The Baker's Daughter (18 page)

The woman shushed the children. “Lo siento, señor.”

“They're fine,” said Riki. “I'll get an extra one.”

He went to the storage room and dug through the stacks until he found
a soft, pink flannel. When he returned, the children were chasing each other round the room. The girl ran, dragging the green blanket behind as her brother followed, growling and snarling like a wild pig. He soon caught her, turned her over, and snouted her stomach to squeals and laughter. The woman sat quietly on the cot; her face furrowed with silent trouble.

“Here you go.” Riki set the pink blanket beside her.

She ran her hand over. “Gracias.”

The girl asked her brother to be a pig again and away they went.

“Niños paren,” the woman instructed.

“No, they can play,” said Riki.

He was glad to see their spirits lifted from earlier. They'd remained mute and shamed for much of their stay, but they were children, not criminals.

He took a seat beside the woman; the cot springs bowing low under his weight. “Where are you from? Qué pueblo?”

“Barreales, Juárez,” she replied, keeping her gaze to the floor.

Riki nodded. He knew it. A poor neighborhood at the far east of Juárez. “You have familia there?”

“Están muertos.” She shifted uneasily.

“I'm sorry.” He scratched his neck. “My family's gone, too.”

With each breath, her body rose and fell heavily like a woman ten times her age. “Usted tiene niños?” she asked and lifted her face to him, eyes wide as cups of coffee.

“No.” He couldn't even get Reba to wear his ring, never mind bear his children. “I'm not married.” The words singed the tip of his tongue.

In a bout of giggles, the girl ran to the woman and buried her face in her lap. The boy snarled and snouted, then quieted when he saw Riki.

Bart Simpson cried “¡Ay, caramba!” from the television.

“Are you hungry?” asked Riki.

The boy leaned against his mother's shoulder and narrowed his eyes.

They'd devoured their prepackaged lunches: turkey and American cheese sandwiches on white bread; Doritos and chocolate chip cookies. The American brownbag special. Not a crumb was left behind. But it was dinnertime now, and he knew they could use something warm.

“I got Taco Cabana.” It might not be homemade, but it was the best he could offer. “Tacos?” he said to the children.

The boy shrugged.

“Follow me.” Riki stood and gestured for them to come through the open door, but the trio remained behind invisible bars.

They hadn't left the detainment room since arriving. With a clean
bathroom, bedding, and a television, it was the Ritz-Carlton compared to the rusty Dodge. No amenities could compensate for freedom, though. Riki had seen enough men and women locked in that room to understand the truth. It pained him to deport these people—his people—like cattle, herding them back to the ghettos of Juárez with no hope or prospects. But these were the rules, and Riki believed in the rules. Keep your head down, do what you're supposed to, don't ask questions, and you'll eventually be rewarded: that was the code by which even his father had ascribed. In the recesses of his mind, however, he wondered at what point human compassion trumped blind obedience.

“Venga,” he encouraged.

The boy held his sister back by the shoulders, his face set hard with suspicion.

“I promise you won't get in trouble,” said Riki, but the boy's grip on the girl only tightened. Reluctantly, Riki started toward the office. He'd have to bring the food to them. “Jesus, kid, you've got to trust somebody sometime,” he sighed.

“Why should I?” the boy snapped.

Riki whipped around. “You speak English?”

He wrapped his forearm protectively around his sister's chest. Her head bobbled back and forward, from her brother to Riki. “Yeah.”

“So you understand,” said Riki. “This isn't a trick or a test. You can come out. It's safe. I have hot food for your family, if you want it.”

His mother chimed in, “Qué? Qué él dijo?” But her son ignored her.

“My papi warned me about you. He said the troopers would tell you to trust them, to follow them. They'd give you food and then they'd lock you up with the rats y los serpientes.”

Riki gestured to the fluorescent, air-conditioned room. “Have you seen any rats or snakes?” He pretended to look around.

The boy gnawed on his top lip, then shook his head.

“Okay. So why don't you trust what I say to be true and not what you know isn't?”

The little girl fidgeted under her brother's hold. The mother crossed her arms; her brow knit with worry and confusion at being on the outside of the dialogue.

After a moment's contemplation, the boy ceased biting his lip. “If you really got any, what kind of tacos?”

Riki suppressed the urge to laugh. “Two soft beef tacos, three chicken flautas, two steak fajitas, and a side of rice and beans.”

The boy's eyebrows rose. “Really?”

Riki nodded. “Right in there.” He gestured to the patrol room.

Slowly, the boy's arm fell away from his sister. Having understood the words “tacos,” “flautas,” and “fajitas,” she raced through the door with no more incentive.

“Must be her favorite,” said Riki. “Mine too.”

The mother kissed her son on his crown and followed her daughter; but before the boy would step across, he dug in his pant pocket and produced a tarnished penny.

“Gracias.”

“No,” Riki waved a hand. “It's on me, kid.”

