by Sarah McCoy
Beside Mutti was Hazel’s marker. Papa agreed to the engraving without question or explanation, and Elsie was relieved. HAZEL SCHMIDT, LOVING DAUGHTER AND SISTER. Elsie had left off the dates, unsure of what to put, and unwilling to add to Papa’s heartache.
Elsie balled her gloved fists. Death shouldn’t be so unremarkable, she thought. Mutti, Hazel, Friedhelm, Peter, the born and unborn. They were loved and deserved more. Not in worldly stone, marble or gems, but in memory and celebration; they deserved the heavens to open up for a moment for all that had been and was gone.
In a nearby tree, a finch took flight singing seep, seep, seep as it went. Just and merciful, Mutti had said of God. The bird climbed high, its song fading in the wind.
Twilight cast an amber glow. The tombstones’ shadows stretched long. It was time. Elsie turned to leave and as she did, a small gravestone stood out, alone and apart from the neat familial lines of the cemetery. Her eyes grazed the name, and she stopped.
JOSEF HUB. No inscription. No dates.
Elsie went to it, pulled off her gloves, and traced the print: Josef. She sighed. He deserved remembering as well. His life had been as much a part of her story as the others. She had no flower to leave him, so she pulled loose the blue ribbon from her hair and tied it round the headstone.
She tried to remember Josef without the Nazi uniform, but she’d never really known the man beneath—the secret burdens he carried. So she said a prayer for his soul: that he might find forgiveness and love. She had to believe that was possible, even for the dead.
PANTEÓN SAN RAFAEL
CEMETERY
CIUDAD JUÁREZ, MEXICO
NOVEMBER 2, 2008
Reba held her hat as Riki rumbled down the ashen streets to Panteón San Rafael Cemetery. She wore his Stetson rimmed with the reddest geraniums she could find in the shop. It was Día de Los Muertos.
A morning haze drifted over the ramshackle buildings, smelling of sulfur and copper smelting from the ASARCO plant on the US side. In the front yard of a weather-beaten Mexican adobe, a pile of debris burned; small Chihuahuas circled the fire pit, children still in pajamas baiting them on. Across the horizon, plumes of gray ash tunneled to the heavens from small homes clinging to the sandy mountainside.
“Are those Día de Los Muertos bonfires?” asked Reba.
Riki leaned over and studied the mottled sky. “Nope. Juárez folks burning trash to keep warm.”
Reba had heard such rumors but had never seen it done. It made the morning look as apocalyptic as the holiday.
They drove on, past the neighborhoods, to the southern outskirts of the city where the cemetery stretched out in long shunted plots, row upon row, like land tilled for seeding. The canals between the burial columns were already crowded with family members tending to a bounty of white crosses, candle altars, food, and flowers. The harvest of graves extended far into the rugged desert.
“So many,” whispered Reba.
“They come to honor their loved ones—to remember the past,” said Riki.
But Reba hadn’t meant the living; she’d meant the dead. Panteón San Rafael opened in 1995. Brand new in comparison to most, yet there were tens of thousands already buried beneath its sacred ground.
Riki led her through the labyrinth of mourners and shrines, past old women praying to Virgin Mary retablos, younger women singing lullabies, men inscribing names on sugar skulls, and children arranging marigolds along the perimeters of buried caskets. They pressed farther in, past the newly buried, to where the mounds had seemingly shrunk, their occupants planted back into the earth.
Riki stopped at the foot of an unadorned stone marker: BETO CHAVEZ, 1933–1998. NATALIA CHAVEZ, 1936–1998. DEVOTED AND FAITHFUL ALWAYS. His parents. Reba put an arm round his waist, not for herself but for his comfort.
She’d agreed to come though she was unsure of what to expect. Standing there now, the affection she felt for people she’d never known surprised her. She thought of her daddy’s large, black marble tomb, glossy and ominous in the middle of the manicured Richmond Baptist Cemetery. She’d hated it—feared it—and the sea of gloomy family and friends who gathered to watch him be lowered into darkness. But this place was entirely different. The sandstone memorials were whitewashed bright; the sun haloed everything in gold; flowers and decorations transformed the catacombs into colorful bursts of revelry.
Riki unfolded a rainbow wool rebozo and laid it over the grave. Then he took a handkerchief from his back pocket and cleaned the sand from the stone inscription.
