by Jenna Blum
That was a miserable winter, but I managed to squeak by, and in the spring of 1941—
Q: Mr. Pfeffer, can we backtrack for a minute? Can you tell me more about the Bakery Angels?
A: Certainly. Let me see ... Well, they made these Special Deliveries—as they were known—every Wednesday. And at the same time, they would collect messages we managed to smuggle out of the camp. We did so in a most unsavory way, I'm afraid; we wrote on tiny sheets of paper and hid them in prophylactics. I will leave it to you to imagine where the prophylactics were concealed. We were hoping to get word to the Outside about what was happening in the camp, so that it might be sent through the Resistance network to Israel or America. In the early days, before the SS put a stop to it, film was also left by the tree in this way. There was a photography department in the camp, and some of the more enterprising Red Triangles managed to use its equipment to take photographs for evidence. It was then up to the Angels to ensure that it got out.
I remember one poor fellow in particular who had been arrested for just this subversive activity: the Good Doktor, we called him, Herr Doktor Max Stern. I had known him before the camp as well, since he was the first link in the chain that enabled my Jewish clients to escape. He also once treated me for influenza. He was skinny even before the war, and after some time in the punishment block he was emaciated. They had beaten him to a jelly, too, of course. Yet he managed to last much longer than any of us thought he would, and I suspect this was a triumph of mind over matter. He'd had a love affair with one of die Bäckerei Engel, you see; she had hidden him until his arrest, and with her he had a child, a daughter he never saw, born Outside. I am convinced he lived for the messages about her. I remember well when she was born, November 1940, since I provided the cigars for the occasion. We smoked them in the barracks after lights out, though the Good Doktor was too weak to enjoy his by then—
My dear, are you all right?
Q: Yes. I'm sorry. Please go on. Who were the Bakery Angels? What were their names? Did you ever see them?
A: Of course. One was Frau Mathilde Staudt, whom I mentioned earlier as providing the pastries for the Comradeship Evenings. She was also in the Resistance, and I had helped her from time to time. Some of the men called her die Dicke, Fatty, and indeed she was quite plump. But I found this rather ungracious, considering what she was doing for us, and personally I have always preferred a woman to be buxom—
Q: The other one. The other Angel. What did she look like?
A: Her I did not know. She became Frau Staudt's apprentice during my unfortunate incarceration, and I had never had any prewar dealings with her, so I do not know her name. But I did glimpse her on occasion and once I saw her quite well, while Hinkelmann was squeezing the life out of some poor fellow by standing on his throat. She must have been so horrified by the sight that she had forgotten her caution, for she was standing too close to the quarry. I heard that later, after Frau Staudt was discovered and executed, the apprentice Angel managed to save herself and her daughter from the same fate by becoming the mistress of one of the camp's highest-ranking officers, one Obersturmführer Horst von Steuern, a colder-hearted murderer than even Hinkelmann or Blank. He was quite taken with her, I heard, and I can imagine why. She was very beautiful, small but generously curved, with light eyes and dark hair shot through with blond streaks—
Q: Stop the tape. Stop the tape. Stop the tape!
All right, Trudy, says Thomas, it's off, the camera's off. What is it? What's wrong?
Trudy shakes the contents of her purse onto Mr. Pfeffer's coffee table and seizes her wallet. Her hand is trembling so that she tears the photograph when she extracts it from its plastic sleeve. But it is still intact enough to show Anna at its center, Anna in 1952 with Jack and Trudy on the farmhouse porch, on the Fourth of July.
Trudy thrusts the snapshot toward Mr. Pfeffer.
Is this the woman you saw? she demands. Is this the apprentice Angel?
Mr. Pfeffer holds the photograph at arm's length.
I cannot be sure, he admits. It was so many years ago ... But there is a striking resemblance. I'm fairly certain this is her.
How certain?
Mr. Pfeffer purses his lips and lets out apssssh of air.
Oh, I'd say, perhaps eighty percent?
He hands the photograph to Trudy, but she makes no move to take it. She stares at the rippling sun crescents on the wall over Mr. Pfeffer's shoulder.
My God, she says. My God.
