The Baker's Daughter

by Sarah McCoy

  “Freilich!” Papa came from the kitchen. “You’ll make Josef proud.” He put an arm around Mutti’s shoulder, and she eased into his side.

  “I promised Hazel I’d send a photograph,” explained Elsie.

  Papa went to find the Bosley camera.

  Mutti adjusted the folds of her hooded cape. “Be sure to laugh at his jokes,” she said. “Men always like that. And try—try to be temperate. The führer praises this in women.”

  Elsie groaned. “I know, I know. Now stop fussing at me, Mutti.”

  “Please, dear, try.”

  Elsie yanked away. “Papa, did you find it?” she called out.

  Mutti kept on, “Don’t act like a gypsy or Jewess—unpredictable spirits. Remember your sister in the Program. Remember the bäckerei. Herr Hub has been so generous.” She cleared her throat. “We’d be as bad off as the rest if it wasn’t for his kindness. Look at Herr Kaufmann. The Gestapo came in the middle of the day and packed him off to one of those camps. And all he did was refuse to have his son join the Deutsches Jungvolk. One cross word—that’s all it takes, Elsie.”

  Papa returned with the Bosley. “I’m not sure the film is good.” He opened the shutter and wound the knob.

  “Kein Thema.” Elsie sighed.

  Mutti worried too much. Like most women in Germany, she wanted her children to be proper, her marriage to be superlative, and her household to be a paragon of decorum. But try as she may, Elsie had never been proficient in the set standards.

  “He’ll be here any minute. Papa, hurry.” Elsie arranged herself beside Mutti and prayed to God she wouldn’t let them all down this night. She wanted them to be proud.

  “Look,” said Papa. “Two of the three finest women in Germany. You’ll be a good wife, Elsie. As the führer says”—he paused and lifted a stiff palm to the air—“ ‘Your world is your husband, your family, your children, and your home.’ Mutti and Hazel are excellent examples.”

  Within the last six months, Papa had begun perpetually referring to her as wife material and quoting the führer with every reference. It wore on Elsie’s nerves. She’d never understood why people quoted others. She tried never to quote anyone. She had ideas of her own.

  “Gut. I understand. I’ll be on my best behavior. Now take the picture.”

  Papa looked through the back of the camera lens. “Luana, get closer to your daughter.”

  Mutti scooted in, smelling of dillweed and boiled rye berries. Elsie worried the scent would stick, so she squared her shoulders hard to keep a margin between them.

  “Ready?” Papa lifted his finger over the button.

  Elsie smiled for the camera and prayed Josef would come soon. She was anxious to have her first glass of champagne. He’d promised.

  “It’s so beautiful,” said Elsie as the driver pulled up to the Nazi banquet hall on Gernackerstrasse.

  The timbered lodge was ornamented with heart-carved balconies and colorful frescoes depicting shepherds in lederhosen, jeweled baronesses, and angels with widespread wings. From each window, red-and-black swastika flags joined their flight, fluttering in the alpine breeze. Cascading lights had been masterfully strung over the snow, illuminating icicles and casting a stunning corona about the structure. Its frosted eaves looked like piped sugar on a lebkuchen. A fairy-tale gingerbread house. Right off the pages of the Brothers Grimm.

  “You are beautiful.” Josef laid his palm on Elsie’s knee. His warmth emanated through the wool cape and chiffon dress.

  The driver opened the door. A burgundy carpet had been placed over the snow to keep the attendees from slipping or ruining the shine of their boots. Josef took Elsie’s hand and helped her from the cab. She hurried to step out and let the swathe of ivory and crystal gems hide her feet. Although Josef had purchased her dress, she had no shoes to match. Reluctantly, she’d borrowed Mutti’s nicest pair of black T-straps, which still looked worn after an hour of buffing.

  Josef took her gloved hand and threaded it through the crook of his arm. “You shouldn’t be nervous,” he consoled. “Not with such a pretty German face. They will love you the moment they see you.” He touched her cheek with a leather-gloved finger. Her stomach jumped—the same lurch she felt when the pretzels were a minute from baking to brick. She knew exactly what to do then, rush to pull them from the fire and cool by the window. But here, dressed like a film star, she hadn’t a clue. So she took a deep breath. The smell of burning pine air stung her nose. Her eyes watered. The lights ran together, and she gripped Josef’s arm to keep steady.

