The Baker's Daughter

by Sarah McCoy

  “What?” Reba stood up and knocked the magazine to the floor.

  “I suspected you might pull another MIA routine, so I already bought a ticket. I’m coming the week between Christmas and New Year’s.”

  “This is crazy. I’ve got work and you’ve got work and …”

  “What’re you going to do—lock me out of the house? I’m coming, Reba and that’s all there is to it. So unbunch your panties and get used to the idea.”

  SCHMIDT BÄCKEREI

  56 LUDWIGSTRASSE

  GARMISCH, GERMANY

  FEBRUARY 2, 1945

  Elsie celebrated her seventeenth birthday with a midnight picnic on the floor of her bedroom. Tobias had sprinkled some of Mutti’s sweet aniseed into the rye dough and braided it into the shape of a crown. It’d baked off dark and fragrant as candied licorice. They placed a blackout candle in the center. Though small and lacking in the feasts and family of previous birthday celebrations, she had great hope for her seventeenth year and was grateful for Tobias’s company in welcoming it. When the cuckoo chimed twelve o’clock, she blew out the flame, and the room snuffed into darkness.

  Three days later, Papa, Mutti, and Josef returned with a boy Elsie would never have recognized if he hadn’t entered the bakery and immediately announced, “I’m Julius. I don’t belong here.”

  So unlike his mother and father was he in both appearance and disposition, she’d almost agreed with him.

  Instead, she’d replied, “I’m happy to meet you. I feel as if I should know you better. I’m your tante.”

  “Doch! I know,” he’d said and wriggled up his nose like a piglet. “What’s that stink?”

  She’d just finished a batch of onion rolls and ignored her nephew’s disparagement. “Where’s Hazel?” she asked.

  Papa handed Mutti his suitcase. “Take these up, Luana.” He turned to Josef. “Thank you again for all that you have done for us.”

  The men exchanged heavy nods that spoke beyond words.

  “What?” Elsie asked one, then the other. “What?”

  Papa held up a commanding hand. “Later. It has been a long day, Elsie.” He gently took Julius by the shoulder. “Come. Let’s find something to eat before bed.” He led him to the kitchen.

  Alone, Josef turned to her.

  “You must tell me,” she begged.

  He placed his cap on snugly. “Hazel left the Program.”

  “Left? And went where? She would be here, ja?”

  “Your parents will explain. It’s not my place.”

  She understood when to stop asking questions. The week before, the Gestapo shot Achim Thalberg, the orchard farmer. His crime: he announced to the biergarten news of German retreat in Slovenia. A handful of Gestapo sat at a nearby table. With a quick exchange of words, they pulled their pistols and in less than a minute, poor Achim lay dead, his beer stein frothy and cold on the table.

  Frau Rattelmüller continued to purchase her morning brötchen and had filled her in on the details. Elsie didn’t fully trust the frau yet, but with each passing day, she proved herself a faithful confidante. In her parents’ absence, Elsie had given the frau extra rolls and honey buns with her usual order. Nothing that would be noticed when her papa returned. Tobias was still painfully thin, but she suspected it was the nature of everyone these days. Her own dresses hung loose on her frame. They had no more meat, and there wasn’t so much as a scrawny rabbit to be found on the black market. The forests had been stripped of every animal aboveground. She hid the handfuls of root vegetables they still owned in a burlap sack behind the kitchen kindle pile and prayed for an early spring. If there wasn’t, she was sure they’d all waste away to skeletons.

  She fidgeted with the baggy cuff of her sleeve. Josef took her hand and ran his thumb over the ring he’d given her. Elsie continued to wear it as a kind of talisman. Something was happening. She’d felt it for days, fear rolling closer like an ominous storm.

  “I’m sorry, I cannot stay,” said Josef. “I received immediate orders to report to Dachau.”

  “You’re leaving? For how long?”

  “Until our forces have pushed back the Allied forces.”

