The Baker's Daughter (32 page)

“ ‘Whatsoever man soweth, that shall he reap,' ” quoted Elsie.

Papa lifted his chin to her.

“She's in shock, Max,” Mutti reminded.

“Who did this to you?” demanded Papa.

Nazi countrymen; an officer friend of Josef; men capable of atrocities she could not say in front of her papa—because she concealed a Jewish child, because she didn't believe in the man Papa quoted, because she didn't agree with this land anymore. Elsie wasn't sure how to begin or if it was wise to at all. She tucked her knees to her chest and turned away from him.

“Are we to leave, too?” Mutti asked.

Papa gave a heavy exhale. “This is our bakery, our home. I won't leave it to be looted and destroyed. We'll lock the doors and pray for God's mercy.”

Mutti squeezed Elsie's hand in short, nervous bursts. “I best bring in a bucket of water. We need to tend to your wounds as soon as possible.” She turned to Papa. “The stove is cold. Light a fire, Max.”

“Come, Julius,” said Papa.

Julius looked up then, tracing over Elsie and Mutti to the bloody bedsheets. His pants were still damp with urine, his eyes shot red as cordial cherries. His shoulders bowed inward with shame. Papa put his arm around him and ushered him out quietly.

Perhaps he would tell her secret, but not today. Today, he finally saw that the world was not contained in the delusion of his perfect reflection. Today, he bore witness to the end of his childhood.

A hard rain fell
through the night and next day, washing the cobblestone streets as clean as the stream floors. By the first of May, the whole town
smelled of thawed dirt and wet pine needles swept down the valley from the melting mountain peaks.

Though Elsie had searched the alleyways and roads around the bakery there was no sign of Tobias. It was as the soldier had claimed: he'd simply vanished. In the haze of morning when mist rose from the streets like awakening ghosts, she almost convinced herself he had done exactly that—been spirited to heaven on horses of fire like the biblical Elijah.

From the bakery storefront, she watched the American tanks roll into the city. Brandishing flags of colorful stars and candy cane stripes, it looked almost like a holiday parade if not for the gigantic chain-link wheels that grumbled and screeched over rubble and cars and anything else that got in the way. Helpless to stop them or find Tobias, she could do no more than pray—not for peace and understanding, though. Such things she knew would only be found in the afterlife. She prayed simply for a reprieve.

Hitler was dead. It took less than a day for word to spread from one corner of the German Empire to the other. Shot through the head with a Walther pistol. With defeat undeniable and Nazi authority extinguished, public reaction was divided. Half the town cried for him and thought his end noble. The other half called him a coward and deserter. After all, they'd stayed to face his adversaries; and though the Americans entered with pointed guns and grim expressions, Elsie quickly discovered they were far less terrifying than Nazi propaganda portrayed, far less terrifying than her own Gestapo.

The day before, a handful of American soldiers stormed the bäckerei and cleared the shelves. Mutti locked herself in the bedroom with Julius, but it took more than a gun or a foreign accent to scare Elsie anymore. She insisted on facing the enemy. Indeed, the men were not as Nazi propaganda had described. Their banter had the happy, songlike quality she remembered from the movies she'd idolized as a child.

One young soldier let a smile slip over his lips when he discovered Papa's Black Forest cake, stale and sagging in the display case. Despite its age and crumbling sides, his face lit up, exposing hidden dimples on either cheek. She couldn't help smiling back. And that's when it happened: his comrades saw them smiling and smiled too; then they said something to another soldier who laughed, and the cheer seemed to spread like butter on a hot bun. Soon, all the men in the unit were carrying on like Christmas morning, cutting and wrapping dense cake wedges in paper. Elsie liked it. It'd been too long since she felt that kind of contagious satisfaction, even
for the briefest moment, and part of her was pleased to see the cake go in such a manner.

Papa remained stern and indignant throughout the invasion. “I hope it rots their stomachs,” he mumbled under his breath. It was his cake, his bread, his domain, being stolen by enemy soldiers. Mutti buried her wedding band in the window dill plant for fear of confiscation. However, besides the cake, the men left with relatively no damage done or family goods seized. On his way out the door, the soldier who first discovered the cake nodded and said, “Danke schön.” Elsie had naturally replied, “Bitte schön.”

Papa gave her an earful once they'd gone. These were foreigners who would as soon as rape and murder as share a sweet taste or smile, he said. But she'd already seen her countrymen do such things. She'd stood at death's doorway with wickedness at her back. She'd experienced what her papa could never have imagined and would never have believed. The stranger's smile held little malice in comparison. Papa was of an old and withering generation. Hitler was gone, the Nazi government was in ruins, and Germany was under Allied control. If they were to survive, Elsie understood that they'd have to befriend these new faces—these foreigners. And she'd be the only one in their family to do it.

Today, the bäckerei was empty and quiet. Papa had enough nut meal and powdered rations to make brötchen, but no one came. The townspeople remained locked in their homes, afraid of the tanks and men and the uncertainty of their futures.

