The Baker's Daughter

by Sarah McCoy

  The sadness had returned stronger than ever that night, gnawing on her insides. The hungry wolf, her daddy had called it. In bleary binges, he’d described it to her and Deedee when they were girls: how it crept after him in the daylight shadows and shredded his nights to jagged fragments. Then he’d pour himself another amber glass, sip, smile, and playfully make them swear not to mention it to their momma. They’d agreed but kept their fingers crossed behind their backs. It didn’t matter either way. Momma brushed it off, “Nothing but boogeyman tales. You know better than to take anything he says seriously when he’s in one of his moods. Now go to bed and sweet dreams, my girls.”

  After Daddy’s death, Reba discovered his medical records while helping to clean out his office. He’d had years of electroconvulsive treatments for severe depression, and up until the very week he died, he met each Thursday with a clinical psychiatrist at the Medical College of Virginia. Dr. Henry Friedel notated that predeployment, her daddy had suffered from chronic sadness, anxiety, and feelings of hopelessness; food binges followed by periods of no appetite; insomnia; inability to make decisions; unresolved guilt; extreme high-low mood swings; and an altered sense of reality. Reading his symptom list, she’d buckled: they could’ve been her own. Dr. Friedel further noted that all these preexisting symptoms were withheld from army recruiters and, thus, exacerbated by combat conditions.

  Alongside the file was a volume of handwritten notes from her daddy’s sessions. As she was lifting it into the brown packing box, a page came loose from the metal prongs and slipped to the ground. Though it was his private business, Reba’s curiosity got the better of her and she’d read:

  February 28, 1985

  In addition to the patient’s previous complaints and aforementioned clinical treatment, Mr. Adams continues to suffer from insomnia due to night terrors and waking flashbacks related to his active duty service in the Vietnam War. In discussion, he continues to focus on the Sõn Tinh District woman and her teenage daughter whom he claims to have raped while under the influence of psychotropic agents, which he had obtained illegally from local Vietnamese. Mr. Adams states that he later stumbled upon a black wolf devouring the women’s ravaged bodies. (I have still not established if the wolf is a factual experience or more likely, simply represents the manifestation of his subconscious guilt.) Particular patient attention is focused on the company insignia carved on the victims’ naked chests. Mr. Adams cannot recall if these acts of mutilation were perpetrated by himself or his fellow soldiers, nor can he ascertain if he was instrumental in their deaths. However, the deliberation of this point remains the central focus of our discussions and fuels his anxiety, guilt, drastic mood swings, and resultant autophobia. He vacillates between rationalization and self-incrimination.

  Today, Mr. Adams once again described in meticulous detail the order from his chain of command to attack and kill all Viet Cong within the small village. When asked how he felt about the assassination of civilian men, women, children, and elderly, Mr. Adams stated, “They said we had to wipe them out for good. We were following orders. I was trying to be a good soldier. I didn’t want to be there. I wanted to be home with my family.” When asked if rape was ordered by his chain of command, Mr. Adams became extremely emotional and erratic and required an IM dose of an anxiolytic. The session concluded early. I have prescribed him lorazepam and scheduled an additional consultation for Tuesday, March 5.

  Reba stuffed the page back in the volume and immediately wished she could turn back time—snatch the page from the floor with closed eyes. She didn’t want to know her daddy’s secrets. Her own memories were dark enough. She’d packed the files down deep in the box and double-taped it shut with duct tape, hoping to seal in the past and bury Daddy’s wolf for good.

  But alone in her dorm room that Valentine’s, she could hear its lonesome howl reverberating through her skin, so she went to the neon-lit campus minimart and bought a pint of milk and the biggest box of cherry bonbons on the shelf. “He’s a lucky guy,” the student cashier had remarked. Reba had nodded and smiled, “Yes, he is.” She went home and ate the whole box herself, comforted by row upon row of cherry chocolates and the thought that the cashier imagined she had someone wonderful to share them with. She drank the milk straight from the container. As a forbidden fruit, it tasted even sweeter.