Trudy, what is it? Thomas asks again.
After a minute Trudy shakes her head.
I'm not sure yet, she answers. But let's pack it up for now, okay?
To Mr. Pfeffer, who is observing her with keen interest, she adds, The woman in the photograph is my mother. Mr. Pfeffer smiles.
Ah, yes, he says. I had surmised as much.
Would you mind terribly if we finished your interview another day? I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed ... Of course. I completely understand.
And if you have time, I'd so appreciate it if you'd come home with me—just for a little while—
You wish, naturally, to see whether I recognize your mother, says Mr. Pfeffer.
He produces a heavy gold pocketwatch and flicks back the cover.
I do have a dinner engagement, he says, but there is plenty of time. until then, dear, I am all yours.
He stands, shakes out the creases in his trousers, and offers an arm to Trudy. They adjourn to the front steps to wait while Thomas disassembles his equipment. Mr. Pfeffer examines the sky and removes his suitjacket, then blots his forehead with his silk handkerchief. The sun is at its zenith, and the day has grown hot.
Trudy gazes across the lawn and notices a border of lilacs at the edge of the property, a hundred yards away. It is extraordinary, really: a solid wall of flowers over twenty feet high, all shades of purple and white. She wanders a ways toward it, stopping in the center of the grass. There are little wooden doors set at intervals in the hedge, presumably to allow one to walk inside it. Trudy thinks of her Trog, of blinking up in wonder through similar interlacing branches at the pale German sun. Her vision blurs with tears.
There are paths in the hedgerow, calls Mr. Pfeffer. The bushes are over a century old.
Trudy nods to show she has heard.
Their scent is powerfully nostalgic, is it not? It is the sole untarnished memory I have of Germany. Weimar was lovely in lilac time.
I know, Trudy thinks.
When she has collected herself, she returns to Mr. Pfeffer.
I have one last question for you, if you don't mind, she says.
Mr. Pfeffer inclines his head.
What happened to the Good Doktor?
Mr. Pfeffer turns and looks over at the drive, where Thomas is loading the last of the tripods into the van.
Whom you suspect to be your father, says Mr. Pfeffer. If your mother is indeed the apprentice Angel.
Yes. What became of him?
Mr. Pfeffer doesn't answer immediately. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his trousers and bounces a few times on the balls of his feet. In the distance there is a somnolent buzz, of a mower perhaps, a gardener tending a lawn, or of an airplane, or of bees.
Mr. Pfeffer?
Mr. Pfeffer clears his throat.
He was hanged, I'm afraid, he says finally. Poor fellow. Von Steuern himself kicked the chair away, then left the Good Doktor on the gallows for the crows to pick, as a lesson to us all.
61
THOMAS LETS TRUDY AND MR. PFEFFER OFF AT HER HOUSE twenty minutes later, and Trudy again accepts Mr. Pfeffer's arm to guide her up her own front walk. She leans on him a little: her legs are shaking, her hamstrings weak. Inside, the living room, though in shade at this time of day, is as stuffy as if it were August, the furniture releasing the scent of wood in the sudden heat. There is also the smell of fresh-baked bread and some sort of boiled meat. Bratwurst, Trudy guesses. She leads Mr. Pfeffer to the kitchen, where Anna is sawing furiously away at a long
loaf of dark pumpernickel, a wave of loose hair swinging in her face.
Mama, says Trudy. I've brought somebody to meet you.
She beckons Mr. Pfeffer from the doorway, where he is standing with his hands clasped behind his back like a maitre d'.
Anna looks up. The sight of Trudy's urbane guest must startle her, for the serrated knife clatters to the floor.
Oh! she says. Her face, already pink from steam and exertion, flushes strawberry red. Forgive me, Trudy. I did not know you were having company. I will go upstairs—
Trudy bends to pick up the knife. She wipes it on her trousers and sets it on the breadboard.
No, please don't, Mama, she says. Mr. Pfeffer is here to see you. Mr. Pfeffer, this is Mrs. Anna Schlemmer, my mother. Mama, Mr. Felix Pfeffer.
She watches Mr. Pfeffer carefully for any sign of recognition, but Mr. Pfeffer merely smiles.
