The Baker's Daughter

Chapter Twenty-one

SCHMIDT BÄCKEREI

56 LUDWIGSTRASSE

GARMISCH, GERMANY

JANUARY 24, 1945

“Wake up, Tobias, wake up.” Elsie tapped the wallboard lightly but with urgency.

Tobias pushed the plank open, crawled out with a yawn, and extended his legs long on her bedroom floor. The wall cavity was just large enough for a small boy to sit and lie comfortably with bent knees, but she knew there was nothing so freeing as stretching your fingers and toes as far as they could reach. She tried to give him the opportunity to do so as often as was prudent and possible.

Her parents had left for Steinhöring five days before, and Elsie was grateful for their short absence. It gave her reprieve from worrying over every bump and creak. That past Sunday, she’d even been so bold as to put Tobias to work in the early morning hours. He was surprisingly skilled at pretzel making, knowing exactly how to roll and twist the dough for perfect knots.

Elsie huffed and puffed against the cold while Tobias slipped into an old pair of wool stockings that came up midthigh. He pulled a slouchy knitted nightcap over his head and reminded her of the costumed Fastnacht parades of her childhood. She couldn’t help but smile despite the sunrise headache in her temples.

“Come on, little one.” She patted him on his cap. “I’ve already lit the oven. We’re out of brötchen. There aren’t even any stale ones to bulk up the bin, so I have to bake an extra batch this morning, which leaves you in charge of the pretzels,” she explained.

Being the youngest in the family, she’d never been given an exorbitant amount of responsibility in the actual baking process—until now. With the business and Tobias in her keep, she felt older and wiser, and she liked it.

“I know it’s ungodly early, but that’s the life of a baker and those who live with them.” She sighed. “Maybe when you grow up, you could be a singing baker.” She winked at him. “I bet you’d bring in double what we do for sweet rolls and a song.”

Tobias smiled. “I’d make babka with heaps of cinnamon.”

“Excellent,” said Elsie. “Tobias, the great, singing babka baker. That will be your title.”

She turned to make sure Tobias was safely hunched in her shadow before opening her bedroom door and making her way down the steps. Though she rolled the blinds each night, she still feared Gestapo surveillance, so she had designed a system for their morning kitchen routine. She stationed Tobias on the floured wooden table, underneath which they stored the giant iron pot Mutti used for soups. Whenever Elsie perceived any hint of danger, she’d whistle and Tobias slipped into the pot and closed the lid. This was only during the morning preparations. Half an hour before opening, she made sure he was locked safely in her room again.

Rumor had spread that her parents were personally escorted to Steinhöring. No one dared ask what the business was about. Too many had left town already with unknown destinations, and people liked it that way: unknown. So they ordered their usual, ignoring her parents’ absence, and took their bread home where they could eat and whisper among themselves.

Elsie had taken to closing at lunch, something her papa never did. When she locked the door from noon to half past one, she received no complaints. This allowed her ample time to punch down the risen dough batches and check on Tobias.

While he’d been hiding in her room for a month, it was only in the last few days that Elsie finally felt at liberty to speak openly with him. The first time she heard him say more than a handful of words was over a bratwurst the night before.

“It’s forbidden,” he told her and turned away from the plate.

But it was all Elsie had to give. Lamb, beef, chicken, and fish were nonexistent. It was winter and wartime. Had he forgotten he was a Jew hiding in her home? This wasn’t the Romantik Hotel. She would have taken the sausage back and eaten it herself if it hadn’t been for Tobias’s elbows. No matter what he put over them, they stuck out like bird wings, reminding her that while parts of him had plumped since Christmas, he was still painfully frail.

In the last week, he had developed a slight wheeze, no louder than a mouse’s chirp. When it paused, Elsie worried the chill had finally crept under his thin skin and frozen him solid. He needed hardiness. A diet of bread and winter vegetables wasn’t doing the job. She grew up with Jews in the community so she understood the gravity of her offering, but it still frustrated and outright annoyed her that even now, in the midst of bloodshed and death, their customs took priority over his life.

“Eat. In times like this, God can’t be so hardheaded,” she told him.

He crossed his arms, tiny elbows bowing out.

“Please,” she begged.

“I cannot,” he insisted.

She’d huffed with frustration and momentarily contemplated physical force to get the meat down his throat, but she couldn’t bear the thought of hurting him.

“Tobias, if you don’t eat something more than a turnip, you’re going to …”—she rubbed the thudding in her temples, then faced him—“die. And I don’t want you to die.” Elsie pressed, “You’re my friend. I care what happens to you. So please eat. If not for yourself, then for my sake.”

Tobias gulped and tucked his chin to his chest.

Elsie held out a piece of the sausage staked on the tines of her fork. “Please.”

He whispered a prayer to himself in Hebrew. The cadence of his voice as lyrical as when she read the poetry of Robert Frost.

“God will fill me up,” he said.

Perhaps, Elsie thought, but the human body was made of corporal stuff—flawed and sure to betray even our most earnest desires for immortality. From what Elsie had experienced of God, she knew he was more forgiving than any religion and more loving than any laws. She wished she could convince Tobias of it.

He considered the divided link on the plate. “My mother cut herself at dinner once while slicing my Chorissa,” he began. “Her finger bled and left a scar. Right here.” He rubbed his index finger. “I always felt badly for it, but she said the marks on our lives are like music notes on the page—they sing a song.”

Elsie put the fork down. It was the most she’d ever heard him say, and suddenly, he was not merely Tobias the boy anymore. He had people, a mother, somewhere. While Josef had told her about his parents, they didn’t seem real, just as Tobias hadn’t seemed real until he was.

“Where is your family?”asked Elsie.

He’d shrugged. “I don’t know where my parents are, but my sister is at the camp.”

