The Baker's Daughter

Chapter Twenty-five

SCHMIDT BÄCKEREI

56 LUDWIGSTRASSE

GARMISCH, GERMANY

FEBRUARY 2, 1945

Elsie celebrated her seventeenth birthday with a midnight picnic on the floor of her bedroom. Tobias had sprinkled some of Mutti’s sweet aniseed into the rye dough and braided it into the shape of a crown. It’d baked off dark and fragrant as candied licorice. They placed a blackout candle in the center. Though small and lacking in the feasts and family of previous birthday celebrations, she had great hope for her seventeenth year and was grateful for Tobias’s company in welcoming it. When the cuckoo chimed twelve o’clock, she blew out the flame, and the room snuffed into darkness.

Three days later, Papa, Mutti, and Josef returned with a boy Elsie would never have recognized if he hadn’t entered the bakery and immediately announced, “I’m Julius. I don’t belong here.”

So unlike his mother and father was he in both appearance and disposition, she’d almost agreed with him.

Instead, she’d replied, “I’m happy to meet you. I feel as if I should know you better. I’m your tante.”

“Doch! I know,” he’d said and wriggled up his nose like a piglet. “What’s that stink?”

She’d just finished a batch of onion rolls and ignored her nephew’s disparagement. “Where’s Hazel?” she asked.

Papa handed Mutti his suitcase. “Take these up, Luana.” He turned to Josef. “Thank you again for all that you have done for us.”

The men exchanged heavy nods that spoke beyond words.

“What?” Elsie asked one, then the other. “What?”

Papa held up a commanding hand. “Later. It has been a long day, Elsie.” He gently took Julius by the shoulder. “Come. Let’s find something to eat before bed.” He led him to the kitchen.

Alone, Josef turned to her.

“You must tell me,” she begged.

He placed his cap on snugly. “Hazel left the Program.”

“Left? And went where? She would be here, ja?”

“Your parents will explain. It’s not my place.”

She understood when to stop asking questions. The week before, the Gestapo shot Achim Thalberg, the orchard farmer. His crime: he announced to the biergarten news of German retreat in Slovenia. A handful of Gestapo sat at a nearby table. With a quick exchange of words, they pulled their pistols and in less than a minute, poor Achim lay dead, his beer stein frothy and cold on the table.

Frau Rattelmüller continued to purchase her morning brötchen and had filled her in on the details. Elsie didn’t fully trust the frau yet, but with each passing day, she proved herself a faithful confidante. In her parents’ absence, Elsie had given the frau extra rolls and honey buns with her usual order. Nothing that would be noticed when her papa returned. Tobias was still painfully thin, but she suspected it was the nature of everyone these days. Her own dresses hung loose on her frame. They had no more meat, and there wasn’t so much as a scrawny rabbit to be found on the black market. The forests had been stripped of every animal aboveground. She hid the handfuls of root vegetables they still owned in a burlap sack behind the kitchen kindle pile and prayed for an early spring. If there wasn’t, she was sure they’d all waste away to skeletons.

She fidgeted with the baggy cuff of her sleeve. Josef took her hand and ran his thumb over the ring he’d given her. Elsie continued to wear it as a kind of talisman. Something was happening. She’d felt it for days, fear rolling closer like an ominous storm.

“I’m sorry, I cannot stay,” said Josef. “I received immediate orders to report to Dachau.”

“You’re leaving? For how long?”

“Until our forces have pushed back the Allied forces.”

A wave of nausea swept through her. Who would protect them now? Rumors swirled that the Red Army was a greater power than anticipated, and it wouldn’t be long before they marched directly into the heart of Berlin. As fearful as she was of the enemy, the thought of what her own countrymen would do to her made her chest seize up with nettled panic. The Grün family disappeared in the night, but as proven by Achim Thalberg, the soldiers were becoming more brazen and eager to make examples of anyone who crossed them. Josef was her ally, but now he was leaving, Hazel had disappeared, Julius was in their care, Tobias was hidden in her bedroom, and Germany was losing the war. All of it swept over her, and her hands went clammy despite the sheen of sweat on her face.

Josef misread her expression as concern for his well-being. “I’ll be fine,” he reassured. “You’ll see. All will be well.” Then he leaned in to kiss her.

