He’s right. It’s none of his business. He doesn’t know what love is like, for someone who looks like me. I have three options: (1) Be sad and lonely. (2) Be the woman who is cheated on. (3) Be the other woman.
“Hey,” I shout, catching up to him. “You have no right to judge me. You know nothing about me.”
“Actually, I know a lot about you,” Leo counters. “I know that you’re brave—brave enough to call my office and open a can of worms that could have stayed shut your whole life. I know that you love your grandma. I know that your heart is so big you’re struggling with whether or not you can forgive a guy who’s done something unforgivable. You’re pretty remarkable in a lot of ways, Sage, so you’ll have to excuse me if I’m a little disappointed to find out that you’re not quite as bright and shiny as I thought you were.”
“And you? Have you never done anything wrong in your life?” I argue.
“No, I’ve done plenty wrong. But I didn’t go back and do it again.”
I don’t know why seeing Leo disillusioned feels even worse than running into Adam and Shannon. “We’re not together,” I explain. “It’s complicated.”
“Do you still love him?” Leo asks.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
I love feeling loved.
I don’t love knowing that I will always come in second place.
I love the fact that at least sometimes when I am in my home, I’m not alone.
I don’t love the fact that it’s not always.
I love not having to answer to him.
I don’t love that he doesn’t answer to me.
I love the way I feel when I am with him.
I don’t love the way I feel when I’m not.
When I don’t respond, Leo turns away. “Then it’s really not complicated,” he says.
• • •
That night I sleep like I haven’t slept in months. I don’t hear my alarm go off, and it isn’t until the phone rings that I sit up awake, expecting Leo. After our argument last night, he was polite to me, but the easy camaraderie we’d had had disappeared. When he dropped me off at my place, he talked about business, and what would happen after he received the FedEx delivery of the photo spread.
It is probably better this way—treating him like a colleague and not like a friend. I just don’t understand how I can miss something I barely even had.
I think I might have dreamed an apology to him. I can’t be sure what I’m apologizing for, though. “I wanted to talk about last night,” I blurt into the receiver.
“Me, too,” Adam says on the other end of the phone.
“Oh. It’s you.”
“You don’t sound too thrilled. I’ve been going crazy all morning trying to find five minutes to call you. Who was that guy?”
“You’re kidding, right? You couldn’t possibly be complaining because I was out with someone else . . .”
“Look, I know you’re angry. And I know you asked for some time apart. But I miss you, Sage. You’re the one I want to be with,” Adam promises. “It’s just not as simple as you think.”
Immediately, I think back to my conversation with Leo. “Actually, it is,” I say.
“If you went out with Lou—”
“Leo.”
“Whatever . . . to get my attention, it worked. When can I see you again?”
“How could I have been trying to get your attention when I didn’t even know you and your wife would be having Date Night?” I cannot believe Adam’s making this about him. But then again, it’s always about him.
There is a beep on the phone, my other line. I recognize Leo’s cell number. “I have to go,” I tell Adam.
“But—”
As I hang up, I realize that I have always been the one calling Adam, instead of the other way around. Have I suddenly become attractive because I’m not available?
And if so, what does that say about my attraction to him?
“Morning,” Leo says.
His voice sounds rough around the edges, like he needs a cup of coffee. “How did you sleep?” I ask.
“About as well as can be expected when the hotel is filled with preteen girls who are here for a soccer tournament. I have some impressive dark circles under my eyes. But on the bright side, I now know all the words to the new Justin Bieber single.”
“I can only imagine that will come in handy in your line of work.”
“If me singing that stuff doesn’t make former war criminals confess, I have no idea what will.”
He sounds . . . well, like the way he sounded before we ran into Adam last night. The fact that this makes me unaccountably happy is something I don’t understand, and don’t really want to question.
“So according to the desk clerk here at the luxurious Courtyard by Marriott, who I think may be violating child labor laws, the FedEx truck shows up shortly before eleven,” Leo says.
