The Baker's Daughter

by Sarah McCoy

  The room erupted in shouts.

  “Get down!” Bert yelled at the boy. “Drop the knife or I’ll shoot!”

  The girl screamed.

  A gunshot ripped the air.

  Boots thudded the floor.

  Bert’s face appeared overhead, hovering among the seeds. “Rik? You okay? Nod if you can hear me.”

  Riki nodded. He blinked hard. The pink cleared, and he realized he was lying on his back staring up at the pockmarked ceiling.

  “The ambulance is on the way,” someone said.

  “I … I don’t need … an ambulance,” said Riki. He tried to lift himself but couldn’t gain balance; the room was still rolling like a melon down a hill.

  “It’ll be here in five,” said the voice.

  “I said”—Riki reached up and grabbed Bert by the sleeve—“I’m fine.”

  Bert patted his hand, and Riki felt a tremor in it. “I know you are, Rik, but he ain’t.”

  The girl cried. “Lo siento. Tuvimos que hacerlo para nuestra familia. Mi hermano. Por favor. Señor, señor, señor,” she called and reached feebly out to Riki.

  A CBP agent crooked her arm behind her back, forced her to a stand and escorted her away.

  “Kid had 300 grams of cocaine in his pants.” Bert cleared his throat. “Guess he figured he was screwed either way. Might as well …” He wiped the sweat trickling down his neck. “I got him in the leg—just to stop him. Paramedics are on the way.”

  Riki’s hand to his face returned bloody. Bert helped him sit upright.

  “The kid kicked your face.” Bert’s Adam’s apple wobbled.

  Riki took a sharp breath. “Hurts like hell.” A fiery throbbing commenced between his eye sockets and the back of his skull.

  Agents and police officers ushered people out. “Agent Mosley,” called Chief Garza. “Looks like the boy and his sister are a couple of drug mules. Smuggler says he didn’t know. When he found out, he gave her the eye.”

  “They caught him?” asked Riki.

  “Yup,” said Garza. “Name’s Carl Bauer. Funny thing is, he’s not even Hispanic. He’s from Nebraska. Prior record. Figured he’d come down to Mexico and make a killing bringing people over. One of the immigrants says everybody in here paid $4,000 a pop.”

  “Same guy on the Rio?” asked Bert.

  “Naw,” said Garza. “That was a local. He checked out. Legal.”

  “Shit.” Bert shook his head. “Guy looked as Mexican as they come. Why’d he run?”

  “ ’Cause we were chasing him,” said Riki.

  “Carl was hiding in the trailer next door. Came in and told the lady and her kid he’d give them ten thousand if they kept quiet. Scared the kid so bad he pissed his pants. Mom dialed 911 when he wasn’t looking,” explained Garza.

  “Dumb fellow,” said Bert. “He didn’t know it was the same lady who tipped us off in the first place.”

  Riki recalled the woman’s scowling face from weeks prior, her little boy on the tricycle: “Bye! Bye-Bye!” She had to be of Mexican descent too. Maybe she thought the same way he did: that rules were there for a reason, even if the reasons didn’t exactly add up. Better to be on the side of authority than against it.

  Still, as the paramedics arrived and flashed penlights over his eyes, Riki couldn’t help but think there had to be a better way than this—useless suffering, unwarranted loss. There had to be a way for him to be loyal to his country and his personal convictions.

  “You got a nasty cut and a concussion.” The paramedic had a thick Spanish accent made even more distinct by the wad of bubblegum he chewed. “You’re lucky. They say that guy almost broke your neck. Lights out.” He handed Riki two Tylenol. “Rest, and don’t bang your head for a week. You got someone to take care of you at home?”

  Riki didn’t answer. Instead, he swallowed the pills dry. They scoured the back of his throat as they went down.

  He’d accused Reba of being the one with the problem, but maybe deep down, it was him. How could he demand decisions from others when he hadn’t made them? Before he could be true to her, he had to be true to himself.

  SCHMIDT BÄCKEREI

  56 LUDWIGSTRASSE

  GARMISCH, GERMANY

  JANUARY 24, 1945

  “This is a surprise.” Frau Rattelmüller gave a hacking cough into the sleeve of her coat.