  Later, when the jug began to sour in their trashcan, Sasha asked what the smell was. “Soy milk,” Reba replied. “I think it was a bad batch of beans.” Sasha had studied her for a moment, then shrugged, “I had that happen once. Buy the organic kind next time. It’s always good.”

  Just like that, it had begun. So trivial at first. Yet over a decade later, Reba was still lying. The problem was that her lies didn’t stay contained to a jug. They cultivated like mold and grew on various parts of her life, rotting the fruits of her labors.

  But fabrication seemed the easiest path to reinvention. She could forget about her family and childhood: her daddy’s hysterical giddiness followed by deep spells of despondency; the smell of whiskey on his breath during nightly prayers; hiding in the closet, the lace of hems of church dresses tickling her nose; Daddy limp on the floor, rope burns purpling his neck; the sound of sirens and her momma’s tears; the anger and guilt she felt standing over his grave because he’d taken the easy road out, because he’d left them all alone.

  She needn’t be that Reba. All it took was a story, and her family was as perfect as her momma pretended them to be. Daddy was a Vietnam hero, not the haunted man who put on a smile like a colorful tie until the knot started to choke.

  She never understood why her momma made up so many excuses for him. If she’d acknowledged his illness to her daughters, maybe they could’ve helped him, saved him from hurting himself. Maybe the three of them could’ve loved him enough to make him well. But whenever Reba tried to place blame, she remembered when Daddy’s voice growled through the walls, her momma’s soft cries, shattered glasses, and the smell of pecan pancakes in the morning. Momma always made pecan pancakes the morning after one of Daddy’s bad nights. They covered up the stink of bourbon in the floorboards. Cloyingly sweet, she and Deedee would eat heaping piles, eager to please, as if they were their last meals. Momma pretended for the same reasons Reba did—it felt nice to believe the lies. The only thing Reba knew for certain was Momma loved Daddy, and love could make a person turn a blind eye to just about anything. It terrified Reba to be so handicapped.

  As she grew older, the desire to flee her reality grew. Sometimes in airports or train stations or any other transient place where she’d never see the people again, Reba professed to be someone else entirely, and what frightened her most was that for those moments, she believed her own deceptions.

  Once, on the train from Richmond to Washington, D.C., she struck up a conversation with the businessman beside her, introducing herself as an Olympic speed skater meeting her teammates in the capital. The businessman paid for her lunch—his pleasure to dine with an athlete of such caliber. When they parted, a sudden wave of guilt made Reba sick to her stomach. She threw up the New York strip steak in the restroom and prayed to God she wasn’t certifiable—multiple personality, psychotic, or manic like her daddy.

  Moving west was her solution, a clean slate. She could be anybody she wanted. She could be herself. But then, she wasn’t quite sure who that was. Her first encounter with Riki had been out of character, another attempt to act the part: the brazen reporter who jumped in bed after a handful of dates and said she believed in love at first sight. In truth, she only wanted to believe. She’d hoped declaring love aloud might be the all-inclusive cure to her heartache. When it wasn’t, she began to wonder if love was enough.

  This was why she didn’t wear the engagement ring. If she married Riki, she had two choices: become the lies forever or expose her true self and risk losing him. She wished he could simply know her without her having to explain her past. Before she could marry anybody, she had to decipher where the truth ended and her lies began
.

  Headlights spun round the kitchen and a minute later, the front door opened.

  “Reba?” Riki called.

  “I’m in here.”

  He came in and turned on the light. “Why are you sitting in the dark?”

  The brightness burned Reba’s corneas. “I wasn’t in the dark. The stove light’s on.”

  “Practically the dark.” He pulled change and gum wrappers from his pocket and dumped them in the empty fruit bowl on the table. “Don’t turn into a vampire on me.” He kissed the top of her head, took off his border patrol jacket, and sat.

  “Long day?” She knew the answer by the hollows beneath his eyes.

  “We picked up a family living out of their four-door in a Walmart parking lot. Pretty sad. Processing them back to Mexico tomorrow. The youngest is an infant. He’d been sitting in dirty diapers for God knows how long.” He scratched his cheek. “It gets under your skin. The father’s just trying to give his family a better place—better life.”