“What should I do in the meantime?”
“I don’t know,” Leo replies. “Take a shower, paint your nails, read People magazine, rent a chick flick. That’s what I’m going to do.”
“My tax dollars are being put to such good use in your salary . . .”
“Okay, fine, I’ll read Us Weekly instead.”
I laugh. “I’m serious.”
“Call your grandma and make sure she’s still feeling up to a visit from us. And then—well, if you really want to do something, you could go visit Josef Weber.”
I feel my breath catch in my throat. “Alone?”
“Don’t you usually visit him alone?”
“Yes but—”
“It’s going to take time to build our case, Sage. Which means that during the process Josef has to believe you’re still considering doing what he asked you to do. If I hadn’t been here today, would you have seen him?”
“Probably,” I admit. “But that was before . . .” My voice trails off.
“Before you knew he was a Nazi? Or before you understood what that really meant?” His voice is sober now, no more joking. “If anything, that’s exactly why you should keep up pretenses. You know now what’s at stake.”
“What am I supposed to say to him?” I ask.
“Nothing,” Leo advises. “Let him talk to you. See if he says something detailed either that matches what your nana told us or that we can ask her about.”
It isn’t until I’ve hung up and am standing in the shower with the hot water streaming down my back that I realize I have no transportation. My car is still at the service station waiting to be fixed after the accident. It’s too far to walk to Josef’s house. I towel off and dry my hair and throw on a pair of shorts and a tank top, even though I would bet a hundred dollars that Leo will again be wearing a suit when he shows up. But if, as he said, appearances are part of this game, then I have to wear what I’ve worn in the past to Josef’s house.
In my garage I find the bike I last used when I was in college. Its tires are flat, but I unearth a hand pump to get them reasonably inflated. Then I quickly whip up a batter in the kitchen and bake streusel muffins. They are still steaming when I wrap them in foil, stick them gently in my backpack, and start pedaling to Josef’s house.
As I bike up these New England hills, as my heart races, I think about what my grandmother told me yesterday. I remember the story of Josef’s childhood. They are two speeding trains coming at each other, destined to crash. I am helpless to stop it, yet I cannot turn away.
By the time I reach Josef’s house I am breathing hard and sweating. When he sees me, he frowns, concerned. “You are all right?”
That’s a loaded question. “I rode my bike here. My car’s in the shop.”
“Well,” he says. “I am glad to see you.”
I wish I could say the same. But now, when I see the lines in Josef’s face, they smooth before my eyes into the stern jaw of the Schutzhaftlagerführer who stole, lied, and murdered. I realize, ironically, that he has gotten what he hoped for: I believe his story. I believe it so mu
ch I can barely stand here without being sick.
Eva darts out the door and dances around my feet. “I brought you something,” I say. Reaching into my backpack, I pull out the package of freshly baked muffins.
“I think that being your friend is very bad for my waistline,” Josef says.
He invites me into the house. I take my usual seat across from him at the chessboard. He puts up the kettle and returns with coffee for both of us. “Truthfully I was not sure you would come back,” he says. “What I told you last time . . . it was a lot to take in.”
You have no idea, I think.
“A lot of people, they hear Auschwitz and they immediately assume you are a monster.”
His words bring to mind my grandmother’s upiór. “I thought that was what you wanted me to think.”
Josef winces. “I wanted you to hate me enough to want to kill me. But I didn’t realize how that would make me feel.”
“You called it the Asshole of the World.”
Josef takes a shallow breath. “It is my turn, yes?” He leans forward and knocks away one of my pawns with a Pegasus knight. He moves slowly, carefully, an old man. Harmless. I remember my grandmother talking about how his hand shook, and I watch as he lifts my pawn from the inlaid wooden chessboard, but his movements are too unsteady in general for me to be able to tell if he has a particular lasting injury.
