The Baker's Daughter

Chapter Eight

ELSIE’S GERMAN BAKERY

2032 TRAWOOD DRIVE

EL PASO, TEXAS

NOVEMBER 10, 2007

“That,” said Elsie, “was a crappy Christmas.”

Reba tapped her pen. “How come?”

“Miserably cold. I got sick. Probably pneumonia, but who could say. There was no legitimate medicine available. We were at war. People were dying—that raisin bread is good.” She finished her slice, cinnamon crumbs sprinkled her blouse. “I will put it on our menu.” She turned to the kitchen. “Jane, make more of that bread. Reba’s Bread, we call it.” She turned back. “You like, ja?”

Reba nodded quickly and continued, determined to keep Elsie on track. “But in the photo, you’re all dressed up. Where were you going?”

Elsie picked at a raisin skin from between her teeth.

Reba listened to the tape gears churn.

“A Nazi party,” Elsie finally replied.

Reba’s hand lifted off the page. This was more interesting than expected. She tried to keep a neutral tone. “Were you a Nazi?”

“I was German,” replied Elsie.

“So you supported the Nazis?”

“I was German,” Elsie repeated. “Being a Nazi is a political position, not an ethnicity. I am not a Nazi because I am German.”

“But you were going to a Nazi party?”

“I was invited to a Weihnachten—a Christmas Eve party by an officer. So I went.”

Reba nodded and gave her best pensive look.

The oven buzzer went off. Jane went back to the kitchen.

“It’s no different than here,” Elsie went on. “You can love and support your sons, brothers, husbands, fathers—your soldiers—without supporting the political agenda behind war. I see it each day at Fort Bliss.” She leaned back in the chair.

Reba cleared her throat. “You can hardly compare the Nazi regime to Americans in Iraq. It’s totally different.”

Elsie’s stare didn’t flicker. “Do we know everything that’s going on over there? No. This was the same then. We knew things were not right, but we were afraid to change what we knew and even more afraid to find out what we did not. It was our home, our men, our Germany. We supported the nation. Of course, now, it is easy for outsiders to look back and make judgments.” She lifted her hands. “So, yes, I went to a Nazi party with a Nazi officer. They weren’t all monsters. Not everyone was Hitler or Dr. Mengele. Some were plain men—some even good men.” She sighed. “We were trying to live. That was hard enough.”

“Did you ever witness any—any Jewish abuse or violence?” Reba stumbled over her words. How did you phrase a question like that?

Elsie narrowed her eyes. “Yes and no. What is the difference? You would never know the truth. If I say no, does that make me a good person? Innocent of everything you understand about the Holocaust and Nazi Germany? But what if I say yes? Does that make me bad—does it spoil my whole life?” She shrugged, brushed a crumb off the table to the floor. “We all tell little lies about ourselves, our pasts, our presents. We think some of them are minuscule, unimportant, and others, large and incriminating. But they are the same. Only God has enough of the story to judge our souls.” Her olive eyes penetrated. “So I’ve told you one of my secrets. It’s your turn now.”

Reba’s heart sped up. “My turn?” She gave a nervous laugh. “No, no. I’m interviewing you.”

“That doesn’t seem fair.” Elsie crossed her arms. “I won’t say another word for your tape recorder if you don’t answer my questions.”

Reba weighed her options. She’d never had an interviewee who didn’t get the traditional process. Journalists questioned; interviewees answered. Done. There was no role reversal. However, her deadline was fast approaching. No time to play hard to get.

“Okay. What do you want to know?” she relented.

“Jane says you are engaged. What is your fiancé’s name?”

Reba sighed. “Riki.”

“Is he a good man?”

“As good as they come.”

“What does he do for work—his occupation?”

“He’s a US Border Patrol agent.”

“Border Patrol!” Elsie laughed. “Then he is a busy man here.”

Sergio finished the last of his coffee. “Have a good day, ladies.” He handed his empty plate and cup to Jane behind the till, and it seemed their hands lingered a moment past casual.

“See you mañana,” said Jane.

On his way out, he rubbed his belly affectionately. “Your crullers might put me in my grave, Missus Meriwether.”

“This you have been saying for years,” replied Elsie.

Jane laughed. “At least you’ll go down with a smile and a belly full of sugar!”

He nodded to her as if tipping an imaginary hat. The door chimed behind him.

“He seems like a good customer,” said Reba.

“As good as they come,” she countered. “So please explain. Why have you not set a wedding date with this Riki?”

Reba turned to Jane and scowled.

Jane shrugged. “Sorry, you never said it was a secret.”

Reba squared her shoulders. “I’m simply not ready.”

“Not ready! Do you love him?” Elsie asked.

The directness caught Reba off guard. She fumbled her pen. “Of course. I wouldn’t have said yes if I didn’t, right?”

Elsie leaned forward. “Then take advice from me; it is not often fate gives you a good man to love. Fact. All those movies and television shows with people saying, ‘I am in love!,’ the bachelors and bachelorettes picking people like different kinds of cookies in a jar—pshaw! Nonsense. This is not love. This is nothing but sweat and spit mixed up. Good love …” She shook her head. “It does not come often. I hear on the news last night: fifty percent of marriages end in divorce and the newsman says, ‘Oh, that is awful. Can you believe it?’ and I say, ja, I can, because those people lied to themselves and to each other—all sugar hearts and giggles. The truth is, everyone has a dark side. If you can see and forgive his dark side and he can see and forgive yours, then you have something.” She gestured to the necklace dangling in the middle of Reba’s chest. “Wear that ring or give it back. This is my advice.”

The bakery was empty. It was the quiet hour between the breakfast and lunch crowds.

“Can I interrupt?” Jane came to the table with a bowl of icing. “Mom, taste this. The buttercream’s got a funny tang.”

Elsie stuck a finger in the frosting and sucked. “Throw it out,” she said. “Bad egg whites.”

“They looked fine in the bowl.” Jane stomped a booted foot. “Damn it, I got an anniversary cake to frost by this afternoon.”

“No one is at fault. Sometimes you cannot tell until you try,” said Elsie.