  A wave of nausea swept through her. Who would protect them now? Rumors swirled that the Red Army was a greater power than anticipated, and it wouldn’t be long before they marched directly into the heart of Berlin. As fearful as she was of the enemy, the thought of what her own countrymen would do to her made her chest seize up with nettled panic. The Grün family disappeared in the night, but as proven by Achim Thalberg, the soldiers were becoming more brazen and eager to make examples of anyone who crossed them. Josef was her ally, but now he was leaving, Hazel had disappeared, Julius was in their care, Tobias was hidden in her bedroom, and Germany was losing the war. All of it swept over her, and her hands went clammy despite the sheen of sweat on her face.

  Josef misread her expression as concern for his well-being. “I’ll be fine,” he reassured. “You’ll see. All will be well.” Then he leaned in to kiss her.

  Instinctively, Elsie turned her cheek and saw the hurt and disappointment in Josef’s eyes. Kind Josef who wanted nothing more than to protect and keep her safe; and yet, she did not love him.

  He cleared his throat. “I’ll write to you.”

  She nodded and didn’t turn to watch him go. They were on their own now.

  Elsie went up to Mutti’s closed bedroom door and knocked. “Mutti?”

  “Come in, dear.”

  Inside, Mutti unpacked the suitcases, placing items into the cedar wardrobe; her face pin-straight.

  “Did Julius get supper? The ham we bought wasn’t to his liking. Slightly rancid, I suppose, but what could we do? I made your papa eat it. Spoiled or not, it was something. He must keep up his strength. He’s not the young man he used to be,” she prattled on, folding one of Papa’s sweaters over and over. She looked up briefly at Elsie, the hollows beneath her eyes deeper than ever Elsie could remember. “We left in such a hurry,” she went on. “But like your papa keeps reminding me, you girls are all grown up. You can take care of yourselves. I’ve showed you how to make goulash a dozen times. At your ages, I can’t be worrying over feeding you or what clothes you wear or where you go.” She took a quick breath. “You aren’t children anymore and I haven’t the time with the bakery and customers and keeping up this drafty house, and now there is Julius who needs looking after. Of course, he isn’t an infant like the twins …” She fingered the fat cable knit of the sweater. “But he needs a mother. So, you see, you’ll need to help your papa more downstairs. I can’t be in the kitchen as often now that Julius is here and—”

  “Mutti, please,” Elsie put a hand over Papa’s sweater. “Where’s Hazel?”

  Mutti’s fingers slipped to her sides. “Hazel?” She blinked hard. “We don’t know. They only told us she is gone.”

  “Who told you?”

  “The Program administrators. Her roommates. They say she went to the market and never came home. She simply left.”

  Mutti bit her bottom lip, fearful and confused. The story didn’t make sense to her, either. It wasn’t in Hazel’s nature to run away, but if she had, she’d have sent word to them. She’d have written Elsie first. Though Postmaster Hoflehner had assured Elsie that the mail was running routinely, they had not received anything from outside the Garmisch-Partenkirchen valley in weeks. Hazel’s January 4 letter to Papa was the last to arrive. What if Hazel had written and the letters had been intercepted? Perhaps she was hidden in someone’s safe house, like Tobias in hers, and could not contact them; but then she’d left Julius behind. Hazel would never have left her children without a significant reason—unless she had no alternative. Elsie’s scalp burned, as if her hair had been plaited too tight.

  “Where are the twins?”

  A furrow deepened between Mutti’s eyes. “They belong to the Fatherland.”

  “So did Julius, but they gave him to us.”

  “Julius is the son of Hazel and
Peter.”

  “And the others—aren’t they the blood of your daughter? Doesn’t that count for something!” Her voice pitched.

  “Quiet,” Mutti hissed.

  The tone chilled Elsie to the bone. She had never heard her mother speak in such a manner.

  “You must always remember your place. We are women.” She locked eyes with Elsie. “We must be wise in our words and action. Do you understand?” Mutti pulled a crumpled blouse from the suitcase and smoothed it on the bed. “Josef was very helpful in getting Julius out. We almost had to leave him behind. Josef knows a woman who works inside the Nazi offices. He says she’s good at providing information. We’ll find Hazel. We’ll find my grandchildren.” She swallowed hard and nodded to the open suitcase. “Would you mind putting my brush and pins back in their place, dear?”

  Elsie took the needle-thin hairpins and bristle brush and set them side by side on the dressing table.

  “Flesh of our flesh. Blood of our blood,” whispered Mutti.