He waits until my concentration is focused on the board before he begins to speak. “In spite of the reputation Auschwitz has now, I found it was a good assignment. I was safe; I wouldn’t be shot by a Russian. There was even a little village in the camp where we could go for our meals and drinks and even concerts. When we were relaxing there, it was almost possible to believe there wasn’t a war going on.”
“We?”
“My brother, the one who worked in Section Four—administration. He was an accountant who added numbers and sent the tallies to the Kommandant. My rank was much higher than his.” Josef brushes the crumbs from his napkin onto his plate. “He reported to me.”
I touch my finger to a dragon-bishop, and Josef makes a sound low in his throat. “No?” I ask.
He shakes his head. Instead, I place my hand on the broad back of a centaur, the only rook I have left. “So you were the head of administration?”
“No. I was in Section Three. I was SS-Schutzhaftlagerführer of the women’s camp.”
“You were the head honcho at a death factory,” I said flatly.
“Not the boss,” Josef said. “But high in the chain of command. And besides, I did not know what was happening at the camp when I first arrived in 1943.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I can only tell you what I know. My job wasn’t at the gas chambers. I oversaw the prisoners who were kept alive.”
“Did you get to pick and choose?”
“No. I was present when the trains arrived, but that task fell to the camp doctors. Mostly I just walked around. I was an overseer. A presence.”
“A supervisor,” I say, the word bitter in my mouth. A manager, for the unmanageable.
“Precisely.”
“I thought you were injured on the front line.”
“I was—but not so badly that I couldn’t do this.”
“So you were in charge of the female prisoners.”
“That was left to my subordinate, the SS-Aufseherin. Twice a day, she oversaw roll call.”
Instead of moving my rook, I reach for my white queen, the exquisitely carved mermaid. I know enough about chess to realize that what I am about to do defies the odds, that of all the pieces to sacrifice the valuable queen is the last one I should consider.
I slide the mermaid to an empty square, knowing full well that it stands in the path of Josef’s Pegasus knight.
He looks up at me. “You do not want to do this.”
I meet his gaze. “Guess I figure I’ll learn from my mistakes.”
Josef captures my queen, as I’m expecting.
“What did you do?” I ask. “At Auschwitz?”
“I told you.”
“Not really,” I say. “You told me what you didn’t do.”
Eva lies down at Josef’s feet. “You don’t need to hear me say it.”
I just stare at him.
“I punished those who could not do their work.”
“Because they were starving to death.”
“I did not create the system,” Josef says.
“You did nothing to stop it, either,” I point out.
“What do you want me to tell you? That I am sorry?”
“How am I supposed to forgive you if you’re not?” I realize I am shouting. “I can’t do this, Josef. Find someone else.”
Josef’s fist crashes down on the table, making the chess pieces jump. “I killed them. Yes. Is that what you want to hear? That with my own two hands, I murdered? There. That is all you need to know. I was a murderer, and for this, I deserve to die.”
I take a deep breath. Leo will be angry at me, but he of all people should understand how I feel right now, listening to Josef talk about the joy of officers’ meals and cello concerts when my grandmother, at the same time, was licking the ground where soup had spilled. “You do not deserve to die,” I say tightly. “Not on your own terms, anyway, since you didn’t give that luxury to anyone else. I hope you die a slow, painful death. No, actually, I hope you live forever, so that what you did eats away at you for a long, long time.”
I slide my bishop across the board into the position no longer protected by Josef’s knight. “Checkmate,” I say, and I stand up to leave.
Outside, I straddle my bike and turn back to see him standing at the open door. “Sage. Please, don’t—”
“How many times did you hear those words, Josef?” I ask. “And how many times did you listen?”
• • •
It isn’t until I see Rocco at the espresso machine that I realize how much I’ve missed working at Our Daily Bread. “Do my eyes deceive?” he says. “Look at what the cat dragged in. / One long-lost baker.” He comes around the counter to give me a hug and without even asking, starts to make me a cinnamon latte with soy.