  A chilly wind swept round the kitchen.

  “I saw the chimney smoke.” She banged her cane against timber door frame. “Your oven was lit early, so I thought I’d get my brötchen.”

  Elsie swallowed hard and stepped in front of Tobias, shielding him with her skirt. “Six o’clock. You know we don’t open until then. With my parents away, I haven’t the time for special purchases. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to wait like the rest.”

  Frau Rattelmüller craned her neck around Elsie. “Seems you have a helper.” She pointed with the shepherd’s hook of her staff. “A little elf.”

  Elsie stiffened. “I must ask you to go.” She moved toward the door, aching to lock the chain, usher Tobias up to his hiding space, and pretend it was all a bad dream. The consequence of this moment was more than she could bear. Even Josef wouldn’t be able to save her now.

  Tobias cowered by the oven, its kindle burning and hissing within.

  “Is he a Jew?” Frau Rattelmüller asked, unyielding.

  Elsie’s knees buckled. She couldn’t throw the old woman out now or she’d go straight to the Gestapo. “A Jew?” She forced an awkward laugh. “Nein, this is—”

  “Because he seems to fit the description of the Jew child the Gestapo searched for on Christmas Eve.” She stepped inside the kitchen and closed the door behind her. “They came to my house, too, and scared my old Matilda into a hairball fit.”

  Frau took a seat on the nearby stool and leaned her wrinkled chin on the wooden cane handle, inspecting them.

  “You are mistaken,” said Elsie. Her cheeks were as hot as the oven’s coals. A pitchy note rang shrill in her ears. She tried to sip in air.

  “Come here, boy,” said Frau Rattelmüller.

  Elsie held him by the hand. “This is my nephew Julius. Hazel’s son.”

  Frau Rattelmüller narrowed her eyes on Tobias. “Tell me then, when did they start marking the German boys like the Jews in the camps?”

  Tobias’s sleeves were folded up to the bend of his elbows. A centipede of inked numbers scrawled down his left arm. He covered them.

  Frau Rattelmüller huffed and thudded her staff against the tiled floor. “Don’t lie to me, child. I know your family too well. It isn’t in your blood—the art of deception.” She grinned with yellowed teeth that reminded Elsie of a children’s recording her papa bought them long ago: Peter and the Wolf. The wolf’s French horns and Peter’s pitched violins played in her mind.

  Though the sun climbed in the sky, the room grew darker and blurred at the edges. Elsie steadied herself, dug her fingernails into her palms. She had to think clearly, to find an explanation, but all she could hear was the squeals and moans of the logs in the oven.

  “You’ve been hiding this child for what—a month now? I’m impressed. Are your parents involved?”

  There was no way out, but Elsie would not drag her family into her mess. “No,” she said.

  “Gut.” Frau Rattelmüller nodded. “Then may I make a suggestion?” She stood and came within whisper distance. “Get him out of here. You don’t know what you’re doing. And if they find him, your whole family will pay. Herr Hub, too.”

  An ache shot through Elsie’s chest, then thudded about like Peter’s duck trapped in the wolf’s stomach. Her mouth went dry, her fingers numb. Tobias stepped away from them both. His body shook.

  Frau Rattelmüller’s expression softened. “Don’t be afraid, boy.” She reached out a shriveled hand.

  He cringed and hid his face against the table ledge.

  Elsie put her arms around his shoulders and drew him to her. “If they find him, they’ll kill him.”

>   “Ja, that is certain,” said Frau Rattelmüller.

  Elsie closed her eyes a moment to think. Better him than her family, right? In the darkness of her mind, she thought perhaps. She couldn’t keep Tobias hidden in her wall forever. But if she turned him in, his blood was on her hands. Could she live with that?

  “There are others.” Frau’s voice was soft as the crackle of breadcrumbs underfoot.

  “Others?” Elsie matched her whisper.

  “Why do you think I buy so much brötchen in the mornings?” Her eyes were clear and true. She shrugged. “One cat and an old woman don’t eat that much.”

  Elsie felt a sudden release inside, like the snapping of a twig, the noose come undone. She took a full breath and tasted the toasting rolls in the oven.