  “What was that?” Elsie asked.

  “That’s what the führer said in Nuremburg—it’s biblical—and we can’t forget. Before us is Germany, in us is Germany, and after us is Germany.” She lifted the gauzy blouse into the air.

  Elsie watched the lace neckline flutter through the vanity mirror. “Germany has changed,” she whispered.

  In the dim of the candlelight, Mutti sighed; a single tear eked out the side and she flicked it away with a finger. “Go help Papa lock up for the night,” she said and hung the blouse, her expression hidden by the shadow of the wardrobe.

  ELSIE’S GERMAN BAKERY

  2032 TRAWOOD DRIVE

  EL PASO, TEXAS

  DECEMBER 27, 2007

  The interior of the bakery was decorated from top to bottom with plastic garlands, silver tinsel, colorful nativity scenes, and fake snow sprayed foamy white along the edges of the glass windows.

  “Merry Christmas week!” called Jane from behind a long line of customers. Despite the holiday having passed, she wore a Santa cap with a puffball dangling at the end. It bobbed up and down with each order request.

  “Merry Christmas week,” Reba replied.

  The bakery was packed. Schools were out on holiday; cherry-cheeked youngsters stood in line chatting and pointing at the chocolate and sugar-glazed sweets under the display case. Christmas carols jingled overhead and patrons hummed along absentmindedly, giving the store an altogether whimsical feel. Even the entry bell seemed jolly.

  Reba was glad for the hustle and bustle. Deedee had arrived the day before and after nearly twenty-four hours together in the small condo, Reba craved external distractions. She wanted to avoid any circumstance that would provoke her sister into interrogation mode. She’d already had one close call that morning.

  In a rarely used kitchen drawer, Deedee found a photograph of Riki and Reba in Mundy’s Gap on the Franklin Mountains. “Who’s the guy you’re with?” Deedee had asked.

  Reba hadn’t lied. “Riki Chavez. He works for the Border Patrol.”

  Deedee had nodded, slid the photo back in, and gone on hunting for coffee filters; but the whole thing put Reba on edge. She wasn’t ready to talk about Riki. She knew her sister would fly into a rage over the concealed engagement—even if it was off. As Riki had said, they were taking a break to come to decisions. She still had the ring. It was all far too complex to discuss at the moment. She could barely think about it without inciting a headache.

  When Deedee searched the bathrooms for extra toilet paper, the suspense became too much. There was bound to be something of Riki’s hidden in the nether regions of the bathroom drawers: a wayward men’s razor blade, Old Spice deodorant, a condom.

  “You want to get lunch?” Reba had called up the stairs, straining to keep her voice casual. “There’s this German bakery. My friends own it. They have the best bread in town for sandwiches.”

  Deedee eagerly agreed after a breakfast of stale Froot Loops. It was the only thing left in the cupboard that didn’t require a can opener. Reba had cleaned out all the expired junk food before Deedee’s arrival but forgot to replenish it with typical staples. To add insult to injury, Deedee had to crunch the cereal sans milk. Reba had drunk it all before she had arrived.

  “Who’s that?” asked Deedee, nodding to Jane at the register.

  “Jane. Her mother, Elsie, owns the place. Sharp as a whistle. Seventy-nine years old and still working every day.”

  Deedee widened her eyes and shook her head. “Lord, that’s impressive.”

  They took a seat and set paper-wrapped packages of deli-sliced turkey and Swiss on the table.

  “When I’m seventy-nine,” said Deedee, “I want to sleep till noon and eat nothing but Krispy Kreme doughnuts in my silk pajamas. I won’t give a fig about my figure or fashion. I’ll be that crazy old lady and love every minute.”

  Reba laughed. Despite everything, she adored her sister. She kept things in perspective.

  “Every loaf is baked fresh in the mornings,” said Reba. “They have really good pastries, too. We should ask Jane for a dessert recommendation.”

  “She looks busy.”

  “It’ll slow down.” Reba checked her wristwatch. “This is the lunch crowd.”

  “You must come a lot.”

  Reba shrugged. “A couple times a week. Jane and Elsie—they’ve become my minifamily.”