It is busier than I remember it being, but then again, at this time of the day, I’m usually on my way home to go to bed. There are mothers in jogging clothes, young men typing furiously on their laptops, a cluster of Red Hat ladies sharing a single chocolate croissant. That makes me glance at the wall behind the counter, the baskets filled with expertly browned baguettes, buttery brioche, semolina loaves. Is this newfound popularity due to the baker who took over for me?
Rocco can read my mind, because he nods in the direction of a plastic banner hanging on the wall behind me: HOME OF THE JESUS LOAF. “We get foot traffic / But just because you’re holy / Don’t mean you’re hungry,” he says. “All I pray for now / Is that you’ll come back, or else / Mary gets raptured.”
I laugh. “I miss you, too, Rocco. Where is the blessed boss, anyway?”
“Somewhere in the shrine. / Crying ’cause Miracle-Gro / Isn’t Heaven-sent.”
I pour my latte into a takeaway cup and cut through the kitchen on my way to the shrine. The kitchen is spotless. The containers of poolish and other pre-ferments are organized neatly by date; different tubs of grains and flours are labeled and arranged alphabetically. The wooden counter where I shape the dough has been wiped down; the bulk mixer rests like a sleeping dragon in the corner. Whatever Clark has been doing here, he has been doing well.
It makes me feel like even more of a loser.
If I’d been naïve enough to think that Our Daily Bread was nothing without me and my recipes, I now realize that this isn’t true. It may be different, but ultimately, I’m replaceable. This has always been Mary’s dream; I’m just living on the fringes.
I walk up the Holy Stairs to find her kneeling in the monkshood. She is weeding, wearing rubber gloves pulled high up her arms. “I’m glad you came by. I’ve been thinking about you. How’s yo
ur head?” She glances at the bruise from the car accident, which I’ve covered with my bangs.
“I’m fine,” I tell her. “Rocco says the Jesus Loaf is still getting you business.”
“In iambic pentameter, I’m sure . . .”
“And it seems like Clark’s got the baking under control.”
“He does,” Mary says bluntly. “But like I said the other night: he isn’t you.” She gets to her feet and gives me a big hug. “You sure you’re all right?”
“Physically, yes. Emotionally? I don’t know,” I admit. “There’s been a little drama with my grandmother.”
“Oh, Sage, I’m sorry . . . Is there anything I can do?”
Although the thought of an ex-nun getting involved with a Holocaust survivor and a former Nazi sounds like the punch line to a joke, it is actually what drew me to the bakery today. “As a matter of fact, that’s why I’m here.”
“Anything,” Mary promises. “I’ll start to say a rosary for your grandma today.”
“That’s okay—I mean, you can if you want to—but I was hoping to borrow the kitchen for about an hour?”
Mary puts her hands on my shoulders. “Sage,” she says. “It’s your kitchen.”
Ten minutes later, I have an oven warming, an apron wrapped around my waist, and I am up to my elbows in flour. I could have baked at home, true, but the ingredients I needed were here; the sourdough itself would have taken days to prepare.
It feels strange to be working with such a tiny amount of dough. It feels even stranger to hear, just outside, the cacophony of the lunchtime crowd coming in. I move around the kitchen, weaving from cabinet to shelf to pantry. I chop and mix bittersweet chocolate and ground cinnamon; I add a hint of vanilla. I create a small cavern as deep as my thumb in the knot of dough, and twist its limbs into an ornate crown. I let it proof, and in the meantime, instead of hiding in the back room, I go into the café and talk to Rocco. I work the cash register. I chat with customers about the heat and the Red Sox, about how pretty Westerbrook is in the summer, not once trying to cover my face with my bangs. And I marvel at how all these people can go about their lives as if they are not sitting on a powder keg; as if they don’t know that when you pull back the curtain of an ordinary life, there might be something terrible hidden behind it.
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