The Baker's Daughter

by Sarah McCoy

  Elsie didn’t blame him entirely. He didn’t know them. Hazel moved to Steinhöring while still pregnant, and they’d only visited him as a newborn. His family was the Program. He talked incessantly of his instructors, of Nazi customs, and how much he hated foreigners. All of which no one dared debate, but such harsh words from a seven-year-old made them uncomfortable. Julius knew everything about authority and discipline and nothing of family and compassion.

  Though they were of similar age and shared a fairness of eye, Julius and Tobias were as different as night and day. Julius remained stony and emotionless, even when Mutti showed him photographs of his mother, Hazel, and smoothed his cheek with the back of her hand. It produced not a flicker of reciprocated affection or appreciation. He refused to wear the sweaters Mutti knitted, declaring the wool smelled of sheep’s dung as did the mattress on which he slept. It seemed the only pleasure he gleaned was in food, though he had a word of criticism for all they offered, balking at the vegetables and griping that the spaetzle tasted like shoestrings—a product of his own beloved SS flour and powdered eggs. Nothing was right. Nothing was good enough.

  Mutti doted on him regardless, but Papa was reserved. Elsie knew him well. He didn’t approve of the boy thinking himself so far above their station as bakers. After all, this was his daughter’s son, his blood. So in the first week, he put the boy to work. Julius whined and complained through each batch of brötchen and pastries. He brought a bitterness to the kitchen that they all feared would bake into the bread. After a week, Mutti asked Papa to let him be, and he spent the rest of his days playing war games in the kitchen pantry.

  Before daybreak, while Papa heated the oven and Mutti catered to Julius, Elsie often had the whole upstairs to herself, allowing her time to tend to Tobias before joining Papa in the kitchen.

  After all her earlier descriptions of Julius, Tobias was curious about her nephew’s arrival. Still, it came as a surprise when he whispered one morning, “I’ve been listening for his music.”

  Elsie was in a rush to give him the wool socks Mutti had knitted for Julius, and Julius had subsequently thrown to the floor for their itchiness. He would never wear them, and Mutti would be wounded once again for a gift rejected. Elsie figured it worked out well to put the items to Tobias’s good use.

  “I put my ear to the floor, but all I heard was the pots and pans and customers,” Tobias continued as Elsie pulled the socks up to his knees. “What songs does he sing for you?”

  “Sing? Who?”

  “Julius. You said he sings. Since I can’t anymore, I thought I might listen to him.” His eyelashes fluttered.

  Elsie handed him the breakfast Mutti had brought her: a deformed pretzel wrapped in a muslin napkin.

  “He hasn’t had a chance yet,” she said and tugged his nightcap down over his ears so he wouldn’t catch cold. “Now eat.”

  Tobias nodded. “I haven’t sung in a long time either—not really. The officers made me sing, but their songs are not so beautiful. Not like the ones my father wrote and my mother, sister, and I sang together.” He cradled the napkin in his lap. “Sometimes I worry that I’ll forget them. Sometimes I think I’ve already forgotten my voice.”

  Elsie winced and ran her hand over his head. “I’ll never forget your voice,” she comforted. “And you haven’t forgotten either. It’s still inside you and always will be. Trust me.”

  He nodded and scooted back into the nest of blankets and items in the crawl space. A Boy’s Will lay open to “The Trial by Existence.”

  “That’s a good one,” said Elsie. “ ‘And the mind whirls and the heart sings, and a shout greets the daring one,’ ” she recited from memory.

  “ ‘But always God speaks at the end,’ ” Tobias whispered back as Elsie secured the board closed again.

  Papa had been pleased with Elsie’s success while they were in Steinhöring and entrusted her with many more of the family recipes. Elsie enjoyed her new responsibilities in the kitchen and had grown accustomed to greeting Frau Rattelmüller at the back door prior to opening. She’d been doing it for so long now, Mutti and Papa thought nothing of it. Her daily order became a kind of unspoken code. A dozen brötchen meant all was well. Her absence today signified trouble.

  The customer line had shortened. Elsie was grateful. Papa’s sourdough loaves wouldn’t be out of the oven for another thirty minutes.

