The Baker's Daughter (8 page)

I
t had begun to snow. Thousands of iridescent spindles careened blindly down to earth. Elsie leaned back and let the spongy flakes pile on her face. The chill cleared her mind, and though she shivered, she remained in the alley's silence, watching the world transform into a fairy-tale masquerade. The dirty streets were powdered white. The dark trees, trimmed neatly in crystal. Parked cars were already being transfigured to mounds of sugar. She loved new snow. It changed everything.

The wind swept under her dress, numbed her legs, and shot goose bumps up her back. She hugged her arms to her breast. Josef's ring on her hand was ice cold. She pulled it off and rubbed the metal warm between her palms. It was a beautiful ring from a good man, but she felt little for a moment so big. She turned it round and round, rubies and diamonds, red and white. Why couldn't it simply be another Christmas present? Like the dress and champagne.

She began to put it back on her finger when she noticed something, a scratch? No, too precise and even. She turned the ring toward the window light. Worn to near nothing, an inscription:
Ani ledodi ve Dodi Li
. Hebrew.

A wave of heat flushed through her body, and her chest tightened under a varnish of flash-frozen sweat. She knew the Gestapo confiscated all
Jewish valuables, but she never considered what became of them. Like their owners, they simply vanished.

The snow picked up. The flakes were no longer light but beaded with icy hearts that pricked the skin. The wind stung her eyes. She blinked away the tears so she could clearly see the ring. It was someone else's wedding band, and she wondered if that unknown finger missed its weight.

Elsie steadied herself against a blanket-covered crate under the balcony and breathed the frosty air until her heart slowed its pounding.

“What are you doing out here?” Kremer pushed through the back entrance doors.

Elsie slid the ring on. “The heat inside—I guess I'm not very good with champagne. I'm fine now.” She reached for the doorknob, but he stopped her.

“Look at you—you're shaking. How long have you been out here?” He rubbed her arm with rough fingers.

“I should go in,” said Elsie.

“You need somebody to warm you up.” Before she could pull away, Kremer yanked her into his coat. His breath reeked of red wine and sausage.

“Major Kremer, please.” Elsie tried to free her arms, but her limbs were heavy and cold.

“You smell like a baker's daughter.” He leaned in. “Do you taste like a baker's daughter?” He kissed her neck.

“Let go! Stop!” she yelled.

Kremer put a hand over her mouth. “Hush!” he commanded. “If you make another noise,” he growled into her ear, then unbuttoned the holster of his gun. “Officers have been commended for shooting female spies in the act of seduction.” Holding her tight with one hand, he quickly pushed her skirt up and slipped his other up her thigh.

“Disgusting pig! How dare you!” She kicked hard and pulled away. “I am not a spy!” She spit in his face.

He slapped her, spinning her around. “Such a pretty fräulein and with so much spirit.” He thrust her forward against the crate, pinning both her arms overhead. “I don't want to hurt you.” He fumbled with his belt buckle.

“You beast!” Elsie cried. “I'm going to tell Josef!”

Kremer smiled. “Do you think he'd still want you—after he finds out that you seduced me?” He pushed up her chiffon and undid his trousers. “And on such a holy night as this?”

“Please,” Elsie panicked. “I've never …”

His thighs were hot and coarse; the friction of his stiff uniform against the beaded gown broke her skin beneath in small puncture wounds.

“Whose story do you think they'll believe, eh? An immoral concubine or an officer of the Third Reich.”

“God, please!” she cried.

Kremer wrenched her arms tight and anchored his feet.

Suddenly, a high-pitched scream, a single note, cracked the air like a siren. And to her shock, Kremer let go. She fell to the ground. Delicate crystals dotted his muddy footprints.

The banshee's cry continued.

Kremer took out his gun and did up his pants. He aimed left and right before homing in on the source. The wooden crate behind them. He yanked off the covering.

The Jewish boy sat inside with a blanket draped over his head like a Nativity figurine. Sound emanated from the hooded face.

“Quiet!” Kremer ordered and cracked the metal butt of his gun against the wooden slats.

The boy's note did not waver.

“Jewish demon!” He cocked the pistol.

Elsie crawled to the banquet doors and met Josef's boots coming out.

“Elsie!” He lifted her to her feet. “What is going on?”

Kremer stood with outstretched arm; the polished barrel pointed at the boy's head.

Elsie buried her face in Josef's stiff shoulder.

“Günther, put the gun down!” Josef boomed.

The boy hushed.

“He's a Jew. Why waste time driving him back to the camp?” Kremer's finger moved for the trigger.

Josef slapped the gun from his hand, and the bullet zipped through the dark snowfall. “You do not have authority,” roared Josef.

It was the first time Elsie had seen him angry. Her body trembled at his ferocity.

Josef picked up the gun from the powdered street and emptied the chamber. Bullets dropped soundlessly into the snowbank. He placed the barrel against Kremer's forehead. Neither spoke.

The wet chiffon grew stiff around Elsie's body, a gossamer cocoon of ice. She tasted iron. A finger to her mouth returned crimson. The inside of her lip was split, and she sucked the warm blood to make it stop.

The blanket over the boy fell away, exposing a pale skull and tear-streaked
cheeks. His chin quivered and reminded Elsie of the only time she'd seen her nephew Julius. After he was born, they visited Hazel in Steinhöring. Julius cried for milk from the bassinette. So small and fragile; his tears seemed too large in comparison. The Jewish boy looked the same. Elsie wanted to reach out to hold him and rock them both.

“Josef. My friend,” said Kremer.