  The daily barrage of illegal immigration stories had long ago callused Reba’s compassion. While usually Riki was on the US side, lately he seemed to be championing the Mexican nationals more and more. She couldn’t keep up with whom he wanted her to empathize, so she slouched on the higher fence of principle.

  “Don’t make yourself the bad guy,” she said. “Like you always tell me, there are rules we have to follow. Otherwise, there are consequences.” She swallowed a milk-mushy crumb that came loose from her molar. “You get dinner?” she asked, a change of subject. “I stopped off at Rudy’s after my interview and have some leftovers if you’re hungry.”

  “How’d that go?”

  “Rudy’s?” She didn’t want to talk about the interview. “You know I love their smoked turkey.” She got up and went to the refrigerator.

  “No, the profile you’re writing, Miss Sun City.”

  “It was fine. I have to go back though. You sure you don’t want some?” She pulled the paper take-out bag from the shelf.

  “I ate. You have to go back? Why? She blew you off in person, too?”

  Reba shrugged. “I’ll get what I want for the story. But right now, what I really want is …” She grabbed his hand and slid it around her waist. “To stop talking. I’ve been talk-talk-talking all day.” She knew how to change the subject for good.

  He got up and pulled her close. “Whatever you say, boss.”

  She breathed easy and led him upstairs. This was one thing that was always real, and she prayed Riki felt the whole truth in it.

  NAZI WEIHNACHTEN PARTY

  19 GERNACKERSTRASSE

  GARMISCH, GERMANY

  DECEMBER 24, 1944

  It had begun to snow. Thousands of iridescent spindles careened blindly down to earth. Elsie leaned back and let the spongy flakes pile on her face. The chill cleared her mind, and though she shivered, she remained in the alley’s silence, watching the world transform into a fairy-tale masquerade. The dirty streets were powdered white. The dark trees, trimmed neatly in crystal. Parked cars were already being transfigured to mounds of sugar. She loved new snow. It changed everything.

  The wind swept under her dress, numbed her legs, and shot goose bumps up her back. She hugged her arms to her breast. Josef’s ring on her hand was ice cold. She pulled it off and rubbed the metal warm between her palms. It was a beautiful ring from a good man, but she felt little for a moment so big. She turned it round and round, rubies and diamonds, red and white. Why couldn’t it simply be another Christmas present? Like the dress and champagne.

  She began to put it back on her finger when she noticed something, a scratch? No, too precise and even. She turned the ring toward the window light. Worn to near nothing, an inscription: Ani ledodi ve Dodi Li. Hebrew.

  A wave of heat flushed through her body, and her chest tightened under a varnish of flash-frozen sweat. She knew the Gestapo confiscated all Jewish valuables, but she never considered what became of them. Like their owners, they simply vanished.

  The snow picked up. The flakes were no longer light but beaded with icy hearts that pricked the skin. The wind stung her eyes. She blinked away the tears so she could clearly see the ring. It was someone else’s wedding band, and she wondered if that unknown finger missed its weight.

  Elsie steadied herself against a blanket-covered crate under the balcony and breathed the frosty air until her heart slowed its pounding.

  “What are you doing out here?” Kremer pushed through the back entrance doors.

  Elsie slid the ring on. “The heat inside—I guess I’m not very good with champagne. I’m fine now.” She reached for the doorknob, but he stopped her.

  “Look at you—you’re shaking. How long have you been out here?” He rubbed her arm with rough fingers.

  “I should go in,” said Elsie.

  “You need somebody to warm you up.” Before she could pull away, Kremer yanked her into his coat. His breath reeked of red wine and sausage.

  “Major Kremer, please.” Elsie tried to free her arms, but her limbs were heavy and cold.

  “You smell like a baker’s daughter.” He leaned in. “Do you taste like a baker’s daughter?” He kissed her neck.

  “Let go! Stop!” she yelled.

  Kremer put a hand over her mouth. “Hush!” he commanded. “If you make another noise,” he growled into her ear, then unbuttoned the holster of his gun. “Officers have been commended for shooting female spies in the act of seduction.” Holding her tight with one hand, he quickly pushed her skirt up and slipped his other up her thigh.

