinarian who believed hard work and diligence might help them find happiness again. She encouraged his participation in the Memmingen branch of the Greater German Youth Movement and lived long enough to see him join the official military ranks. Two years after he moved east to Munich, she passed away in her sleep. A neighbor friend found her, stiff as a log, and stained from neck to navel in blood. The doctors diagnosed it as acute tuberculosis. It’d been so long since he’d returned home, and so infrequently did they speak that he couldn’t recall if she’d even had a cough. Since his mother was a needlewoman known for her meticulous floral embroidery, he’d paid handsomely that her casket be sheathed with every bloom imaginable. That would’ve pleased her, he thought.

  A scarlet poppy fluttered against Peter’s slate. Josef wondered who would mourn when he died. He hadn’t sisters to make daisy chain remembrances, nor brothers to carry on the family name. He was well liked by many friends, but his absence would not touch any of them so deeply. Standing in the waning light over Peter’s grave, he tried to imagine his own funeral assembly. The landlady in Munich would surely come out of respect and duty. Perhaps a girl or two he once courted. Frau Baumann would cry for him but not dare show her face—a renowned prostitute at any man’s funeral was inappropriate. It comforted him, however, to know she’d feel loss, probably more than any other. And then the Schmidts, he hoped. He’d become close to Herr and Frau Schmidt and watched as
Elsie blossomed from a gangly girl to a young woman. They were genuine people. True to each other and those around. Yes, they’d be there too. He pictured Elsie clutching a bouquet of cornflowers and drying her eyes with a handkerchief. Lovely, even in sorrow.

  “You were smarter than I gave you credit for,” he said aloud, then shook his head and laughed, embarrassed to be talking to a dead man—and worse, a dead man who wasn’t even there. But he meant it.

  From all he heard, Hazel Schmidt was even more charming than her sister, her beauty only matched by her reputation as a generous lover. He attempted to visit the Lebensborn Program at Steinhöring, not as a companion but with the hope of helping Hazel and Peter’s son in some capacity. His application was rejected on the grounds of inferior health records. The names of the Lebensborn women were so greatly protected that not even a hundred kreppels could convince his archive secretary to pull Hazel’s file. So he stopped trying to reach her directly. His migraines continued, and his shots increased.