Instinctively, Elsie turned her cheek and saw the hurt and disappointment in Josef’s eyes. Kind Josef who wanted nothing more than to protect and keep her safe; and yet, she did not love him.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll write to you.”

She nodded and didn’t turn to watch him go. They were on their own now.

Elsie went up to Mutti’s closed bedroom door and knocked. “Mutti?”

“Come in, dear.”

Inside, Mutti unpacked the suitcases, placing items into the cedar wardrobe; her face pin-straight.

“Did Julius get supper? The ham we bought wasn’t to his liking. Slightly rancid, I suppose, but what could we do? I made your papa eat it. Spoiled or not, it was something. He must keep up his strength. He’s not the young man he used to be,” she prattled on, folding one of Papa’s sweaters over and over. She looked up briefly at Elsie, the hollows beneath her eyes deeper than ever Elsie could remember. “We left in such a hurry,” she went on. “But like your papa keeps reminding me, you girls are all grown up. You can take care of yourselves. I’ve showed you how to make goulash a dozen times. At your ages, I can’t be worrying over feeding you or what clothes you wear or where you go.” She took a quick breath. “You aren’t children anymore and I haven’t the time with the bakery and customers and keeping up this drafty house, and now there is Julius who needs looking after. Of course, he isn’t an infant like the twins …” She fingered the fat cable knit of the sweater. “But he needs a mother. So, you see, you’ll need to help your papa more downstairs. I can’t be in the kitchen as often now that Julius is here and—”

“Mutti, please,” Elsie put a hand over Papa’s sweater. “Where’s Hazel?”

Mutti’s fingers slipped to her sides. “Hazel?” She blinked hard. “We don’t know. They only told us she is gone.”

“Who told you?”

“The Program administrators. Her roommates. They say she went to the market and never came home. She simply left.”

Mutti bit her bottom lip, fearful and confused. The story didn’t make sense to her, either. It wasn’t in Hazel’s nature to run away, but if she had, she’d have sent word to them. She’d have written Elsie first. Though Postmaster Hoflehner had assured Elsie that the mail was running routinely, they had not received anything from outside the Garmisch-Partenkirchen valley in weeks. Hazel’s January 4 letter to Papa was the last to arrive. What if Hazel had written and the letters had been intercepted? Perhaps she was hidden in someone’s safe house, like Tobias in hers, and could not contact them; but then she’d left Julius behind. Hazel would never have left her children without a significant reason—unless she had no alternative. Elsie’s scalp burned, as if her hair had been plaited too tight.

“Where are the twins?”

A furrow deepened between Mutti’s eyes. “They belong to the Fatherland.”

“So did Julius, but they gave him to us.”

“Julius is the son of Hazel and Peter.”

“And the others—aren’t they the blood of your daughter? Doesn’t that count for something!” Her voice pitched.

“Quiet,” Mutti hissed.

The tone chilled Elsie to the bone. She had never heard her mother speak in such a manner.

“You must always remember your place. We are women.” She locked eyes with Elsie. “We must be wise in our words and action. Do you understand?” Mutti pulled a crumpled blouse from the suitcase and smoothed it on the bed. “Josef was very helpful in getting Julius out. We almost had to leave him behind. Josef knows a woman who works inside the Nazi offices. He says she’s good at providing information. We’ll find Hazel. We’ll find my grandchildren.” She swallowed hard and nodded to the open suitcase. “Would you mind putting my brush and pins back in their place, dear?”

Elsie took the needle-thin hairpins and bristle brush and set them side by side on the dressing table.

“Flesh of our flesh. Blood of our blood,” whispered Mutti.

“What was that?” Elsie asked.

“That’s what the führer said in Nuremburg—it’s biblical—and we can’t forget. Before us is Germany, in us is Germany, and after us is Germany.” She lifted the gauzy blouse into the air.

Elsie watched the lace neckline flutter through the vanity mirror. “Germany has changed,” she whispered.

In the dim of the candlelight, Mutti sighed; a single tear eked out the side and she flicked it away with a finger. “Go help Papa lock up for the night,” she said and hung the blouse, her expression hidden by the shadow of the wardrobe.