The boy persisted, holding the penny out further until Riki opened his palm. “We had to pay the other man too,” he said.

“Other man?”

“Carlos.” The boy wiped his nose with his wrist. His eyes no longer glinted with suspicion but anger. “He made my mama cry.” His lower lip trembled. He sucked it in and squared his shoulders. “He put us in the car because we didn't have any more money to give. Then he left us.”

“Carlos,” Riki repeated.

The boy nodded.

“How many people were in the group?”

The boy shrugged. “A lot.”

“Do you know where they are now?”

In the patrol room, the little girl squealed with delight.

“Espera,” cautioned the mother.

The boy hovered at the line of the doorway. “The United States,” he said, then stepped over.

Riki waited until he was down the hall before pulling his cell phone off his belt. In his palm remained the worn penny. He sighed. To catch Carlos, he'd have to round up all the people in his keep: men, women, children, young and old, from Mexico, El Salvador, Colombia; simple, hardworking people paying crooks and criminals to get them over the US border, sacrificing so much and enduring abuses of every kind for a chance—not even a guarantee—at prosperity. He hated this business of dredging dreams, but he had a job to do.

He slid the coin into his pocket and dialed Bert. “Sorry to interrupt dinner, but we got a lead on a smuggler.”

Dear Papa and Mutti
,

Heil Hitler and Grüs Gott. This is a difficult letter to write. As you know, the goal of the Program is to produce fine Germans for our nation. I came here to do my duty, honoring both our family and the memory of Peter, and I believe I have served our Fatherland well
.

A couple months ago, I sent you word of the twins born to the Program. The girl is perfect. However, her brother is continually sick and weak. The Lebensborn directors have decided that, despite our efforts, he will never be of quality. Therefore, they request that I sign paperwork to relinquish him from the Program. I have asked to contact you so that our family might care for the child, but they refuse to confirm their intentions. I am deeply troubled for his well-being. Though he has been determined inadequate, he has the Schmidt nose, light hair, and a slight bow to the lips like Mutti's. They will not permit me to see him—–afraid I may become emotional and upset the daily routine. But shouldn't the routine be upset for something like this? I curse these doctors and nurses for having such little consideration for the children of Germany. Remember when I was young and sickly during my infancy, but look at me now! If only they would wait. If only they would see his spirit. It is strong. I know. I felt it in my womb. Oh, Papa, Mutti, how I ache for him—–if not to save him then to say good-bye. It is a similar aching to when my beloved Peter left so unexpectedly. Peter calls to me in my dreams, and I fear my new son will haunt me in similar fashion. I know this is nothing but my own weakness. There are no spirits in this world. The sun rises and sets, seasons come and go, life begins and
ends. It is nature's way, as the führer says. But sometimes I think there may be more. Sometimes I know there must be
.

I have been committed to the Fatherland in every measure, even personal sacrifice, but this is too much for me to bear. I wish you were here to comfort me.

Heil Hitler

Hazel

P.S. A woman who works in the market has mailed this letter on my behalf and at much personal risk. She understands my pain. After giving birth to a Mongoloid last spring, she was released from the Program. The child was taken by the SS-Gefolge not a minute after reaching the world, and to this day she does not know of its placement. Her name is Ovidia. She is my friend. I pray this reaches you
.

Dear Elsie
,

They removed Friedhelm from the Program yesterday. I couldn't sleep last night but had to feign it and keep my tears quiet or chance exposing my true feelings to my roommates, Cata and Brigette. As I suspected, they are vulgar
Lutzelfraus
! Brigette has whispered my every word and action to the Oberführer. Spying on me as though I were a traitor when I have given no cause. All I admit to is loving my babies! The Program does not approve of its mothers claiming maternal ownership over the children of the Fatherland, but I cannot help what I feel. They were inside my belly for nine months, not the führer's. Friedhelm is flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone. How could I be expected to cast him off with such little care? It's like asking the seasons to stop because the führer demands. Impossible! Don't they see they are asking me to change the very basics of nature? After yesterday, I question, my duties here. My faith in our purpose has been broken. I want to know where my son is! I cannot go on as if he never was. What kind of mother would I be if I could? What kind of woman? Pray for me, Elsie. The world has never looked so dark and hopeless as it does now. The only way to do what they command and subvert my maternal instincts is for my heart to stop beating. I prayed for that through the night but saw the sunrise nonetheless. I don't blame God for not listening to me. I shut him out when Peter died and I joined the Program. I don't deserve his mercy now
.

I understand this is treasonous talk and should this letter fall into the hands of the authorities, they will send me to the camps with the other enemies of the Reich or shoot me on the spot. But I cannot keep silent. The weight of this sadness is too great. I can only write my true feelings to you, Elsie. I know you will not betray me
.

Since my roommates watch my every turn, I'm giving this letter to Ovidia. Hopefully it will reach you. After you've read it, please, tear it up and burn it in Papa's oven. Not for my sake, but for your own and the safety of our family
.

Love,

Hazel