The Baker's Daughter (47 page)

“That's right, you two are eastbound for a spell.” Jane carefully peeled a sticky bun off the tray. “Did
Sun City
have any objections? You been back now what—five months?” She placed the bone-crossed bread on a pewter platter.

“Those are the perks of being the managing editor. It isn't like I'm a stranger. It's a new hat on an old head. Plus, I'll only be gone a week.” Reba swiped her finger across the pooled sugar on the tray, licked it clean, then continued. “I don't want to be away any longer than that. Riki's mapping out all kinds of travel plans, but I want us to hurry back home so we can snuggle up on the porch and start living—
really
living.”

“Sounds like you're a new head in an old hat, if you ask me.” Jane clapped her tongs approvingly. “I hear you, lady. The winds have changed these days. I hardly notice the trains and planes anymore. I guess when you're happy where you are, the grass don't seem so green on the other side
of the fence. Maybe it never was.” She shrugged with a smile. “Y'all flying or driving east?”

“It's a road trip.” Reba drew a clumsy outline of the United States in the sugar icing. “Up across the panhandle”—she walked her fingers along the tray—“through Nashville and over to Virginia.” She licked the frosting clean. “It's been too long, and there are things I have to discuss with my family. I want Riki with me when I do. It's important he know the whole truth of me.” She moved the tray aside for Jane. “The last stop is Virginia Beach. Riki's never seen the ocean.”

“He'll love it.” Jane winked. “Every part.” She balanced the last bun on the pile and set the silver platter on a café table swathed in skull polka-dot fabric.

Sergio returned with bottles of Bitburger. Riki followed close behind. Pausing at Elsie's altar, he dug in his pocket until he found Victor's penny. He laid it beside a red-white-and-blue sugar skull. Reba joined him.

“Looks like we're ready,” said Jane. She raised her bottle high. “To you, Mom. And all those looking down on us from above.”

The flames of the altar candles danced in wavy undulations.

Reba sipped, the pilsner tasting of new dough rising in the oven heat.

Dear Elsie
,

For years, I have anticipated writing this letter. At first, I refrained out of apprehension and what I imagined the consequences might be to you and your family. Over time, I admit, I did not write for selfish reasons. Remembering those last days in Germany brings such vivid memories. I sometimes wake in the dark and believe I'm still hiding inside your bedroom wall, a small boy again. The Gestapo's gunshots haunt me. Even now, I am startled at the sound of a popped birthday balloon, a hit baseball, a lit firecracker—childish amusements meant to entertain, but my heart freezes cold in my chest, and I am back in Garmisch praying for a miracle. Then I see my children at play with their children, my wife smiling over them, and I know that God provided just that. And I do not mean only on that spring day in 1945. No, he was watching over us both for all our lives. Alongside the difficult memories of those years are the ones I have of you, Elsie. Whenever I pass a pâtisserie on a city street, a café in an airport, even my own kitchen, warm with my daughter's baked cookies, I am halted and can barely keep from weeping. Not out of sadness, but out of joy and thanksgiving. I pray the
Birkhat HaGomel
for you, my guardian angel. The first true
and trustworthy friend on my path to salvation. You were my first. Frau Rattelmüller came next and then the Zuckermanns.

Frau passed away not long after arriving in Lucerne, and I never knew if her letters successfully arrived to you. In those last days of the war, so much was lost—of the living and the dead. Having escaped the Gestapo at your bakery, Frau Rattelmüller hid me in her cloak and we ran through the backstreets to her house where she quickly packed, fed me brötchen, dressed me in bundhosen and a wool travel coat, and told me I was to pass as an Aryan child. We left that very hour, sitting on the back of farmers' wagons and walking great distances. We did not sleep until we reached the Swiss border where her friends greeted us with transportation to Zurich and happy news of Germany's ultimate surrender. The war had ended, but none of us dared go back. We spent two months in Switzerland
.