  “I have friends in Switzerland. I am trying to get them there—out of Germany.” Frau Rattelmüller turned to Tobias. “What is his name?”

  Elsie held his hand firmly in hers. She didn’t know whom to trust anymore. “He’s a gifted musician, like his mother and father, and a skillful pretzel maker. His name is Tobias.”

  First, she’d test Frau with keeping this secret.

  Tobias looked to Elsie, ingenuous and grateful, and an overwhelming guilt swelled up deep within her. In a world where everything seemed an illusion and nothing was what it should be, the thought came to her with chilling clarity: Tobias was her responsibility now, and she had to save him.

  3168 FRANKLIN RIDGE DRIVE

  EL PASO, TEXAS

  DECEMBER 4, 2007

  The December holiday issue of Sun City magazine arrived in the afternoon mail. Reba sat at the kitchen table examining the layout of her article. She’d sent her editor an altogether different story from her assigned topic. Plucking the American heartstrings at Christmas beat out hard news and educational commentaries. Her editor loved the piece and even made a last-minute cover swap. Reba’s story headlined the copy. She smoothed her hand over the slick photo. A young soldier in desert fatigues with a red bow on his rifle held a weathered photograph of his great-grandfather in World War II uniform. The banner read: “Wartime Christmas Carols.” Reba came up with that.

  The story virtually wrote itself after one phone call to the Fort Bliss USO and all her visits with Elsie. She was proud of the article’s honesty. No saccharine sentimentality to cut the bite. Men and women were away from their families, alone and afraid, the same as they’d been sixty years before. Across cultures and generations, they shared a bittersweet reality: Santa and his reindeer didn’t always make it to your rooftop, and war stole even the hope that they might.

  Reba and Riki had been playing phone tag for three weeks. They hadn’t actually spoken to each other since the night he moved out. He came by the condo with a U-Haul when she was at work and left a handwritten note:

  Reba, I got my stuff. I’m renting a one-bedroom downtown. Call me if you need anything.

  —Riki

  The magazine’s office was on Stanton Street across from the Downtown Plaza. When she went in to work, she purposely parked near the Plaza Theater and walked the full length of the historic district, wondering if he might look out his window somewhere and catch a glimpse of her. Not that it would change anything if he did, but she liked imagining. She still wore his ring on the chain around her neck.

  The day before, Jane asked why she didn’t take it off. Reba came to the bakery often. She genuinely liked Jane and Elsie’s company. They felt more like family than her own mother and sister these days.

  “I don’t know.” She’d shrugged and smoothed the band between her fingers.

  “Because he means more than you thought,” Elsie had chimed in from behind the register.

  Reba couldn’t agree or deny, so she dipped a lebkuchen in hot cocoa and stuffed her mouth.

  In the centerfold, the magazine ran a couple photos of Elsie posed with trays of Christmas stollen, nut bars, and lebkuchen hearts. “During times of war, Christmas may mean fewer gifts under the tree but more gifts from the heart.” That was her all-star quote. Reba had pushed hard to get it.

  Reba wondered if Riki had seen the magazine yet—in a checkout line, a dentist’s waiting room, a local restaurant lounge, somewhere. She picked up the phone and instinctually dialed Riki’s cell phone. She got all the way to the last digit before her stomach dropped, and she hung up. The phone in her hand seemed radioactive. She put it down, but her fingertips continued to burn. Did he think of her? And had he ever dialed her number and then hung up? The clock in the kitchen ticked quarter to five. No, probably not. He was busy with work.

  She decided to call Jane and let her know the magazine was out, but at near closing time, Reba doubted anybody would answer. Elsie avoided last-minute cake orders by ignoring the existence of any communication technology after 4:00 p.m. Reba thought it better to go by tomorrow. Then she could bring a copy. She put the phone back on the charger stand. Just as she did, it lit up and sang “Jingle Bells.”

  In an attempt to be merry, Reba had changed the ring tone on the first of December. Caller ID: Deedee Adams.

