The Baker's Daughter

by Sarah McCoy

From: Leigh.goldman@sanfranmonthly.com

  Sent: January 3, 2008 8:52 AM

  To: reba.adams@hotmail.com

  Subject: San Francisco Monthly—Editor position

  Dear Ms. Adams:

  The publisher and I have reviewed your résumé and publication samples. We were particularly impressed with your recent story entitled “Wartime Christmas Carols.” Our current Local Scene editor is moving to New York City in February, leaving an editorial position to be filled. Therefore, we would like to offer the position and schedule a phone interview with you for next week. Should you join our publication staff, I’d be happy to help you make an easy and quick transition to the San Francisco Bay Area. Please feel free to contact me by e-mail or phone as soon as possible. I look forward to hearing from you.

  Best regards,

  Leigh Goldman

  Editor in Chief

  San Francisco Monthly

  122 Vallejo Street

  San Francisco, CA 94111

  —–Original Message—–

  From: reba.adams@hotmail.com

  Sent: January 3, 2008 7:08 P.M.

  To: deedee.adams@gmail.com

  Subject: FW: San Francisco Monthly—Editor position

  Deedee,

  See the forward below. Today, I heard from Leigh Goldman. Note: The Leigh Goldman of the award-winning San Francisco Monthly. Yes, I know, I nearly passed out when I opened the e-mail. They want me, Deedee. Can you believe it? San Francisco, California!

  Remember when we were little and would play Daddy’s old 45 records, dress up in Momma’s long silk nightgowns, and sing, “San Francisco (Be Sure to Wear Flowers in Your Hair)”? It always made him so happy. I’m humming it now.

  I feel really good about this, D. It’s the opportunity I’ve been waiting for since I left home. I can’t pass it up.

  I still haven’t heard from Riki. It’s been so long now and with this offer on the table, I’m not sure what I’d say even if I called him: “Hi, I’m leaving.” I miss him, but I’m taking this job as a sign. I’ve got to move forward.

  Love you, Reba

  —–Original Message—–

  From: deedee.adams@gmail.com

  Sent: January 4, 2008 11:11 A.M.

  To: reba.adams@hotmail.com

  Subject: FW: San Francisco Monthly—Editor position

  Congratulations, Reba! This is the best news I’ve heard in months. Send me the contract before you sign anything. I’ll take a gander.

  I laughed out loud remembering our musical exhibitions. What a riot. It was a surefire way to make Daddy smile. Be happy, Reba. Promise me you’ll let yourself. I’m thrilled for you. I can’t wait to tell Momma. She’ll be so proud.

  Speaking of Momma: I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I believe we should talk to her about what you found in Daddy’s medical records and about his death. We need to discuss everything as a family. It’s been over a decade since he died. Things have changed. We’re not little girls anymore. The past can’t hurt us. Daddy’s wolf is nothing but a sad old hound dog that’s lost all his teeth. Momma misses you. I do too. Think about coming home soon for a visit.

  I’m glad to hear you’re moving on, but make sure that what you think is forward isn’t propelled by fear. Then it’s running away made up to look pretty. Trust me, I know. If the “milkman” doesn’t contact you, perhaps there’s some California cheese you’re meant to try. I hear their cheddar is delish.

  Love you back, Deedee

  SCHMIDT BÄCKEREI

  56 LUDWIGSTRASSE

  GARMISCH, GERMANY

  APRIL 29, 1945

  It was eerily quiet in the streets. Birds perched in pairs along the roof shingles chirped back and forth of a season that felt hollow and muted. Their squawks echoed off the cobblestones and timbered house frames.

  The Gestapo had stopped bringing baking supplies upon Josef’s departure, and little by little, they’d used up the reserves. By the first week of April, the sugar was gone. Elsie had resorted to melting marzipans. It had worked for a while, but now there was nothing—not even a spoonful of honey or molasses to spare. The flour bag was down to its last flaxen cupfuls. The mills had stopped churning. Papa tasked Julius to collecting filberts and chestnuts from the forest floor, which he did reluctantly after being baited with Elsie’s hidden Ritter Sport Schokolade. Papa ground the nuts into substitutionary meal for brötchen. His hands were callused and stained brown; yet each morning, he lit the oven anew and somehow managed to make bread as golden and rich as any other day.