  Julius came from the pantry room with his face freshly washed and hair still holding comb tracks. Mutti had pressed his pants and shirt for him, just as they had in the Program.

  “You look very nice,” said Mutti. She took his hand and gave his arm a jiggle. “Say good morning to Tante Elsie.”

  His stare shot straight through her. “I would like lebkuchen for breakfast.”

  “Come now, you shouldn’t have sweets for breakfast. They didn’t let you have that for breakfast in Steinhöring, did they?”

  “Nein.” Julius rolled his eyes. “We had soft-boiled eggs and sausage, white bread with fresh butter, apricot jam, and fruit from every corner of the German empire. But I don’t see that here.” He pulled his hand free from her and crossed his arms over his chest.

  Mutti nodded. “Doch, you don’t.” She wrung her hands together. “Elsie, give Julius a lebkuchen—and a glass of milk.”

  Elsie had no time to cater to her spoiled nephew. She picked up the last gingerbread, a large witch house hung ornamentally from the bread bin since Christmas, broke it in half and handed it to Mutti.

  “Elsie!” snapped Mutti.

  “Pumpernickel raisin?” asked the next customer while balancing a bundled child on her hip. The child slept, cheek against the woman’s breastbone, mouth hung open.

  “No raisins. Only pumpernickel,” replied Elsie.

  The woman dug in her pocket and extended a gold christening cross. “It’s all I have?”

  Elsie paused long enough to notice the young mother’s sharp cheekbones and ashen lips. “Keep it.” She patted her hand and reached for the dark loaf.

  The woman’s eyes glazed tearful, and she kissed her sleeping babe. “Thank you so very much.”

  “Elsie, the milk?” asked Mutti.

  Elsie huffed. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to get it yourself, Mutti. I’m busy.”

  Julius’s icy glare pricked the back of her neck. Mutti led him away, presumably to get milk, but Elsie knew they would find none. They hadn’t had milk for weeks. Papa had made do by watering down cream and bartering with the cheese maker for the leftover whey.

  “Next?” Elsie called, and a new customer stepped up.

  “A word with you?”

  Elsie didn’t recognize the figure at first, wearing an ankle-length trench coat and a black lace-trimmed hat. Frau Rattelmüller lifted the edge of her veil, revealing a terse expression and sunken eyes. The patrons behind groaned impatiently.

  “Give me two minutes, and I’ll meet you by the back woodpile,” whispered Elsie. She wrapped a thin slice of stollen in brown paper and handed it over the counter. “Thank you.”

  Frau Rattelmüller left with the parcel.

  “Mutti,” Elsie called. “Would you mind taking the front for a minute? I forgot to get firewood.” It wasn’t entirely untrue. The pile was low.

  Mutti came from the back and nodded to the next customer. “Grüs Gott, Herr Baumhauer.”

  Elsie retreated to the kitchen, past Papa kneading dark schwartzbrot and Julius lazily munching his bewitched and brittle lebkuchen on the stool. She stepped into her boots, threw a shawl round her shoulders, and went out into the drizzly March day.

  Frau Rattelmüller waited on the far side of the pile. Elsie had to keep her legs steady, her gait unencumbered, in case she was being watched. If the frau was finally turning her in, she wanted to at least appear innocent; maybe they’d allow a poor baker’s daughter reprieve. But if it was Frau Rattelmüller who had been discovered, then this very meeting indicted her as an accomplice. She slowed to a stop on the opposite side of the neatly cross
hatched wood.

  “Ja?” she asked, colder than was her nature. “What do you wish to speak to me about?”

  Frau Rattelmüller sensed the hostility. “I come alone and with no ill intentions,” she promised. “I would not be here if I had any alternative.” She leaned heavily on her cane. “I know some people on the inside of the Dachau camp. They say that the Nazis are planning a Jewish expulsion. The Russians and Americans are close. Soon, they plan to move the Jews to Tegernsee on foot.”

  “Now?” The March rain had turned to sharp ice needles, pelting her forehead and nose. “They’ll freeze to death.”

  “I’m sure that’s part of the plan. Save the bullets for the soldiers in Berlin.”

  “But Josef”—Elsie’s heart beat fast—“he’s at Dachau.”

