The Baker's Daughter (29 page)

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.

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

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

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

I
t 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.