  But they couldn’t go on much longer this way. They’d have to close soon. The till was empty anyhow. They’d been bartering with customers for weeks.

  When Elsie went to the butcher looking for scraps in exchange for brötchen, he’d replied, “My family eats boiled rats and rotten turnips. We aren’t kings of a bakery like you.”

  Kings of a bakery? The very suggestion was laughable. How easy it was to assume that elsewhere was infinitely better than where you stood. Sometimes at night, she dreamed of the TEXAS, U.S.A. magazine advertisement, envisioning a land with row upon row of fat loaves laden with jeweled fruits; bread cubes sodden with thick lamb stew; sugar-dusted sweet breads, ginger-spiced cookies, and fat wedges of chocolate cake soaked in Kirschwasser. She’d awake with cold drool down her chin.

  Regardless of the family’s lack of resources, one of Papa’s famous Black Forest cakes had miraculously prevailed. Dressed in a layer of bittersweet chocolate shavings and liquored cherries, it was too expensive for anyone to purchase. So while all the other sweets were parceled out, it stood perfect and untouched beneath the display. Elsie caught herself staring at it with a kind of craving that transcended hunger. She knew every cherry dimple, every beautiful chocolate curl. For her, the cake was a reminder of all that had been and a pledge of all that she’d have again. Somewhere in the world, there was real butter and sugar, flour and eggs, and smiling people with shiny coins in their pockets. Papa would soon take a knife to the cake, cut it up for hungry customers and their family.

  A slice of late-April sunlight came through the front windows making the cherries’ cheeks glossy and bright. Yes, Elsie thought, the sun still shines.

  Mutti and Papa came from the kitchen, Sunday hats and gloves in hand.

  “Julius isn’t coming,” announced Papa.

  They were on their way to the Lutheran Church. Elsie had feigned a headache and said she feared a trip out might exacerbate a coming illness. God forgave white lies if they worked for the good of another, she figured.

  She wanted to stay home alone with Tobias. His hair had grown out to a short crop, and she’d promised to wash it for him with heated water.

  “Real hot water?” Tobias had asked.

  He’d never had a warm bath. They’d bathed with rainwater in the Jewish Quarter and by hose in the camp. It pained her to hear of Dachau, both because of Tobias’s poor treatment and her knowledge of Josef’s hand in it.

  A tepid bath seemed a small offering. If she could make a pot of tea, she could certainly heat water to wash the hair and neck of a little boy. She should’ve thought of it sooner, and she planned on using the last of her rose shampoo to compensate for so much denied him.

  Elsie hadn’t told Tobias about Frau Rattelmüller or Cecile and didn’t intend to. Since she couldn’t be certain of the frau’s success, she decided it best to keep it to herself. She was acutely aware that the cruelest pain was false hope. Sometimes she thought it would be a relief to discover Hazel dead instead of agonizing over whether she was or wasn’t. Such thoughts shamed her so severely she’d developed headaches that left her inconsolable.

  “He’s not feeling well either. Hawthorne berry and meadowsweet tea. I’ll make a pot when I get home,” said Mutti.

  Julius had been to church a handful of times since his arrival. During his first visit, he complained the entire service of the chill in the chapel and swore the attendance would put him in the grave like his father … and mother. A
bitter remark meant to sting them, and it did until Papa said, “Rather to die in righteousness than live in soullessness. That is your mother’s belief. It is what the people’s community was based upon.”

  To that, Julius shut his mouth. He knew better than to disagree with Nazi dogma, and he was learning fast not to challenge Papa, either. He never again used Hazel vengefully, but church was an uphill battle. Mutti stopped insisting he attend a few weeks prior when Julius demanded to wear his Pimpfen uniform, though it was still cold out and the short leder-hosen completely inappropriate. He’d gotten his way then and stayed home to play toy soldier in his closet.

  This Sunday, Elsie hoped Papa would step in, force the boy to wear practical leather trousers and accompany them. No such luck.

  “But Papa,” began Elsie.

  He lifted his palm to her. “I need more nuts for the week. I want Julius to collect at least two dozen by the time we return.”