  “There, there.” He patted her hand. “Just smile.”

  She did as he said.

  The door of the lodge swung open and strains of violins cut the wind. Inside, the doorman took her cape. Exposed to the lamplight, the crystal beads cast miniature rainbows against Josef’s uniform.

  “Heil Hitler, Josef!” greeted a stocky man with a poof of a mustache above his lip, and the remnants of some sticky food caught in the sprout.

  Elsie wondered what other bits might be lodged there and tried to hide her repulsion.

  “Who is this?” he asked.

  “May I present Fräulein Elsie Schmidt.” Josef clicked his heels. “And this is Major Günther Kremer of the SiPo.”

  Elsie nodded. “A pleasure.”

  Kremer turned to Josef. “Charming.” He winked.

  “Günther and I have known each other for many years. He was one of my men in Munich. Is Frau Kremer here tonight?”

  “Ja, ja. Somewhere.” He waved over his shoulder. “No doubt discussing her pewter spoons or some such nonsense. Shall we have a drink?”

  Down a corridor lined with Nazi flags and fir trees covered in candied fruits, they followed Kremer as he chatted about the wine and food and glitterati in attendance. Elsie wasn’t listening, too caught up by the brilliance of the scene. It was everything she’d dreamed, exactly like the lavish ballrooms and festive parties in the Hollywood films of her youth. Her pulse raced. Oh, how she wanted this world: Josef’s world of power, prestige, and uncensored euphoria. It dripped off everyone and everything in the room, like fruit glaze on a strawberry tart. For this moment, the dust of the baking board and black cinders of the oven were forgotten; the smudge of labored coins and soiled ration coupons in her palm, washed clean. By Josef’s side, she could pretend to be one of them, a royal princess of the Third Reich. She could pretend the world outside this place wasn’t full of hunger and fear.

  The corridor opened to the grand banquet hall. Long white tables striped the floor with silver candelabras at each fourth chair. A string quartet sat on a platform, their bows moving back and forth in perfect unison. Couples spun in slow circles on the dance floor like miniature figures on clock gears. The men wore SS uniforms, a background pattern of tan dress coats and beet red armbands. The women highlighted the scene in vibrant dress shades, plum and apricot, orange and cucumber green—a harvest of young and old.

  A fleshy brunette in a scarlet lamé dress examined Elsie from head to toe, pausing at her feet. Elsie followed her gaze to the toe of Mutti’s T-strap. She quickly scooted it back under the hem. A waiter approached with a tray of bubbling blond flutes. Josef handed one to Elsie.

  “Here you are. I always keep my word. But be careful. One never knows the effect of champagne until you’ve tried it.”

  Champagne. Elsie’s mouth went wet. She’d only ever watched as screen stars sipped and grew giddy on the beverage. She hoped it would have the same magical effect now. She took a glass and marveled. She’d never known its color: light gold, like the wheat shafts just before cutting. She guessed it would be as sweet as honey and as filling as bread. She licked her lips and drank.

  The tangy bubbles bit hard. Brüt dry. A mouthful of baking yeast bloomed in water. She gulped to keep from spitting back into the flute but was not quick enough to hide her expression.

  Josef laughed. “You’ll get used to it.”

  “Try another sip and then another. If you don’t love it by
the third, I’ll drink the rest for you.” Kremer chuckled. The buttons of his coat strained against his portly stomach.

  Despite herself, Elsie recalled Mutti’s advice and forced a dainty laugh. He was Josef’s comrade, after all. She wanted him to like her. So she did as he instructed and drank again, attempting to finish the glass and be done entirely.

  “Prost! It looks like you’ve got yourself a strong fräulein,” said Kremer. “How about a dance while Josef gets you another?”

  Elsie held Josef’s gaze. “I’m not very good,” she said.

  “No matter.” Kremer took Elsie by the elbow and led her to the dance floor. “I promise to go slow.” He pulled her close and placed one hand on the small of her back while clasping her gloved fingers. His stiff uniform pushed the dress’s crystals into her skin, a thousand nails tacking them together.

  Elsie looked over her shoulder at Josef. He smiled and lifted her empty glass. When he turned to call the waiter, Kremer slid his hand down the back of her chiffon.