“Mom, Dad,” he whispered, “meet Reba.” He looked up to her.
Reba knelt down on the shawl and took from her bag a stained-glass Madonna candle and a box of homemade churros—Jane’s modified recipe based on Elsie’s kreppels.
“A pleasure to meet you,” said Reba. “I’m not much of a baker, but I brought the best I could do from the best I know.” She set the box on the tombstone and opened the top; the aroma of cinnamon and fried dough rose up sweet. “Riki says these were your favorites.”
He smiled and pulled her into his arms. They sat picnic style for over an hour, Riki telling her stories of his parents, his childhood, his history. As the sun rose higher, more people arrived with garlands and guitars, basket lunches and laughter, and the cemetery bloomed even further with song and savory smells. Reba thought it one of the most beautiful events she’d ever witnessed, a celebration of death, a celebration of life. She wondered if the angels had indeed spread their wings over them all. She liked to think so.
At half past noon, they packed up but left behind their offerings and two geranium blooms from Reba’s hat. On the walk back to the parked car, Riki stopped suddenly before a grave decorated in a blanket of orange marigolds and children’s toys: a worn soccer ball, a plastic airplane, a stuffed tiger with fuzzy stripes. The day before had been Día de los Inocentes, the day of remembrance for lost children. Riki’s hand dropped away from Reba. The block stenciling on the wooden white cross read VICTOR GARCIA.
Riki’s Victor, Reba thought, and clasped Riki’s hand tight in hers. She wanted him to know she was there with him—in good times and bad, in joy and in sorrow.
Though it was Sunday, Jane opened the bakery from 2:00 to 5:00 p.m. so customers could visit Elsie’s dedication altar. Riki and Reba were there at quarter till two, rapping on the glass door.
Jane opened it with a welcoming laugh and tinkling bell above. “Mom would be so pleased!” She gestured to Reba’s scarlet-flowered hat and ushered them in. “I can’t say Sergio and I dressed with such flair, but we did our part.”
A large baking tray of glazed bone-crossed buns cooled beside the register.
“We baked all night.” She snatched one up and offered it to Riki. “You’re the expert. Don’t pussyfoot. Tell me if they’re up to snuff.”
Riki took the pan de muerto, turning it round. “They sure look like Mom’s.” He bit in. “Taste like them too,” he mumbled.
Reba winked at him and skimmed her hand down his back. Stumbling on Victor’s grave at Panteón San Rafael had been a surprise. Riki confided that he hoped to make some reparation to the Garcia family one day. Not that he could change anything. But perhaps in the acknowledgment of their suffering and loss, they could all find healing. Reba agreed. She’d learned that the past was a blurry mosaic of right and wrong. You had to recognize your part in each of those and remember. If you tried to forget, to run from the fears, the regrets and transgressions, they’d eventually hunt you down and consume your life like Daddy’s wolf did his. Reba was not her daddy. She was stronger, and she’d met people who showed her how to forgive and be forgiven. She was glad to be by Riki’s side at Victor’s grave. He would do the same for her.
“Good!” Jane clapped her hands. “That’s what I was aiming for.”
In front of the pastry display case was a café table turned makeshift altar. A picture of Elsie and a teenage Jane stood center, their faces oddly similar to the black-and-white photo on the wall. Beside it was a phot
ograph of Doctor Albert Meriwether, dressed in his army Class-A uniform. Around the pictures were sugar skulls, candles, a white rose, letters tied with baking twine, an Edelweiss pin, a cowboy cartoon, a weathered book, and two lebkuchen hearts.
“You’ve got quite a spread,” said Reba.
“I decorated with all her favorites.” Jane fingered the wooden frame of Al. “So my dad, of course, and then some things I found in an old tin in Mom’s dresser. This pin, a cartoon ad for baked beans, and letters—mostly from my grandma and Lillian, but there are others too.”
Reba nodded. “No explanation needed for the lebkuchen. Specialty of the house.”
“Mom would come back from the dead and snatch me bald if I didn’t have gingerbread.” Jane smiled.
“What about this?” She lifted the book, vaguely making out the worn title on the coverless page. “A Boy’s Will. Frost? I read this in high school.”