  “If he’s in poor health, he shouldn’t be outside,” said Mutti.

  Papa huffed and put on his Trenker hat. “Best be off, Luana. We don’t want to be late.

  “Keep the windows and doors shut,” called Papa over his shoulder. “There’s a storm cloud to the west.”

  Elsie assessed the sky. The sun shone bold and clear. She went back to the kitchen to prompt Julius in his chore. She hoped to give Tobias the promised bath during his absence.

  Julius lay sprawled on the floor, his tin men in neat lines before him. “Ja,” he said without looking up.

  “Didn’t Opa ask you to get nuts?”

  “He did.”

  “It could rain. You should go now,” said Elsie.

  Julius noted the sunshine through kitchen window and rolled onto his back.

  “We need nuts for the week’s bread,” she pressed.

  He yawned. “Nobody comes in anymore, so what does it matter?”

  Elsie stomped her foot, knocking over a row of toys. “Do you want to eat?”

  He met her gaze. “I’ll go when I feel like it, and I don’t right now, so get out of my room.” He kicked the pantry door closed, and it battered against Elsie’s forehead.

  That was it. She’d had enough. He’d been with them three months, and she was tired of everyone treating him with kid gloves when he showed no concern for them or his absent mother. On impulse, she lunged through the door, picked up Julius by the collar, and brought him Schmidt nose to Schmidt nose.

  “You listen to me, child,” she growled. “Your mother, my sister, would never allow such pigheadedness! And your papa, God rest his soul, would have taken you to the woodshed with a heavy belt by now. Trust me, I knew him well. He was not a man who tolerated insolence. And as for your precious Program.” She shook her head. “Look outside your little closet! Have you heard of the bombings in Vienna, in Berlin? You silly boy. The Third Reich is falling. It will fall absolutely, and all your comrades and teachers will be shot through the gut by the Russians.”

  His eyes grew round as eggs.

  “It. Is. Over. The Program is over, and I am tired of being hungry. I’m tired of watching Mutti and Papa suffer. I’m tired of good Germans humiliated because why?” She gave him a good shake. “Because their birthrights aren’t pristine enough! Well, you are the son of a common baker’s daughter with as much right to a good life as—as Isaac Grün!”

  As much right as Tobias. She felt her insides coming loose at the seams. Her fists trembled with his weight.

  “I’m tired of all the hate and fear and ugliness, and most of all, I’m tired of ignorant boys who are too selfish to see that the people around them are dying for them and because of them! I am tired!”

  Julius’s lower lip began to quiver; his neck grew red where the linen shirt pulled hard against his skin.

  She let go. He buckled at her feet. She clenched her hands together and placed them against her throbbing head.

  Julius whimpered, and when she looked down, she saw not the spiteful child but her sister, Hazel. How she missed her. With no letters for months, Elsie could only imagine the worst. Julius was Hazel’s son, her kin and a frightened little boy. She reached out and ran her fingers over his soft, blond crown.

  “Forgive me, Julius.”

  He wrenched away, angry tears streaking his cheeks. “I hate you!” He screamed. “I hate you all!” He grabbed his brown Pimpfen-patched jacket and ran out the back.

  Elsie’s hands went numb; her vision trembled around the circumference. The throbbing sharpened. She stumbled out of the kitchen and up the stairs. She had to get to her bed or collapse where she stood.

  She gave a soft cry when her temple hit the pillow.

  “Elsie?” Tobias whispered behind the wall. “Elsie, what has happened?”

  The room went spotty, smoldering black and gray polka dots.

  “I’m unwell,” she moaned. It took all she had to form the words.

  The board scraped open and feet pattered across the room. As with the fever at Christmas, Tobias climbed into the bed beside her and hummed in her ear. The dulcet melody eased the stabbing. He smelled sweetly of lamb’s wool and pretzel dough.

  “Thank you, Tobias.” She rested her cheek against him. For a moment she wanted to forget everyone: Julius, Hazel, Peter, Frau Rattelmüller, Cecile, Josef, Mutti and Papa, even herself. She wanted nothing to exist but Tobias and his beautiful voice in the darkness.

  “I knew you were a traitor!”