In July 1945, when the Zuckermanns chose to set off for the United States, I joined them. A Jewish family hidden in Frau Rattelmüller's attic for many arduous years, they lost their son, Johan, at KZ Dachau where my own parents and sister, Cecile, perished. At the age of seven, I believed my life to have ended, but now, I know that it had truly just begun. The Zuckermanns were my new family in America, both of us grieving our losses and rejoicing in each breath we had together. I went to school and then on to San Diego University where I earned my Ph.D. in music composition and taught courses. I kept my promise to you. I sang. And later, I wrote my own orchestrations and lyrics. Poetry in notes.

Today, my granddaughter Jacquelyn asked if I could write a song for the Jonas Brothers. She plays them on her electronic player. I told her they reminded me of the Monkees. She looked at me incredulously and said, “I didn't know there were singing monkeys a long time ago.” I laughed but realized how old I am to these young ones. How new and unknowing their minds are to the world's history. I wonder if it is better for them to remain that way—innocent and naive. Should we bury our memory barbs to keep them from piercing budding hearts? No doubt they will encounter their own tragedies in due time. Or should we warn our children that the world is harsh and men can be wicked? Warn them so that they take care to guard each other and seek out compassion? These are the questions that consume me these days. I ponder them as Jacquelyn
holds her iPod like a microphone and performs “pop” music for me. I can't help smiling. The youth have a way of transforming even an old man like myself. I told Jacquelyn I'd write a song for her instead of the Jonas sons. I have not composed or taught professionally in over five years, retired to enjoy the company of my wife, children, and grandchildren.

I married Kelly, a pianist from San Diego, in 1970; and we had the first of our four children in 1971. My daughter Elsie, your namesake, gave birth to my eighth grandchild last month. He already shows a great affinity for meter, responding to Mother Goose rhymes with inquisitive eyes and fluttering feet. He is named Robert after our favorite poet. This enclosed copy of “A Boy's Will” has been on my bookshelf for six decades. I was reading it when you called me from my hiding place our last hour together. I slipped it beneath the drawstring of my trousers, not knowing the events that would quickly transpire. It has stayed with me all these years as my only tangible proof that you existed and were not simply a spirit of my mind's making. It has brought me great comfort and inspiration.

On this anniversary of the war's end, I think it time I return it to its rightful owner. Thank you, Elsie. Never doubt that you saved me. Never doubt that it was more than enough. I do not know if you are still in Garmisch or Germany or this world, but I like to think that wherever you are, my voice will reach you.

With great love and sincerest thanks
,

Tobias

Reba
,

In honor of you and Riki finally setting a wedding date, I'm sending you a dozen of Mom's recipes. These have been the Schmidt bakers' secrets for generations, but I know Mom wouldn't mind my sharing with you and Riki. Y'all are practically family. She'd be pleased as punch to have you and yours carry on her legacy in the kitchen.

I'm sure she's smiling in heaven to see you finally take the plunge, and I can't wait to bake the biggest, sweetest celebration cake I can muster!

Guten appetit!

—
Jane

Reba's Bread (no dairy)

In honor of Miss Reba Adams. (Soon to be Mrs. Reba Adams Chavez!)

Sprinkle yeast over warm water. In separate bowl, combine sugar, salt, cinnamon, and oil. Stir in mixed yeast. Beat in 1½ cups flour. Add raisins. Stir in remaining flour. Knead on floured wooden board until the dough stops being sticky—about 10 minutes.

Form into ball and place in greased bowl, turning to coat. Cover with a dish towel, set in a warm spot, and let double in size. Once it has, punch it down and shape into a loaf. Place in greased bread pan. Cover and let rise again, only 30 minutes this time, then bake 30 minutes at 400°F until the crust is golden brown. Cool and slice up to serve.

Note: Now that you eat dairy, I suggest you spread a heap of butter over while it's still blazing. That'll put this bread over the top!