  “Ja.” Frau Rattelmüller’s face turned away under the veil. “He’s one of the officers in charge.”

  “In charge of this death march?”

  Josef had never discussed his business with her. She always assumed it had something to do with the mountain brigade, not Jewish camps. The rumors of Dachau’s violence and mass graves had circulated for years. Too horrific, most chose not to believe. These were their countrymen. Elsie was not prepared to imagine Josef leading such brutality. The piercing rain stung her cheeks.

  Frau Rattelmüller leaned in closer. “I know a man who can bribe the guard to turn a blind eye while the Jewish women move between the workhouses and the sleeping quarters. There are two girls—family members of my …” A tree cracked. She turned quickly. A sparrow fledgling flew from a branch. She continued in a whisper, “Once I have them, they will leave at once for Switzerland where trusted friends wait.”

  “Are you leaving too?”

  “I am too old. I’d only slow them down.” The frau swallowed hard. “I’ve come because I need your help—with the bribe. I’ve given all I can, but it isn’t enough.”

  Elsie stepped back. Here was the crux of it. The old woman wanted money. Was this how she bought her daily bread—with coins stolen under the premise of charity? Elsie took a good look at Frau Rattelmüller. Her veil was tattered about the edges; the hem of her dress hung round her heels; her feet were stockingless despite the weather; and her hands, bone thin, were chafed an angry red. This wasn’t a woman who gorged on rolls and sweets.

  But Elsie had nothing to give. The bäckerei till held a meager amount, enough to be noticed if missing. She rubbed her forehead, trying to heat her skin against the throbbing frost, and then she saw it: red glints beneath the melted ice. How easily she’d forgotten her promise to Josef, gone with no written word as he had promised.

  “Here.” She slipped it from her finger. “This should be enough.”

  “Your engagement ring?” Frau Rattelmüller took it but frowned under the dark veil. “What will you tell Josef and your family when they ask?”

  Elsie rubbed her fingers, suddenly warmer than they’d been. “I’ll tell them I gave it to save the Fatherland.”

  The frau nodded. “Your sister, Hazel, had courage, but Elsie—you have the heart of the prophet Daniel.”

  Elsie winced at the mention of Hazel in the past tense. She looked away and shook her head. “The ring was never truly mine.”

  Frau Rattelmüller grasped Elsie’s hand. “There are still people who remember that God’s law is above all mankind.” Her voice caught. “These men will not lead us down the path of destruction. I learned early in my life that the dead cannot save the living. Only we can do that. While there is life, there is hope.” She turned to leave.

  Elsie stopped her. This was her chance. “I ask a favor of you in return.”

  Elsie took a deep breath; the glacial air choked the flesh of her throat. The branches crackled under the sleet. Every whisper was a danger, every move suspected, but Tobias had become too important to Elsie. Each hour he spent in her bedroom was an hour closer to revelation and ruin. If this was a chance to save him, she had to take it.

  “When you first discovered Tobias in our kitchen, you offered to take him with the others. Will you do so now—will you get him out of Germany?” she asked.

  Frau Rattelmüller gripped the crooked handle with both hands and lowered her voice to barely a murmur, “Elsie, it is too dangerous now. Moving him from the bakery to my home could put us all in our graves.”

  The wind swirled gusts of budding flurries.

  “And in this weather—he is so small and weak.” The frau shook her head.

  Elsie pictured Tobias’s knobby elbows and knees, his tiny earlobes beneath the stocking cap. His health was poor. She was right. There was a good chance he would not survive the elements.

  “I’m sorry,” said Frau Rattelmüller. “Please believe me, if there was a way to safely transport him, I would do it. The Gestapo patrols your bakery day and night. Perhaps it is under Josef’s order of protection; nonetheless, they are there … watching. I must think of my friends first.”

  Elsie nodded. She’d seen the headlights of the cars rolling by late at night but assumed every street in Garmisch was being carefully guarded. The news that it was just hers made her knees go slack.

  “I will help you in every way I can,” Frau Rattelmüller continued, “but I cannot do this.”

  Elsie couldn’t fault the old woman for prudence. Every measure of caution had to be taken. Acting impulsively cost lives. So for now, Tobias would stay hidden in her bedroom.