  “Really?” Deedee raised an eyebrow high. “You’ve never mentioned them, but with the infrequency of your calls and e-mails, I’m not surprised. I know you’re a big girl, but Momma worries.”

  “I’ve been super busy. Work, work, work.” Reba waved a hand. “Besides, how much trouble can I get into—I hang out in a German bakery with women two and three times my age. Come on, Deedee!” She laughed too loud.

  Deedee gave an unconvinced grin, then turned to the bread bins. “Do they make pumpernickel? I haven’t had good pumpernickel in years. The store-bought kind tastes like cardboard.”

  Reba breathed deep. Relief.

  They decided on a small loaf of pumpernickel but waited for the line to diminish before stepping up to order.

  “Hey you, lady!” said Jane. “Sorry, I haven’t had a minute. Is this Miss Deedee?”

  Deedee smiled and extended her hand. “Sure is.”

  Jane shook it enthusiastically. “Glad to meet you. Reba’s been talking about your visit for a couple weeks now. I like to see what kind of people my friends come from. Says a lot.” She gestured to the back kitchen. “But I don’t know what my people say about me!” She laughed and her Santa pom-pom bounced up and down. “So what can I get you?”

  “We brought meat and cheese to make sandwiches. Thought maybe we could put them on pumpernickel.”

  Jane turned to the bread bin and pulled a fat, sable loaf from the shelf. “Always a good choice. Mom made this today. Let me run back and slice it up pretty.”

  She left the front. “Walking in a Winter Wonderland” came on.

  “Hey, it’s your favorite,” said Deedee. She elbowed Reba and hummed. “… say are you married, hmm-hmm, no man …”

  It was Reba’s favorite, but in that moment, it only made her cringe and wonder if Adams family ESP was at work.

  Jane returned with the sliced bread. “So you’re from Virginia too, right?”

  “Sure am. Just about everybody in our family’s been there forever. Reba’s one of the few to pack up and leave the state.” Deedee tilted her cheek to Reba. “We miss her.”

  “I can imagine.” Jane handed Reba the loaf. “Mom left her people in Germany. My oma and opa passed away when I was in diapers, but I think I still got some cousins over there. I understand why Mom moved to the States, but sometimes I wish I’d had a chance to know my kin. I’m sure they missed her.”

  “Cry me a lake,” said Elsie from the kitchen door. She clapped her hands together and sent up a flour cloud.

  “River, Mom,” corrected Jane.

  Elsie paid no mind. “Do not be telling
sentimentals about my life. We have enough of those on that foolish Lifetime Channel. You watch this? Nothing but crying and dying and pregnant fifteen-year-old girls.” She huffed and threw up a hand. “And they call that entertainment these days!”

  Deedee cleared her throat to quell a giggle.

  “In my time, we had Bogart and Hayworth and movies that meant something more than a snotty handkerchief. You must be Reba’s sister, Deedee.”

  “You must be Reba’s friend, Elsie,” said Deedee.

  “Old friend.” Elsie gestured to the loaf in Reba’s hand. “This is my papa’s recipe. He made it often during the wars. Rye was easier to come by than white flour. You know what pumpernickel means in English?”

  “Mom—” Jane started.

  “The devil’s fart,” said Elsie.

  Deedee laughed, a kind of rolling giggle that grew thicker as it went. Reba felt her own laughter awakened by it.

  Jane rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry—the things that come out of her mouth.”

  “Do not apologize for me,” said Elsie. “I doubt any family of Reba’s would be so easily offended.”

  “Not at all!” Deedee assured. “I understand why Reba likes spending time with you.”

  “Correct. It has nothing to do with my baking. She comes for my vulgar company.” Elsie winked at Reba.

  “That’s exactly it. You’ve got me figured out,” said Reba. She motioned to the waiting table. “Have you ladies had lunch yet? We brought extra.”

  “Thanks, but I grabbed something earlier,” explained Jane. The next customer stepped up. “What can I help you to?”

  Elsie came between Deedee and Reba, taking each by the crook of the arm. “There are twenty minutes before my brötchen is done. What kind of cheese you have?”

  “Swiss,” replied Deedee.

  “Ack, ja!” said Elsie. “I have good Swiss friends. Very gut.”