“Lillian gave it to me at the funeral. She said about a year before, a man named Tobias Zuckermann mailed it to Elsie at the Schmidt Bakery in Garmisch. Of course, Mom wasn’t there. The new owner mailed it to the only address he had—Lillian in Wichita. She had it in mind to mail it here, but Mom passed before she had the chance. She brought it to the funeral,” explained Jane. “But here’s where the story gets good. He wrote a letter to Mom with the book. He was a Jew detained at Dachau during World War II. Apparently, Mom and one of her neighbors saved him from the Gestapo. Mom hid him in her bedroom wall, and somehow, they got him out of Germany. Can you imagine? Mom never said a word about it to me.” Jane shook her head. “I guess she used to read this book of poetry to him. He marked his favorites.”
Reba opened the book to a down-turned corner, “The Trial by Existence”:
Even the bravest that are slain
Shall not dissemble their surprise
On waking to find valor reign,
Even as on earth, in paradise.
She cradled the flimsy copy, feeling the gravity of age, hope, and fear pressed into the willowy pages.
“Tobias wrote that he immigrated to California, got married, and had a bunch of kids. He even named one of his daughters after Mom. It’s all right over there in the letter.” She pointed to the stack tied with twine. “I figured she might want to read her mail today.” She winked.
“Amazing.” Reba considered the stack, her curiosity eating away at her.
“You can read it later if you want,” said Jane. “Mom wouldn’t mind. I think it says a lot about the kind of woman she was, then and now. She broke the mold.”
“She sure did,” said Reba.
“Jane—Reba,” Sergio called. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Yes, a celebration toast! You bring the libations, and we’ll bring the food.” Jane snapped a set of tongs together.
Riki smiled wide at them and followed Sergio into the kitchen.
“Riki’s in fine spirits,” said Jane. “I’m guessing Citizenship and Immigration Services has been a nice change of pace for him, eh?”
Reba nodded. She was sure that played a part. “The work is good. Bert Mosley’s brother-in-law is the acting deputy director. With all of Riki’s Border Patrol experience, they were more than happy to have him and he was glad to be on the other side—welcoming people in, instead of kicking them out.” She traced the soft edges of the book in her palm. “So much has changed since a year ago. Sometimes I look in the mirror and can hardly believe how good I have it. Riki is going to meet my family at Thanksgiving. Finally!”
“That’s right, you two are eastbound for a spell.” Jane carefully peeled a sticky bun off the tray. “Did Sun City have any objections? You been back now what—five months?” She placed the bone-crossed bread on a pewter platter.
“Those are the perks of being the managing editor. It isn’t like I’m a stranger. It’s a new hat on an old head. Plus, I’ll only be gone a week.” Reba swiped her finger across the pooled sugar on the tray, licked it clean, then continued. “I don’t want to be away any longer than that. Riki’s mapping out all kinds of travel plans, but I want us to hurry back home so we can snuggle up on the porch and start living—really living.”
“Sounds like you’re a new head in an old hat, if you ask me.” Jane clapped her tongs approvingly. “I hear you, lady. The winds have changed these days. I hardly notice the trains and planes anymore. I guess when you’re happy where you are, the grass don’t seem so green on the other side of the fence. Maybe it never was.” She shrugged with a smile. “Y’all flying or driving east?”
“It’s a road trip.” Reba drew a clumsy outline of the United States in the sugar icing. “Up across the panhandle”—she walked her fingers along the tray—“through Nashville and over to Virginia.” She licked the frosting clean. “It’s been too long, and there are things I have to discuss with my family. I want Riki with me when I do. It’s important he know the whole truth of me.” She moved the tray aside for Jane. “The last stop is Virginia Beach. Riki’s never seen the ocean.”
“He’ll love it.” Jane winked. “Every part.” She balanced the last bun on the pile and set the silver platter on a café table swathed in skull polka-dot fabric.
Sergio returned with bottles of Bitburger. Riki followed close behind. Pausing at Elsie’s altar, he dug in his pocket until he found Victor’s penny. He laid it beside a red-white-and-blue sugar skull. Reba joined him.
“Looks like we’re ready,” said Jane. She raised her bottle high. “To you, Mom. And all those looking down on us from above.”
The flames of the altar candles danced in wavy undulations.