  Then Elsie remembered: “He has a sister in the camp. Her name is Cecile. She works with the seamstresses. Could you get her out with the others?”

  This was one thing she could do for Tobias.

  “Ja.” Frau Rattelmüller thumped her cane on the icy cobblestone. “If she is still there, we will take her to Switzerland.”

  Elsie nodded. “Tell her that her brother is well and speaks of her with great love. Tell her he promises to see her again.” She sighed out a plume of white. “He’ll be the one waiting with blue ribbons.”

  “Blue ribbons?” asked Frau Rattelmüller.

  Elsie nodded. “She will know the meaning.”

  A dog barked, and both women jumped.

  “Go.” The frau turned and hobbled down the slippery lane.

  Shaken, Elsie scooped up an armful of logs, splinters pricking her arms. Inside, Julius had finished the lebkuchen and moved on to brötchen with the last bit of the family’s butter and jam. Elsie dumped the wood beneath the stove and coughed to clear her throat of any residual sentiment. Knowing Julius’s nature, she couldn’t take the risk of exposing her true emotions.

  “Has your oma eaten?” she asked.

  The boy crunched the side of his roll and shook his head.

  “Well, perhaps you should take her some before you eat it all yourself.”

  Papa turned from the mounds of spongy schwartzbrot bread.

  Julius continued chewing.

  “Did you hear Tante Elsie, son?” asked Papa.

  Julius swallowed hard. “I am not your son.”

  Papa gripped the wooden roller with white knuckles. “Elsie.” His voice boomed through the kitchen, reverberating against the pots and pans. “Take Mutti breakfast. I need to speak with my grandson.”

  Mutti had opened the last jar of her cherry jam for Julius. Elsie scooped a teaspoonful onto a plate, grabbed a hot brötchen from the rack, and went to the front, glad that her nephew would finally receive true discipline—the kind only a father could give.

  The breakfast rush had ebbed. Mutti stood arranging a tray of cookies end to end so that their paucity was less conspicuous.

  “Ach ja, how nice that looks,” she said softly to herself.

  Elsie held the plate before her. “I brought you something to eat.”

  Mutti waved it away. “Throw it in the bin with the others. We need the extra money. I’m not hungry.”

  Elsie set the plate beside the register. “Eat, Mutti. It does us no good if you become ill and bedridden.”

  Mutti cupped the roll but did not
break its crust.

  “Cherries. Your favorite.” Elsie held out the jam knife. Mutti had taken to eating little since she returning from Steinhöring. It worried Elsie.

  Mutti studied the jellied-jeweled spoonful. “Whenever I taste these, I think of that cherry tree in your oma’s garden.”

  “I remember it well. Hazel and I spent many summer days pretending it was a fairy castle with magical fruits. We used to play a game. Every cherry we ate, we got to make a wish. I really believed I’d get all my wishes. Some of them did come true. Once, Hazel wished for a bottle of lavender perfume, and I wanted rose shampoo, and when we came to visit Oma the next week, there they were.” Elsie smiled and conjured the smell of her secret rose vial.

  “Oma was a good mother,” said Mutti. “I miss her very much in these times.” She wiped the corner of her eye. “What a fool I am. An old woman talking like a child.”

  “Nein,” said Elsie. “A woman talking like a daughter.”

  Mutti smoothed Elsie’s cheek with her thumb. “You’ve grown to be so fine. Beautiful and wise. Those are gifts from God, dear.”

  Elsie put her hand atop her mother’s and felt a blossoming in her chest. Mutti had never complimented her so.

  “You’ve got to eat something.” Elsie held out the plate again. “Please?”

  Mutti took her hand from beneath Elsie’s and split the brötchen. “Oma always said the best bread was broken together.” She spread the cherries inside. “You need to eat as well.”

  It was true. Elsie had given her pretzel to Tobias. Her middle knotted with hunger.

  Mutti passed her the half roll and licked the knife clean. Elsie ate and thought of all the magical fruits she had shared with her sister, her oma, her mutti. All the dreams they still shared. Though little, it was the best meal she’d had in months, filling much more than her empty stomach.

  3168 FRANKLIN RIDGE DRIVE

  EL PASO, TEXAS

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