  Elsie awoke to the thunder of boots. She hadn’t been asleep very long, but enough that her perception was bleary and her mind disoriented. Before her eyes had time to focus, someone had her by her hair; he dragged her out of bed and downstairs to the company of armed Gestapo.

  “Traitor!” boomed the voice behind her.

  Overhead, boots stomped, a lamp crashed, furniture overturned with great thuds that shook the dust from the floorboards aloft.

  Tobias, she thought. They have Tobias! Her heart flapped like a hawk in a snare. She couldn’t catch her breath between palpitations.

  The guard holding her by the head swiveled her to face her accuser.

  “Kremer!” she gasped.

  “Fräulein.” He grinned smugly.

  The Gestapo released her, and she fell to her hands and knees at Kremer’s boots.

  “Josef will be so disappointed that his little baker turned out to be a Judas.” He shrugged. “But I knew. I knew.” He pulled off his leather gloves, finger by finger, and tossed them on the wooden baker’s table.

  A guard aimed his rifle at Elsie’s head, so close she could see the soot ringing the barrel.

  Kremer stroked his mustache sprout. “We have the authority to dispose of traitors in private, but I’m a firm believer in the power of spectacle. Don’t you agree? Those who betray their country must be made examples, so what shall it be, hmm? Bullet or rope? As a German, I’ll give you the choice.”

  For herself, she cared not. She hated this man and if her blood was on his hands, she prayed for all God’s vengeance with it. But what had they done with Tobias? She couldn’t bear to think of his torture.

  “He’s just a boy!” she cried.

  “That doesn’t change your treason,” said Kremer. “It’s a shame. Herr Schmidt makes the best lebkuchen in Bavaria.”

  Papa and Mutti? No, she wouldn’t let them be sacrificed for her actions.

  A small bowl of filberts sat on the table with a nutcracker. Kremer pinched a nut, placed it between the metal levers, and squeezed. Shell fragments fell to the ground exposing the sweet kernel. He popped in his mouth.

  “Please, spare my family. They are innocent.” She gathered her skirt in her palms. “I’ll give you anything you want. Anything.”

  He scoffed and spat the hazelnut back in the bowl. “Wormy.”

  From upstairs came a shout and the armed man at her side turned sharply.

  Kremer nodded up. “Go.” He unclipped his pistol from the holster sling and pointed it at Elsie. “Just you and me, fräulein.”

&nbs
p; The guard obeyed and left them alone in the kitchen.

  “Please, Major Kremer,” begged Elsie. “It’s one Jew. What does it matter now?” Her voice broke.

  It was almost the end of the war. Everyone knew it. Hitler was holed up in a Berlin bunker awaiting surrender. Why more bloodshed? Even a man like this had a conscience capable of recognizing unnecessary savagery. Heaven and hell saw no race or creed. Death would come for him as surely as it would come for her and Tobias. But it was the choice he made now that determined which gate he walked through.

  Kremer turned to her, his eyes two ghoulish lights. “Jew?”

  “If you believe in God, please.”

  “Bring the boy here!” Kremer yelled over his shoulder, then knelt down to Elsie.

  “ ‘Peoples that bastardize themselves, or let themselves be bastardized, sin against the will of eternal Providence.’ So says our führer.” He winked at her. “That’s the only God I believe in.”

  “Let me go! I told you what she said—she’s the traitor!” Julius squirmed and pitched against the Gestapo’s grip.

  Kremer studied him, then gave a horsy snort. “Amazing. It’s so hard to tell sometimes. He doesn’t even look rodent.” He cocked his head. “Maybe in the teeth. The shiftiness of the eyes, perhaps.”

  “Me? I’m not a Jew!” screamed Julius.

  Kremer raised his pistol. The soldier moved out of the way.

  “Nein!” Elsie stood and shielded Julius. “He is the son of my sister, Hazel, and your comrade Peter Abend. He’s pure Aryan—born and raised at the Lebensborn Program.”

  Kremer held the gun straight ahead with his right hand. “I’m not the one who called him a Jew. You did.” With his left pinky, he picked a nut skin from behind his incisor.

  “Liar!” Julius fisted Elsie in the small of her back. “Traitor!”

  She winced and bowed to the side.

  Kremer chuckled. “I believe you, boy. Too much vigor in you to be inferior.”