Enchanted, he says.
Anna, flustered, holds out a hand and then hastily retracts it and wipes it on her apron. When she extends it a second time, Mr. Pfeffer grasps it and bows low over it in the European fashion.
Will you join us for lunch, Mr. Pfeffer? asks Anna, once she has reclaimed her hand. We have more than enough. I will set another place at the table.
She turns to the cupboard, but Trudy takes her arm, staying her from the plates.
Leave it for now, Mama, she says. We'll eat later. In the meantime, could you come sit down for a minute? Mr. Pfeffer wants to talk to you.
Me? says Anna.
She pushes the damp tendrils from her forehead with a wrist, looking quizzically from Trudy to Mr. Pfeffer.
I cannot imagine—, she says.
But she obediently follows Trudy into the living room, Mr. Pfeffer courteously bringing up the rear.
No sooner have the three settled themselves, Mr. Pfeffer in the wing chair across from the two women on the couch, than Anna gets up again.
At least let me bring your guest some coffee, Trudy, she says. or he would perhaps prefer something more refreshing, some iced tea—
Please, madam, says Mr. Pfeffer. I appreciate the offer. You are too kind. But please do sit. What I have to say won't take long.
Bewildered, Anna subsides onto the sofa, smoothing her apron over her knees.
Mr. Pfeffer studies her for a moment. Then he glances at Trudy and gives an infinitesimal nod. Trudy's breath catches in her throat.
Mama, she says. Mr. Pfeffer thinks—
But her voice breaks. Mr. Pfeffer waits politely for Trudy to continue; then, understanding, he splays his hands out before him, admiring the handsome signet ring on his little finger.
Your daughter tells me, he says, addressing it, that you lived in Weimar during the war?
Anna's face closes.
Yes, she says warily.
And that you worked in a bakery there?
Yes.
Mr. Pfeffer exhales on his ring.
I too am a native of Weimar, madam, he says, polishing the stone on his trousers. And before my incarceration in KZ Buchenwald, I came to know there a woman who owned a particular bakery, one Mathilde Staudt. A very brave woman, this Frau Staudt. She and her assistant risked their lives to leave bread for us, the prisoners, by the stone quarry in which we were forced to work. Furthermore, these two women couriered information back and forth from the camp to the Resistance. The film they smuggled out led to the Allied bombing of Buchenwald in August 1944. They saved many lives—including, obviously, mine.
Anna, who has been growing whiter by the second, flattens her palms on the couch cushions as if poised for flight.
Yes? she says. And?
Madam, says Mr. Pfeffer, one of those women was you.
A tiny muscle jumps at the corner of Anna's mouth, then is still.
I saw you, you see, Mr. Pfeffer adds. On several occasions, but the first time on the day Unterscharführer Hinkelmann mur dered an inmate in the quarry, an atrocity both you and I witnessed. I saw you standing by the tree in which you left the bread. After all these years, that sight has never left me. It inspired in me the will to survive. It gave me hope.
Anna stares at him. She doesn't appear to be breathing. Only her hands, rolling and unrolling the hem of her apron, betray her.
Finally Anna says, Obviously you have mistaken me for somebody else.
Mr. Pfeffer smiles.
That is not the case, madam, I assure you. Yours is not a face one forgets.
Forgive me, but you are wrong. I know nothing of this.
Don't you?
Anna gives a small shrug.
Hinkelmann, Blank, Staudt—these names mean nothing to me. I did work in a bakery, yes. But there were several bakeries in Weimar. I never did a thing out of the ordinary. I did only what I could to feed myself and my daughter and keep us safe. Nothing else. Nothing.
Mr. Pfeffer examines her closely.
Ah, he says after a few moments. I see.
In fact, I remember very little of what happened in those days, Anna adds, getting to her feet. My memory is not what it once was.
Mr. Pfeffer rises as well.
Some would call that a blessing, he says. I'm sorry to have troubled you.
Anna bends to tuck the slipcover of the couch back into place.
It is no trouble, she says. I am sorry I am not the woman you are seeking. Perhaps I can compensate for your disappointment by giving you some lunch?