  Elsie pulled away. Her cheeks flushed hot. “Herr Kremer!”

  He grabbed her hand and yanked her forcefully against him. “Hush. It’s a party. Don’t cause a scene, fräulein.” He smiled a toothy grin and spun her deeper into the dancing crowd. “I wanted to speak with you privately. You see, there are those who find it odd that someone of Josef’s stature would take up with the uneducated daughter of a common baker when there are far superior options, including your own sister.”

  She winced at his mention of her academic record. While Hazel had attended Gymnasium and graduated at the top of her class, Elsie had stopped early of graduation from Hauptschule to work full-time in the bakery. Though she’d just met Major Kremer, he obviously had great knowledge of her and her family.

  “There are so many spies these days. Everyone suspects beautiful, new faces.” He leaned in and examined her face uncomfortably close, his hot breath like rotten eggs.

  Elsie sharply turned her cheek. “My family has known Josef for years.”

  “Ja, and who knows how many secrets you have already gathered to pass on to our enemies.”

  “I am not a spy!” she hissed. “My papa bakes bread for the Nazi headquarters in Garmisch. My sister is in the Lebensborn Program.”

  “I am not curious about them. I am curious about you.” He sucked his teeth.

  They moved in circles on the floor. A woman with peacock feathers in her silver hair wriggled her nose when they bumped elbows. Elsie swallowed hard. Her head reeled. She was a loyal German, but how else could she prove her allegiance? All she had was her word.

  Kremer’s uniform stank of sweat and cigarettes. Champagne bubbles came up her throat. She wanted to slap him, to cry out for Josef, but the sharp pins of Kremer’s Security Police uniform reminded her of the possible consequences, not just for herself but also for her family. So she gulped down the sourness.

  The song ended. The quartet removed their bows from the strings, stood and bowed.

  “Here you are, dear.”

  Startled, Elsie jumped and knocked the glass from Josef’s hand; effervescent wine fizzed over them.

  “I’m sorry.” She wiped droplets from his uniform lapels. The starch kept them from soaking in. Her dress was not so fortunate. The champagne streaked the ivory hemline.

  “No harm.” Josef took her arm. “I know a cleaner who can get anything out with lye soap and a boar brush.” He kissed her hand.

  “Thank you for the dance. It was a delight.” Kremer clicked his boots and left with a smirk.

  The quartet leader came to the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you would take a seat, we would like to begin our Weihnachten presentation.”

  Josef led her to the middle of their banquet table. At the far end sat Kremer beside Frau Kremer, a dark twig of a woman with wan cheeks and a sharp nose. She caught Elsie’s stare and narrowed her eyes.

  Elsie turned her chair toward Josef to avoid her. “Josef,” Elsie began. Her voice shook, so she cleared her throat to steady it. “I need to speak to you about—”

  “Look, look!” He cut her off and pointed to the stage. “We have a surprise. Do you like music? Wagner, Hotter, Clemens Krauss?”

  Elsie’s fingers had gone numb. She undid the mousquetaire buttons of her gloves and pulled at the champagne-soaked fingers. “Ja, but I’ve never been to an opera.”

  He furrowed his brow and tsked. “I should send you some recordings then.”

  Elsie didn’t own a record player but hadn’t the composure to explain that to him now. She took off her gloves and felt instantly naked, the air over her palms intrusive. She laced her fingers together in an effort to buttress herself.

  “Josef,” she tried again.

  “And now!” announced the bandleader. “A short musical performance for your dinner entertainment.” He lowered the microphone, set a small footstool before it, and took a seat with his violin.

  Josef tapped his index finger against his lips. “Later,” he whispered.

  A murmur of curiosity rippled through the crowd, then fell silent as a stout SS-Gefolge woman with a shock of white hair down the center of her crown led a boy, no more than six or seven years old, up the platform steps. He wore a simple white linen shirt with matching gloves, black trousers, and a bow tie. He might’ve looked like any boy dressed for Christmas Eve if his hair hadn’t been cropped to his scalp, the color of his skin so sallow that he seemed featureless, a walking apparition. The woman instructed him to step onto the stool, and he did so with lowered head. Then, he looked up with eyes as big and brilliant as springwater.