  “Disgusting pig! How dare you!” She kicked hard and pulled away. “I am not a spy!” She spit in his face.

  He slapped her, spinning her around. “Such a pretty fräulein and with so much spirit.” He thrust her forward against the crate, pinning both her arms overhead. “I don’t want to hurt you.” He fumbled with his belt buckle.

  “You beast!” Elsie cried. “I’m going to tell Josef!”

  Kremer smiled. “Do you think he’d still want you—after he finds out that you seduced me?” He pushed up her chiffon and undid his trousers. “And on such a holy night as this?”

  “Please,” Elsie panicked. “I’ve never …”

  His thighs were hot and coarse; the friction of his stiff uniform against the beaded gown broke her skin beneath in small puncture wounds.

  “Whose story do you think they’ll believe, eh? An immoral concubine or an officer of the Third Reich.”

  “God, please!” she cried.

  Kremer wrenched her arms tight and anchored his feet.

  Suddenly, a high-pitched scream, a single note, cracked the air like a siren. And to her shock, Kremer let go. She fell to the ground. Delicate crystals dotted his muddy footprints.

  The banshee’s cry continued.

  Kremer took out his gun and did up his pants. He aimed left and right before homing in on the source. The wooden crate behind them. He yanked off the covering.

  The Jewish boy sat inside with a blanket draped over his head like a Nativity figurine. Sound emanated from the hooded face.

  “Quiet!” Kremer ordered and cracked the metal butt of his gun against the wooden slats.

  The boy’s note did not waver.

  “Jewish demon!” He cocked the pistol.

  Elsie crawled to the banquet doors and met Josef’s boots coming out.

  “Elsie!” He lifted her to her feet. “What is going on?”

  Kremer stood with outstretched arm; the polished barrel pointed at the boy’s head.

  Elsie buried her face in Josef’s stiff shoulder.

  “Günther, put the gun down!” Josef boomed.

  The boy hushed.

  “He’s a Jew. Why waste time driving him back to the camp?” Kremer’s finger moved for the trigger.

  Josef slapped the gun from his hand, and the bullet zipped through the dark snowfall. “You do not have authority,” roared Josef.

  It was the first time Elsie had seen him angry. Her b
ody trembled at his ferocity.

  Josef picked up the gun from the powdered street and emptied the chamber. Bullets dropped soundlessly into the snowbank. He placed the barrel against Kremer’s forehead. Neither spoke.

  The wet chiffon grew stiff around Elsie’s body, a gossamer cocoon of ice. She tasted iron. A finger to her mouth returned crimson. The inside of her lip was split, and she sucked the warm blood to make it stop.

  The blanket over the boy fell away, exposing a pale skull and tear-streaked cheeks. His chin quivered and reminded Elsie of the only time she’d seen her nephew Julius. After he was born, they visited Hazel in Steinhöring. Julius cried for milk from the bassinette. So small and fragile; his tears seemed too large in comparison. The Jewish boy looked the same. Elsie wanted to reach out to hold him and rock them both.

  “Josef. My friend,” said Kremer.

  Josef pressed the metal against his skin. “ ‘And then she will call all those before her judgment seat, who today, in possession of power, trample justice and law underfoot …’ ” He pushed the gun harder and spoke steadily, a man entranced. “ ‘Who have led our people into misery and ruin and amid the misfortune of the fatherland have valued their own ego above the life of the community.’ ” He pulled back. The barrel left a circular indent on Kremer’s forehead.

  Josef composed himself. “It would do you good to understand our purpose.” He handed the empty gun back to Kremer, cleared his throat, and readjusted the cuffs of his uniform jacket so they aligned perfectly. “They are serving dessert.” He took Elsie’s arm and opened the door; the strains of festive violin spilled out to the alley. “Come, Günther.”

  Kremer obeyed and followed behind.

  The boy in the cage was silent. Elsie wanted to look over her shoulder one last time but kept her eyes forward for fear of being turned to a pillar of salt.