I would be delighted, Mrs. Schlemmer—if I may. We will talk of happier things.
Very good, says Anna, and walks off toward the kitchen.
Mama, wait, Trudy calls.
She is crying. Not with the dignity of an adult, tears trickling down her face, but sobbing like a child, gasping and open-mouthed, hands helpless on her thighs.
Now, now, says Mr. Pfeffer. What is all this?
I'm sorry, Trudy says. I'll be all right in a minute—
A yellow silk handkerchief appears before her. Trudy gropes for it but doesn't use it. It seems a shame to spoil it by getting it wet. She twists it in her lap.
She is the woman you saw, she says to Mr. Pfeffer. The apprentice Angel.
Yes. I haven't the slightest doubt.
Trudy nods, head lowered. Tears spot the silk in her fist and the linen of her trousers. She is humiliated to be carrying on in such a way—in front of Mr. Pfeffer, no less. For what has she expected, really? That after all this time Anna would suddenly confess everything, simply because she is confronted by somebody who shared her experience, somebody who was there? Well, yes, apparently. Part of Trudy—the girl still carried within her, puzzled and stubbornly persistent—has been hoping exactly that.
But as Trudy sits trying to calm her breathing, she also remembers what Rainer has said: Let the punishment fit the crime. Anna has taken the burden of silence upon herself. It is her decision not to speak of the things she has done, valiant or otherwise. It is in fact her prerogative as a hero. And in another way, whether she is a hero or not is immaterial. Each person has this choice to make about how to live with the past, this dignity, this inviolable right.
Mr. Pfeffer puts a kindly hand on Trudy's shoulder. Trudy brings the handkerchief to her face. She wonders about him too, this man who gambled his life to help others. Perhaps his cavalier attitude about having done so is also not what it seems.
Better? Mr. Pfeffer asks.
Yes. Thank you.
Blow your nose, he commands.
Trudy laughs shakily and obeys. There, Mr. Pfeffer says.
He stands and readjusts the cuffs of his trousers.
Now then, he says. Your mother has graciously extended an invitation to lunch, and I for one am going to accept. Won't you?
He strides with purpose toward the kitchen, where, from the sound of it, Anna is stacking a tray with plates.
After a time, Trudy gets up, walks quietly through the dining room past Anna and Mr. Pfeffer, and goes upstairs to the bathroom. She looks in the mirror over the basin and sees a stranger: eyes wi
de and astonished, tears clinging to the lashes. She washes her face and comes back down to join the other two, sitting and unfolding her napkin without saying a word. The afternoon sun falls in mild rectangles on the tablecloth. Mr. Pfeffer compliments the chef, who demurs and smiles, her cheeks again flushing bright pink. The three discuss Anna's views of what she hears on MPR, Trudy's summer classes, the weather's sudden change for the better. They eat the food that Anna has set before them: bratwurst and other sliced meats fanned on a platter, a sweet red cabbage salad, chilled cucumber soup. A dish of pickles. Bread.
62
AFTER LUNCH IS CLEARED FROM THE TABLE, ANNA SERVES iced coffee and tea and Sachertorte, over which she and Trudy and Mr. Pfeffer linger until well into the afternoon. By the time Mr. Pfeffer flips his watch open and exclaims at the hour, Anna is concealing yawns behind a napkin. She excuses herself to wash the dishes before retiring to her room for a rest, and at this announcement Mr. Pfeffer leaps up to help her pull back her chair. He thanks Anna profusely, again bowing low over her hand and then kissing it, and Trudy, watching, thinks that the rosiness of Anna's cheeks has to do with reasons other than drowsy postprandial contentment and the warmth of the day.
Once this elaborate ritual of leave-taking has been concluded, Trudy drives Mr. Pfeffer to Minnetonka. In the car he seems happy to sit and watch the suburbs pass, attempting no small talk except, as they are setting out, to praise Anna's skills as a cook and to thank Trudy for her hospitality, comments that require no lengthy response. Trudy is grateful. She is tired now and empty, her face still tight from her earlier tears. She wants only to be alone and quiet, to sit and think and digest the events of the day.