Reba sipped, the pilsner tasting of new dough rising in the oven heat.
124 EDEN VALLEY LANE
ESCONDIDO, CA
MAY 8, 2007
Dear Elsie,
For years, I have anticipated writing this letter. At first, I refrained out of apprehension and what I imagined the consequences might be to you and your family. Over time, I admit, I did not write for selfish reasons. Remembering those last days in Germany brings such vivid memories. I sometimes wake in the dark and believe I’m still hiding inside your bedroom wall, a small boy again. The Gestapo’s gunshots haunt me. Even now, I am startled at the sound of a popped birthday balloon, a hit baseball, a lit firecracker—childish amusements meant to entertain, but my heart freezes cold in my chest, and I am back in Garmisch praying for a miracle. Then I see my children at play with their children, my wife smiling over them, and I know that God provided just that. And I do not mean only on that spring day in 1945. No, he was watching over us both for all our lives. Alongside the difficult memories of those years are the ones I have of you, Elsie. Whenever I pass a pâtisserie on a city street, a café in an airport, even my own kitchen, warm with my daughter’s baked cookies, I am halted and can barely keep from weeping. Not out of sadness, but out of joy and thanksgiving. I pray the Birkhat HaGomel for you, my guardian angel. The first true and trustworthy friend on my path to salvation. You were my first. Frau Rattelmüller came next and then the Zuckermanns.
Frau passed away not long after arriving in Lucerne, and I never knew if her letters successfully arrived to you. In those last days of the war, so much was lost—of the living and the dead. Having escaped the Gestapo at your bakery, Frau Rattelmüller hid me in her cloak and we ran through the backstreets to her house where she quickly packed, fed me brötchen, dressed me in bundhosen and a wool travel coat, and told me I was to pass as an Aryan child. We left that very hour, sitting on the back of farmers’ wagons and walking great distances. We did not sleep until we reached the Swiss border where her friends greeted us with transportation to Zurich and happy news of Germany’s ultimate surrender. The war had ended, but none of us dared go back. We spent two months in Switzerland.
In July 1945, when the Zuckermanns chose to set off for the United States, I joined them. A Jewish family hidden in Frau Rattelmüller’s attic for many arduous years, they lost their son, Johan, at KZ Dachau where my
own parents and sister, Cecile, perished. At the age of seven, I believed my life to have ended, but now, I know that it had truly just begun. The Zuckermanns were my new family in America, both of us grieving our losses and rejoicing in each breath we had together. I went to school and then on to San Diego University where I earned my Ph.D. in music composition and taught courses. I kept my promise to you. I sang. And later, I wrote my own orchestrations and lyrics. Poetry in notes.
Today, my granddaughter Jacquelyn asked if I could write a song for the Jonas Brothers. She plays them on her electronic player. I told her they reminded me of the Monkees. She looked at me incredulously and said, “I didn’t know there were singing monkeys a long time ago.” I laughed but realized how old I am to these young ones. How new and unknowing their minds are to the world’s history. I wonder if it is better for them to remain that way—innocent and naive. Should we bury our memory barbs to keep them from piercing budding hearts? No doubt they will encounter their own tragedies in due time. Or should we warn our children that the world is harsh and men can be wicked? Warn them so that they take care to guard each other and seek out compassion? These are the questions that consume me these days. I ponder them as Jacquelyn holds her iPod like a microphone and performs “pop” music for me. I can’t help smiling. The youth have a way of transforming even an old man like myself. I told Jacquelyn I’d write a song for her instead of the Jonas sons. I have not composed or taught professionally in over five years, retired to enjoy the company of my wife, children, and grandchildren.
I married Kelly, a pianist from San Diego, in 1970; and we had the first of our four children in 1971. My daughter Elsie, your namesake, gave birth to my eighth grandchild last month. He already shows a great affinity for meter, responding to Mother Goose rhymes with inquisitive eyes and fluttering feet. He is named Robert after our favorite poet. This enclosed copy of “A Boy’s Will” has been on my bookshelf for six decades. I was reading it when you called me from my hiding place our last hour together. I slipped it beneath the drawstring of my trousers, not knowing the events that would quickly transpire. It has stayed with me all these years as my only tangible proof that you existed and were not simply a spirit of my mind’s making. It has brought me great comfort and inspiration.