Josef pressed the metal against his skin. “ ‘And then she will call all those before her judgment seat, who today, in possession of power, trample
justice
and
law
underfoot …' ” He pushed the gun harder and spoke steadily, a man entranced. “ ‘Who have led our people into misery and ruin and amid the misfortune of the fatherland have valued their
own
ego above the life of the community.' ” He pulled back. The barrel left a circular indent on Kremer's forehead.

Josef composed himself. “It would do you good to understand our purpose.” He handed the empty gun back to Kremer, cleared his throat, and readjusted the cuffs of his uniform jacket so they aligned perfectly. “They are serving dessert.” He took Elsie's arm and opened the door; the strains of festive violin spilled out to the alley. “Come, Günther.”

Kremer obeyed and followed behind.

The boy in the cage was silent. Elsie wanted to look over her shoulder one last time but kept her eyes forward for fear of being turned to a pillar of salt.

A
Friday wedding kept the bakery busy the rest of the week so Reba came back Saturday, determined to get her quotes and, perhaps, a few more lebkuchen.

When the bell over the door jingled, Jane turned from the shelf of hot loaves and rolls. “Well, lookie here. Good to see you.” She came round the register and hugged Reba.

Shocked stiff at first, Reba quickly relaxed in her embrace. The scent of Jane's perfume—honeysuckle and sandalwood—reminded her of childhood summers at the beach. She and Deedee spent whole days snacking on sweet flower stems and building driftwood castles on the dunes.

“You too,” she said and rocked back on her heels, eager to shake off the nostalgic ache.

She hadn't returned any of Deedee's calls since Riki's proposal. Each time Deedee rang, Reba convinced herself the timing wasn't right; she was too busy to chat; she'd call back later, then didn't. The weeks added up, and soon so much had happened that it seemed a daunting task to talk at all—too much to cover in a single conversation. I'll e-mail Deedee tomorrow, she promised herself.

“You've been busy?” she asked Jane.

“Yep, a little gal we've known since she was in diapers hitched up with
a feller in Cruces. We do wonderful wedding cakes.” Jane winked. “Give us the date of yours and we'll have it ready.”

“It'd be stale by the time I got around to it,” said Reba.

“We'll double the fondant. Locks it up airtight. The inside keeps light as a feather. Honestly. One of our brides kept a piece in her refrigerator—not even the freezer—until her third anniversary and said it tasted as good as the day she married! And that's no bull.”

A laugh popped up Reba's throat, and she liked the sound of it. “I bet they had wicked stomachaches that night.”

“Maybe so, but they sure as heck didn't go to sleep empty.” Jane turned to the kitchen. “Mom! Reba from
Sun City
is here for the interview.”

A Mexican man sat at a café table with a gooey chocolate twist and a cream coffee.

“This is Sergio,” introduced Jane. “He's a regular.”

Sergio nodded.

“You need any more sugar, suga'?” she asked.

“I got all the sweetness I can handle.” His heavy Spanish accent made the sentence musical.

Reba felt a sudden undercurrent in the room like when she rubbed her socked feet along the carpets in the winter. “How long has he been coming?” she asked Jane and took a seat.

“Hmm—how long have you been eating my rolls, Serg?”

“Since you started counting your mama's nickels and dimes.” He dipped his pastry in the coffee.

Jane laughed. “That was a test, and he did a good job slipping the noose.”

Reba's muscles tensed slightly at the idiom.

“Since I was nineteen,” Jane continued. “I remember the first time he walked in—didn't speak a lick of English, never mind German. He pointed at a roll and handed me change, half of which was in pesos.” She slapped her thigh.

“That's a long time. I've never known anybody outside my family that long,” Reba said.

“Time sneaks up on you. You're still young, you'll see.” Her gaze drifted to Sergio, then quickly back to Reba. “Mom will be out in a minute.”

On Jane's way to the kitchen, she stopped to hand him a napkin. Though he hadn't asked for one, he took it with a smile and wiped melted chocolate from his lips.

Reba set the table. Steno pad, pen, recorder. While she waited, she tried to imagine the young girl from the photograph over sixty years later.

Then, through the door frame came Elsie. Her snowy hair was bobbed short, the sides pinned back with brown bobby pins. She was cozy plump through the hips but narrow in the waist and wore a contemporary pair of khaki pants with a cream blouse rolled up at the sleeves. Even at seventy-nine, she was stylish and determined in her gait. She carried a plate with two slices of cinnamon raisin bread and set it in the middle of the table.

“Hallo.” She stuck out her hand. “I am Elsie Meriwether.”

Reba shook. “Reba Adams.”

Elsie's grip was firm but warm. “Nice to meet you. I apologize for not being able to speak the last time you visited.” She spoke clearly despite the German clip.

Elsie sat and nudged the plate closer to Reba. “Jane says you do not eat milk, so I made this without. It is good.”

Reba didn't want to start the interview on the wrong foot. “Thank you.” She picked up a slice and ate. “Yes,” she mumbled. “It's very tasty.” And she wasn't lying.

“Gut,” said Elsie. She broke off a piece and popped it in her mouth. “So you would like to talk to me about being old.”

Reba swallowed too fast and choked a little. “No, no. I'm doing a Christmas story.” She composed herself. “A cultural profile on holiday celebrations around town.”

“Germans celebrate like everyone else. Christmas Eve we eat and drink. Christmas Day we do it again. I think this is how the Mexicans and Americans do as well, correct?” Elsie arched her eyebrow at Reba, challenging her.

Reba tapped her pen on the steno. It wasn't exactly a quotable statement. At least not for the angle she wanted. “Do you mind if I turn this on?” she asked and thumbed the recorder button.