“What will they do with us?” Mutti asked everyone and no one in particular.

The four of them assembled together in the empty bakery, staring out the storefront window at the unrecognizable streets littered with building debris and trash and alien faces. It reminded Elsie of ancient Fasching carnivals, a pageantry of merriment. Only now, they were inhibited observers, not participants.

“Max?” Mutti sought an answer.

Papa read Möller's
Das brüderliche Jahr
. “I don't think they know.” He didn't lift his attention from the page.

Mutti murmured a prayer and sipped cold chamomile tea. Julius hid behind the dill plant and marked each head that passed with finger pistols. Elsie stood by the door, unable to look away from the chaotic street scene.

American soldiers gathered by the small public fountain pump. They threw a pack of cigarettes around. Their voices siphoned through the
beveled glass windows, bubbly and buoyant. A raven-haired soldier tapped the pack against his wrist, then flipped a cigarette to his lips in a single motion. His stature reminded Elsie of William Powell, and that's exactly how it felt—like watching actors on film. Completely captivating.

The soldier caught her glance and held it. A fever swelled up from her chest and swirled into her cheeks. She turned her back to him. That never happened with Powell.

Outside, the soldier laughed. “We got ourselves an audience!”

Elsie kept her eyes to the ground so Mutti and Papa wouldn't see her blush. At her feet, shuffled under the front door frame, was a small, white paper, dirty and unnoticeable except for its shape; the edges were too purposefully square to be litter. She picked it up and unfolded it, immediately recognizing Josef's handwriting.

“What's that?” asked Mutti.

“Nothing. Street trash blown under the door.” Elsie crumbled the paper in her palm. “If no one else is going to eat our bread, I might as well have a bite. Papa?”

He grunted over his book as she passed to the kitchen.

In the back corner by the oven, she smoothed the note open.

Your husband? She clenched her left hand. Indeed. She hardly knew him. Lieutenant Colonel Josef Hub working at the Dachau camp. How many men had he killed? How many women and children? Elsie wondered if he ordered the Gestapo search for Tobias on Christmas Eve, if he sanctioned Kremer's brutal tactics. A sour taste crept up her throat. She tore the note to bits and threw them in the oven ashes. No, she would not meet Josef at the bahnhof. She would stay. Despite everything her parents had seen and not done, despite her nephew's callused upbringing and her sister's
sacrifice, they were her family. Josef was not. Though she had worn his ring, her heart had never committed to him. She hung her head, ashamed of all the lies, big and small, she'd fostered. She was tired of pretending to believe what she didn't and be what she wasn't.

On the rack, half a dozen crusts cooled nutty brown and shiny. Elsie split one open and ate the sweet, steaming center. Tomorrow, she'd help her papa find real milk, flour, and eggs. Then they'd light the oven and bake bread.

R
eba was surprised to see
JANE MERIWETHER
flash across her cell phone display. She'd given Jane her number months before, but this was the first time she'd ever called.

Reba muted the television. It was 8:15 p.m. Anthony Bourdain was about to eat roasted pig rectum in Namibia. She'd been watching various reality TV shows all night in an attempt to keep her mind preoccupied. She'd spoken to Leigh that morning in a forty-five-minute interview. It went well, Reba thought, until Leigh said she was considering one other candidate. The unknown competitor made Reba paranoid. Leigh promised to e-mail within twenty-four hours with her final decision. The anticipation had Reba as twitchy as a puppy begging for a Milk-Bone.

“Jane!” she answered, grateful for a new distraction.

“Reba, I'm sorry to bother you so late.” Jane's voice pulled tight. “There's trouble. I thought you might be able to help.”

Reba sat up on the couch. “Is it Elsie?” Her heart sped up.

“No, Mom's fine. I don't want her to know about this. It's Sergio.” Her voice cracked. “They've arrested him.”

“Arrested? For what?” Reba couldn't imagine Sergio doing anything to upset anybody, except perhaps buttering his buns too slow.

“He's an illegal. He had a visa, but it expired years ago and he never got
it renewed—didn't have the money. They're shipping him over the border, and he won't be allowed back for ten years!”

The line went silent. Reba wondered if they'd lost the connection, but just as she was about to speak, Jane continued: “He's the one I told you about. The man I've been with. He loves me and could've asked me to marry him anytime to make himself a citizen, but he didn't. He knew how it'd come off—so many people marrying for green cards. He respected that I was happy like we were. But I was a dang old fool. I should've done it for him,” her voice broke. “Reba, I can't live without Sergio.”

Reba bit at her cuticles, unsure of what to say or do. “Where is he?”

“That's the thing—they got him detained at the station.”

Reba bit too deep. Her nail bed welled a pinprick of blood.

“I remembered you said your ex was a Border Patrol guy. I thought, maybe …”

“I can try.” Reba sucked the blood and swallowed the taste of iron. “You just hold tight.”

She hung up. On the television screen, Anthony Bourdain's face puckered with nausea. Reba felt similarly. She dialed Riki's number.

He answered on the second ring. “Hello?”