  The leader played a long, high note on the violin. The boy, with fists at his side, took a deep breath, opened his mouth, and sang. His countertenor voice rang out through the corridors. Everyone quieted their conversations and turned. Pure and smooth as new butter, it took Elsie’s breath away. She’d heard the Christmas hymn her whole life, sang it herself, but never before had “Silent Night” sounded like this.

  “All is calm, all is bright …”

  The violin fell away, but his voice remained.

  “Only the Chancellor steadfast in fight, watches o’er Germany by day and by night …”

  Before he’d finished, the dinner service began. Waiters clinked china plates on varnished trays and poured jewel-toned wine into waiting goblets. Conversations resumed. A woman laughed too loud.

  “Always caring for us … always caring for us …”

  Elsie closed her eyes.

  “Wine?” asked the waiter from behind.

  “Silent night, holy night …” The boy’s voice never faltered or strayed from its perfect pitch.

  A lump rose in Elsie’s throat, brimming emotions she’d tried to suppress earlier.

  “He has an excellent voice,” said Josef.

  Elsie nodded and blinked dewy eyes. “Where is he from?”

  “He sang to the arriving detainees at the Dachau camp,” explained Josef. “Sturmscharführer Wicker heard him and had him sing at a handful of his dinner parties. Everyone seemed to enjoy it. He has a unique voice, mesmerizing if you aren’t careful to remember from where it comes.”

  “Ja, unique.” Elsie collected herself.

  “Brings us greatness, favor, and health. Oh give the Germans all power.” The boy finished.

  The violinist came to the microphone. “I quote our führer: ‘All nature is a gigantic struggle between strength and weakness, an eternal victory of the strong over the weak.’ ” He clicked his heels together and raised his bow in party fashion. “Guten appetit.”

  The bubbling crowd broke into a cacophony of clanking silverware and chatter. The violinist began a new song to which the boy sang, but Elsie could barely make it out above the dinner crowd.

  “Is he a Jew?” she asked Josef.

  “His mother was a Jewess singer. His father, a Polish composer. Music is in his blood.” Josef pulled a brötchen roll apart and spread butter on either half.

  “My nephew, Julius,
sings. Hazel says he’s rather good.”

  “We should have him sing for us some time.” He laid one half on Elsie’s plate. “Tonight is this boy’s last performance. He’s going back to the camp tomorrow. With everything going on in the Ardennes …” He crunched his bread and swallowed hard. “I apologize. That is no subject for Weihnachten.”

  She’d first heard about the camps years before when the Grüns, a merchant family that sold the best soaps and shampoos in the area, vanished in the middle of the night. Elsie had visited their store at least once a month. Their son, Isaac, was two years her senior and the handsomest boy in town. He winked at her once when she bought honey milk soap. Secretly, she’d imagined him while lying in her warm bathtub, the steam rising like a fragrant veil around her. The memory shamed her now. Though Jewish, they were well liked in the community. Then one day, their store was boarded up and marked “Juden,” and they were gone.

  A week later, while waiting in line at the meat shop, she overheard the shoemaker’s wife whispering to the butcher that the Grüns had been sent to the Dachau camp where they were sprayed with lye water like cattle and didn’t need shampoo because their heads were shaved. The image sent Elsie running out the door. When Mutti asked for the lamb, Elsie said the butcher hadn’t any, though there were clearly half a dozen in his pen. She never told her parents or anyone about what she heard nor did she ask about the Grüns. No one spoke of them. And while the shoemaker’s wife was not prone to gossip like the other town wives, Elsie chose not to believe her. Now, however, she could not deny the shaved head of the little boy.

  Josef sniffed his wine, then sipped. “I have something else I’d like to discuss.” He reached into his uniform jacket and pulled out a small box. “When I saw it, I knew it was a sign.” He opened the lid, revealing a gold engagement ring studded with rubies and diamonds. “I think we’d be very happy together.” Without waiting for an answer, he slid it on her finger.

  The waiters interrupted, setting large platters between the candelabras. The snout of a roasted piglet faced Elsie; its eyeballs were cooked blank; its crispy ears perked and listening. Bowls of creamy potatoes flanked the swine with white sausages at the rear, a ghostly tail. Though it was the most food she’d seen in all her life, Elsie’s stomach turned with distaste.