She thought of Hazel, and a sharp pang threaded her chest. “What is your sister’s name?”

“Cecile,” said Tobias.

“Older or younger?” Elsie asked.

“Younger. She is five and likes blue ribbons. She cried when they took them from her.” He picked a rough fuzz ball on his wool stocking.

“Who took them?”

“The soldiers.” His eyes went flat as dusty silver coins. “When we were getting off the train. They tore them from her hair. She cried. A soldier hit her, and she fell onto the tracks.” His hands balled into fragile bird nests trembling in his lap. “I tried to stop them. I tried to pick her up, but I couldn’t. There were too many people pushing and yelling and the train whistle was so loud. She couldn’t hear me calling.”

“Tobias, I’m sorry.” A lump formed in Elsie’s throat.

He turned to her and his expression lightened. “A lady carried her into the camp. She’s there. I saw her once when I was singing. She does buttons in the sewing room. But she really likes ribbons.” He gave a wan smile. “One day I’m going to buy her new ones.”

Elsie imagined a child with bouncing brown curls held back by robin’s-egg-blue ribbons like the ones she and Hazel wore as girls. “I’m sure she’d like that very much.” Her breath caught. She swallowed hard. “I have a sister, too. Hazel. She’s older than me and has three children. One is your age. His name is Julius.”

His eyes widened with interest.

“You and he are alike,” she continued. “You both love to sing.”

He looked away and ran willowy fingers over his shorn head, sprouts growing back in dark patches. “I shouldn’t sing anymore,” he whispered. “When I sing, people get hurt.”

Elsie remembered what Josef had said about Tobias singing for the camp detainees.

“You sang for me, and you saved me,” she reminded him.

Tobias didn’t lift his gaze.

She took his hand in hers; skin, thin as baked pastry. “One day, you’ll sing for a great crowd. They’ll stand with applause and throw roses at your feet.”

Tobias looked up, eyes soft and hopeful in the bedroom lamplight.

“Promise me, you will?”

“But how can I promise what I do not know will be?” he asked.

“I have faith in you. If you say it, you will do it,” she said.

He needed to believe in something. She needed to believe too.

He seemed to dream on that a moment. Then he turned to her with great resolve and said, “I promise.”

Without giving herself time for thought or fear, she leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “Thank you.”

Afterward, she’d gone down to the kitchen and carefully removed every fleck of mold from the Quark. Papa’s favorite, Mutti had been rationing the cheese for his breakfasts, but they were gone and Elsie didn’t know for certain when they would return. So she scraped it up and spread it thick in a brötchen for Tobias. Then she ate the cold sausage. It sat uneasily in her stomach, and she felt it still this morning, heavy like a river stone in her gut.

A morning woodlark trilled in the distance. Tobias helped her empty risen batter onto the wooden board.

“Let’s make two batches,” she said. “Tomorrow we’ll sprinkle water over the extras and heat them in the oven. Nobody will know the difference. I’ll start the brötchen.”

She went to the semmel dough and sunk her hands deep into the velvet bloom. The paste stuck to her fingers and between the gems of the diamond-ruby ring. Mutti’s smooth gold band had no such crevices. It was a ring fit for a baker. Elsie’s was not. It was made for someone else—for a songstress or a banker’s wife. Someone with manicured hands and Yardley Lavender on her wrists. Elsie’s hands were dry and cracked, and since the Grüns’ store closed, she smelled of yeast and sweat. How she missed their floral soaps, French eau de toilettes, and citrus colognes. The vial of rose shampoo in her hiding place was too precious to waste on an arbitrary washing; instead, she’d place the open bottle below her nose and imagine its scent surrounding her.

The kitchen temperature increased. The wood burned musky in the oven, and Elsie fell into the comforting rhythm of rolling palm-size brötchen. By the time she’d completed a dozen, the bleary blue of coming dawn had crept into the shadowy kitchen. It was then that she noticed the oven woodpile: two thin logs deep. She’d forgotten to restock. The wood outside was wet with snow and would need time to dry in the kitchen before burning. If she didn’t bring it in now, they’d never keep the oven aflame. Her hands were covered with gobs of dough. Tobias had set the pretzels’ baking powder bathwater on the stove to boil and was rolling up his sweater sleeves in preparation. The wood was just outside the back door. He could snatch an armful or two. Daylight had yet to break. No one in town would be up and out at this hour.

“Tobias, we need firewood.” She lifted a hand to the door.

He stared at her a long moment.

She smiled reassuringly. “Crack the door and check first.”

He nodded, opened the door an inch, and peeked through. “No one,” he whispered.

Elsie’s heart sped up. “Slip into my boots and be quick.” She infused her voice with confidence to make up for her lack of it.

He pulled the boots on and carefully unlatched the chain, pausing a second longer than Elsie thought he should.

“Hurry!”

His breath plumed in the frosty air and then he was gone, a white mist in his wake.

Elsie squeezed too hard on the dough ball, flattening it to a disc. She counted the balls on the sheet: one, two, three … six, seven, eight … ten, eleven, twelve. She checked the door. It didn’t take her but ten seconds to fetch an armful of kindle. She tried to continue but lost track of which she’d counted and which she hadn’t, so she slid them all into the oven. The coals blazed bright orange. She evenly spaced the rolls inside and latched the door. Her cheeks and forehead burned. Tobias still hadn’t returned.

“I should have gone myself,” she muttered. Gummy bits of excess flour clung to her fingers. She didn’t bother washing, moving fast to the back entrance.

Tobias greeted her at the threshold. “Is this enough?” His elbows trembled with the weight of five logs.

Elsie ushered him in, and he put the wood beside the oven. She sighed away her worry. When suddenly, there was a rapping sound. Frau Rattelmüller was at the back with the door wide open.