  Reba had sent Deedee a handful of one-liner e-mails and left voice messages when she knew she was at work, thereby avoiding a lengthy phone call but still alleviating her guilty conscience. An attorney by trade, her older sister shared her talent at ferreting out others’ secrets, while not giving up any of her own. It was different talking to Jane and Elsie. They chose when and how to divulge their secrets. It was a common factor in their friendship: acceptance without forced confession. But family was different. Reba’s momma had a notorious habit of seeing the elephant in the dining room and asking for someone to pass the gravy. She avoided family confrontation and encouraged her daughters to do the same. Perhaps that was why Deedee went into the vocation she had—unearthing others’ truths to make up for years lived in personal denial.

  The phone’s “jingle all the way” echoed through the empty house. Reba bit her cuticles. She couldn’t ignore Deedee forever. She was her sister, and underneath all the hurt, Reba loved her more than anybody on earth.

  On the last ring before the answering machine responded, she picked up. “Hello.”

  “Well, hello, my prodigal sis!” Deedee’s voice was as warm and bubbly as apple cider in a Dutch oven.

  “Hey, Deedee.” Reba sat down at the table with the magazine open to her article.

  “Momma! Reba’s on the phone,” Deedee yelled into the background chatter. “Yes, right now! On my cell! Momma says you better call her. She’d be on the line right now if we weren’t over at Uncle Vance’s birthday party, and she didn’t have a mouthful of smoked salmon. Do you still eat salmon? It’s not an endangered fish or anything right?”

  Reba sighed. “Yes, I do; and no, it’s not.”

  “That’s what I thought. How about pork? Uncle Vance bought himself this new gadget that roasts a pig in less than two hours. So we’re all waiting to eat some fancy barbecue. Personally”—Deedee’s voice quieted—“I could give two nickels about his silly roaster. He bought it off eBay, for Christ’s sake. You’d think he reinvented the wheel the way he’s peacocking around. And just so you know, it’s already been two hours and that thing is still pink as a baby’s hiney. Thank God for Aunt Gwen’s toddies—delicious as always. They’ve saved the day for everyone. You better believe Uncle Vance is already four mint juleps deep and singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to himself. You know how Momma is—the drink makes her nervous—so she’s pushing hors d’oeuvres in her mouth and laughing like we’re at the circus, which of course, we are in a sense.” She gave a strained titter. Reba knew it well. “Wish you were here with me. I asked Momma if she’d heard from you recently. Said she hadn’t. Come to think of it, nobody had. So I picked up my phone and dialed. Honestly, I was expecting to leave another message but—here you are!” She paused and Reba couldn’t tell if it was to catch her breath or take a sip.

  Mud Slide Slim and the Blue Horizon played in the background. It was the same CD her momma pu
t on for every family gathering—good “ambiance music,” she claimed. A pang of homesickness ran through Reba, and she clasped the ring dangling in the middle of her chest.

  “You really can’t go this long without calling. I know work and the time zones make it hard, but, honey, you’ve got people who worry about you,” said Deedee.

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “I miss my little sister.”

  “I miss you, too.” Reba leaned back in her chair and tried to keep her voice steady. She could feel something inside rising to a pitch, but she couldn’t break. Not now.

  “How are you?”

  “Doing good, doing good.”

  “Yeah, you sound like you’re jumping for joy.”

  “I’m tired.”

  “Take a vacation! Come home early. That’s the real reason I called. I wanted to know when you’re coming for Christmas.”

  “I—well—” She swallowed hard.

  Last Christmas, she hadn’t gone home, claiming the new job as her excuse, but in reality, she simply couldn’t face another Christmas with Daddy’s stocking hung next to theirs and Momma trying to be as holly-jolly as ever. At the time, she was newly dating Riki and excited by the prospect of a romantic Christmas Eve with just the two of them. No traditions or expectations to uphold. A clean slate. Momma and Deedee had accepted the explanation with disappointment, but she doubted it would work again this year.

  “Don’t even start to tell me you aren’t coming home. I swear to Mary and Joseph I’ll throw a fit!”

  “Deedee, please.” Reba fingered her engagement ring, rolling it round her thumb.

  “Don’t Deedee me. I don’t want to hear it.” She huffed. “I can’t force you on a plane.”

  Reba relaxed a little. That’s right, she couldn’t.

  “So I guess I’ll have to come to El Paso.”