The Baker's Daughter

Chapter Nine

SCHMIDT BÄCKEREI

56 LUDWIGSTRASSE

GARMISCH, GERMANY

DECEMBER 25, 1944

Upstairs, Mutti and Papa stirred. Elsie brushed the fallen chamomile leaves out of sight under the table. What little was left, she put into a mug and poured hot water over, her hand surprisingly steady. Josef’s ring lay on the floured board.

Outside, shouts followed another bang.

“What’s going on?” Papa’s voice carried down the steps. He turned on the electric light. “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

Elsie snatched the ring into her palm just as Mutti pattered into the kitchen. “Elsie, what is it?”

“I don’t know. I was having chamomile and then …” She turned her back to Mutti, dropped the ring in the teacup, and tried to keep her eyes from the oven.

Four Gestapo entered with guns. Two flanked Papa.

“Search what you want,” he said. “We have nothing to hide. It’s the middle of the night and Christmas Eve for heaven’s sake!”

“My apologies, Herr Schmidt, but we have orders,” said a stocky soldier with an oak leaf on either collar.

“What’s happened?” asked Mutti. Bare feet against the tiles, she shivered.

“A Jew escaped,” replied the man.

“There are no Jews here, Standartenführer,” said Papa. He patted the oven. “Only pastries and bread.”

A chill ran through Elsie. The hairs on her arms stood on end.

“Where were you?” A trooper motioned to Elsie fully dressed beside her night-capped parents.

“She’s come from your party,” replied Papa. “With Lieutenant Colonel Josef Hub.”

“It was an excellent evening until now,” she said flatly.

“I’m sorry to disturb you. This shouldn’t take long,” said the standartenführer. “May we?” He pointed up with his truncheon.

“Yes, of course, go—search what you want,” said Papa.

Two went up, their boots clomping the aged floorboards. The other two stayed in the kitchen.

Mutti gave a huff. “I left my girdle out,” she whispered.

Elsie rolled her eyes. From Hazel’s description of the lace garter belts her SS companions sent her as gifts, she guessed men like these had seen far more prurient novelties.

“I doubt they’ll mind your old underwear, Mutti.”

“Hush,” commanded Papa.

Elsie pushed the teacup away from the ledge and crossed her arms over her chest. Mutti clutched her nightgown under her chin. One of the soldiers cleared his throat and went to search the front.

The remaining guard walked around the kitchen, stopped beside the oven, then turned to Papa. “Your lebkuchen are my favorite. Are you making more?”

“We’re closed on Christmas.”

The soldier nodded. “But it’s warm?” He put a hand to the metal.

Elsie’s heart beat like a juggernaut in her chest; her muscles locked tight.

“Doch, brick ovens don’t turn to ice overnight.” Papa yawned and scratched his neck.

The soldier caught the yawn, took off his cap, and wiped his brow. In the lamplight, Elsie saw how young he was. No more than fifteen.

“Here.” Papa went to a tray and uncovered a handful of distorted gingerbread. “Take as many as you want. These are the misshapen ones. Just as tasty.”

His hesitation lasted a fraction of a second. “Thank you, Herr Schmidt.” He came to Papa’s side and stuffed cookies into the front pocket of his uniform. He stopped as soon as his comrades returned.

“Clear,” said the standartenführer. “Let’s go to the next. Gute nacht.”

The soldiers filed out, but the boy-soldier lingered. “Happy Christmas,” he said. His eyes twinkled with youth and sleepiness.

“A blessed Christmas to you and your family,” said Papa.

He gave an awkward grin, then ran after his unit.

Papa bolted the front door after the men.

“Can you believe it?” Mutti tapped her fingernails on the wooden baker’s board. “An escaped Jew! On the eve of our Savior’s birth. Unbelievable.”

Elsie’s head began to pound. The room went topsy-turvy. She took a gulp of the weak tea, lukewarm and slightly bitter. Gold flickered back at her from the bottom. She set it down beside a bowl of Christstollen dough, fat and leavened under its cloth. Papa would bake it for breakfast. She had to get her parents upstairs and the child out.

“I left this open.” Mutti quietly slipped her hand up the closed back door to the loose chain. “For the carp.” She turned to Elsie, head cocked.

“Let’s get back to bed,” called Papa from the stairs.

Elsie’s fingers and toes went numb. “I was cold.”

Papa’s footsteps thudded up, up, up.

They held each other’s gazes for a long moment. Sweat trickled between Elsie’s breasts.

“I’m sorry.” She tried to make her voice casual.

Mutti rechained the door, cracked it open, then scanned the kitchen. “You are tired,” she finally said. An icy breeze fluttered her nightgown, and she hugged her arms across her chest. “Finish your tea and go straight to bed.” At the bottom of the staircase, she stopped to look around once more before slowly ascending.

It was only then that Elsie’s hands began to shake. She poured the tea out and collected the ring. Not knowing where else to put it, she slid it back on her finger. The house quieted, and she wished it could stay that way, wished there was nothing inside the oven but coals and ash. She wanted to crawl under her eiderdown and pretend this night was all a terrible nightmare.

An old woman, haggard and white, reflected in the small kitchen window. Elsie looked over her shoulder. The woman did too. And then she recognized herself, sighed, and ran a hand through her hair. What was she doing? She should put the boy out in the snow. The Gestapo would find him soon, and he’d go back to where he belonged. Elsie cringed imagining him in a work camp, so thin and frail; but if they found him in the bakery, her family could lose everything. Her head whirled, and she grasped the oven latch to keep from falling. She regretted her earlier actions. She should have shut the door and been done with the Jew. But she hadn’t. So what now?

Carefully, she opened the oven. Blackness, then a pale face emerged like the moon from behind a cumulous cloud.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Tobias,” he whispered.

“Come.” She extended her arms.