The Baker's Daughter

Chapter Forty-nine

ST. SEBASTIAN CHAPEL CEMETERY

GARMISCH, GERMANY

NOVEMBER 6, 1967

Dead leaves blanketed the cemetery in a patchwork quilt of umber. Briefly disrupted by spade strikes, and mourners’ cries overhead, the sleepy tenants soon returned to rest, the grounds silent and empty once more, the new mound of dirt settling inch by inch, hour by hour, as the living pressed on, press on.

During the burial, Elsie had taken Papa’s hand in hers, their rolling pin calluses aligning perfectly.

“I love you,” she’d whispered.

He’d pulled her close with trembling arms and kissed her temple. “My Elsie. Forgive me.”

She’d only the strength to nod and weep until all the stale years and regrets crumbled under the weight of his embrace.

“I’ll take Opa home,” Lillian had offered at the end of the funeral. “You stay as long as you want.”

And Elsie had, hours after everyone else; after even the priest had gone inside, his hands red and raw from the wintry wind.

The chapel bell rang out five strokes. The sun began to set, dissolving into the Black Forest ridgeline. In less than an hour it would be dark, and she’d be forced away from this spot, and night would come and go, and she’d board her plane in the morning, flying a half a world away, back to her daughter’s smile and her husband’s kiss, and tomorrow would follow tomorrow leaving behind this moment and all within it.

So she hung on, reading the granite headstone over and over, trying to make it feel the way she thought it ought, trying to brand it inside herself. Luana Schmidt, Beloved Wife and Mother, 1897–1967. Luana Schmidt, Beloved Wife and Mother. Luana Schmidt, Beloved. Luana Schmidt. Luana. Mutti.

It was a modest epitaph. The way Mutti would have wanted. Yet so small in comparison to the life it eulogized. In the spring, blades of grass and wildflowers would bloom anew without ever knowing the life that nurtured them. For years to come, those who came and went would never perceive what depth of love lay beneath their tread.

To the far right was Peter Abend’s grave, a garland of holly berries hung round the stone. Oh, Peter, Elsie thought, how much you missed.

Beside Mutti was Hazel’s marker. Papa agreed to the engraving without question or explanation, and Elsie was relieved. HAZEL SCHMIDT, LOVING DAUGHTER AND SISTER. Elsie had left off the dates, unsure of what to put, and unwilling to add to Papa’s heartache.

Elsie balled her gloved fists. Death shouldn’t be so unremarkable, she thought. Mutti, Hazel, Friedhelm, Peter, the born and unborn. They were loved and deserved more. Not in worldly stone, marble or gems, but in memory and celebration; they deserved the heavens to open up for a moment for all that had been and was gone.

In a nearby tree, a finch took flight singing seep, seep, seep as it went. Just and merciful, Mutti had said of God. The bird climbed high, its song fading in the wind.

Twilight cast an amber glow. The tombstones’ shadows stretched long. It was time. Elsie turned to leave and as she did, a small gravestone stood out, alone and apart from the neat familial lines of the cemetery. Her eyes grazed the name, and she stopped.

JOSEF HUB. No inscription. No dates.

Elsie went to it, pulled off her gloves, and traced the print: Josef. She sighed. He deserved remembering as well. His life had been as much a part of her story as the others. She had no flower to leave him, so she pulled loose the blue ribbon from her hair and tied it round the headstone.

She tried to remember Josef without the Nazi uniform, but she’d never really known the man beneath—the secret burdens he carried. So she said a prayer for his soul: that he might find forgiveness and love. She had to believe that was possible, even for the dead.