The Baker's Daughter

Chapter Two

THE LEBENSBORN PROGRAM

STEINHÖRING, GERMANY

DECEMBER 20, 1944

Dear Elsie,

With news that Estonia has fallen to the Red Army, I write this letter with mounting anxiety for our good German forces and a heavy heart for the loss of our men. The compound here at Steinhöring and all the adjacent apartments have covered their windows in black. A handful of the girls lost family members—fathers and brothers. In addition, a number of Lebensborn companions perished, one of whom fathered my own twins. Poor Cristof. I only made his acquaintance the one time last spring. He was not yet twenty-two years old, skin still soft as a nectarine. Far too young to die. It makes me furious—this continued waste of life, this warring. I understand there is no better way to die than for the cause of our Fatherland, but I curse the foreign devils that spilt Aryan blood. We will not be trampled. This will only light a fire to our communal torch and Germany will be victorious! As the führer said, “The confidence of the German people will always accompany their soldiers.” And our confidence will remain steadfast.

Instead of wallowing in despair, the Program is committed to making the upcoming holidays the most spectacular ever. I am helping to organize the decorations for the Julefest feast. Already we have a number of commended officers who have accepted the Program’s holiday invitation. Our soldiers need companionship and support now more than ever. We are foraging the local communities for whatever meats and vegetables we can procure, and I’m determined to provide good quality bread and pastries like those in Papa’s kitchen. I have yet to find a baker who can match the Schmidt recipes and feel as though I’ve swallowed hardened mud after eating the things these Steinhöring bakers make. I miss home and our family so very much.

With the birth of the twins, I have had little time to spend with Julius. I hope to do so now that the babies are in the Lebensborn nursery. I’ll only admit this to you, sister, but I worry for them. They are both smaller than Julius was at birth. I hope that is simply a consequence of sharing a womb and soon they will grow round and healthy as any Aryan child. I can’t be perceived as producing inferior offspring. Already, it has taken far too many years to conceive again. The only reason I was allowed to stay was because I proved to be a faithful daughter of the Reich.

The officers enjoy my company, though I will not and could not tell even you the things I have had to do to remain by Julius’s side at the Program. Some of these men, while outwardly dignified, have debauched expectations in the bedroom. You are a virgin, Elsie, you do not know, and I pray every night that a compassionate German man will make you a wife before a mistress. That was the hope for Peter and me. I think of our last Christmas together when he asked for my hand by giving us the kitchen cuckoo clock and placing the gold band on the wooden figurine’s head like a crown. What a glorious Christmas Day! The cuckoo chimed and out came the ring. Mutti and Papa were so proud. How simple and happy life was then.

How are the Christmas preparations coming? Does the bakery continue to have many customers despite the lack of rations? One of the girls here has family in Berlin, and she said there is barely a burnt crumb to be had. Berliners are bartering gems and gold for unleavened bread and dried pork skins. I suspect these rumors are lies spread by spies to scare the faithful. Things are in short supply here, but one can still buy a sweet cake and a stein of dark beer on any given day. What is it like in Garmisch? How are Mutti and Papa? I must write them soon. I send them my love and the same to you.

Heil Hitler,

Hazel

SCHMIDT BÄCKEREI

56 LUDWIGSTRASSE

GARMISCH, GERMANY

DECEMBER 21, 1944

Dear Hazel,

Good Saint Thomas Day! The bäckerei is so busy this time of the year. With only the three of us to knead the dough, work the oven, stock the shelves, and manage the till, I can’t find a moment to enjoy the Christmas cheer. And then there are customers like Frau Rattelmüller who make it almost unbearable. Such a pest! Always complaining and making rude remarks about my hair being a mess or I’m lazy or asking if I still have yesterday’s dirt under my fingernails. (Which I do not. I scrub them every night!) She makes such a scene to Mutti and Papa, still treating me like a child. That’s the donkey chiding the other for having long ears. She’s acting so peculiar lately.

She used to come round at the normal hour like everybody else, but not anymore. 5:30 in the morning and she’s at our back door, peeping in the windows, banging her cane when she knows good and well we’ll always opened at six o’clock. I believe she’s gone senile. Not to mention that a dozen brötchen is a gluttonous amount. Doesn’t she know there’s a shortage of flour and milk! You should see the SS rations Papa has resorted to using. The powdered milk and flour bake hard as brick. Many customers have complained of finding pebbles in their rolls and almost breaking a tooth. So now I have the added chore of sieving all the supplies we receive. Frau Rattelmüller swears if she cuts her gums and dies of infection, her blood will be on our hands. But it’ll take more than a pebble to bring down that old witch. I suspect she’ll be showing up for the next century munching her way through all our bread and bang-bang-banging that ridiculous cane. We’ll never be free of her.

This morning I was fed up to my ears, so I woke up early with Papa and forced myself out of bed despite the chill. (It’s colder this winter than last. Too cold for even the snow to melt into ice on the eaves. Remember that December we ate icicles dusted in sugar. You told me that snow sprites dined on them every night, and I believed you because I wanted to … even though I knew there were no such things.) I was downstairs with a tray of hot brötchen when Frau came hobbling up the street in her long coat and cap.

Before she had a chance to knock her cane, I opened the door. “Good morning, Frau Rattelmüller.” I smiled wide as Lake Eibsee. “Your brötchen has been waiting for you. Dear, dear, I pray it isn’t cold. You must’ve been visited by the dream gnomes to have slept in so late.” I looked over my shoulder to the cuckoo for emphasis. “Why, you are almost a minute past.”

That sent Papa into a fit. He laughed so loud it echoed round all the pans in the kitchen and made Frau mad as a honeybee. She bought two loaves of onion bread instead of her usual. Mutti said Papa ruined a whole batch of lebkuchen with his salty tears. But it was worth it. How I wish you had been here! You would’ve laughed yourself to crying like you used to do when Papa wore his jester cap in the Fasching carnival. Mutti was not so pleased. She told me not to play with the old woman. She’s hanging by a thread, she said. But I told Mutti that Frau has been playing with me for far too long already. Besides, this is wartime. Who isn’t hanging by a thread!

Mutti, being Mutti, pulled out the currants that very minute and made thomasplitzchen buns to take over to Frau’s as a peace offering. She’s there now as I write.

I wonder what you’re doing in Steinhöring. I miss you terribly. Can you believe you’ve been gone six Christmases? Feels like an eternity, and this war seems even longer. There’s nothing new here. The Zugspitze Mountain is a bore. Nobody’s skiing this season anyhow. I wish we could go back to sea. Remember that summer trip to the coast of Yugoslavia when we were girls? Walking the pebble beach and eating cold cucumbers in the sun? We were so happy then. It feels a hundred years ago. Not that we could go back now. War, war, war. It’s everywhere, and I’m sick of it.

On to happier tidings: Did you hear the news? Our friend Josef Hub was promoted to lieutenant colonel and transferred to the Garmisch SS. He is rumored to dispatch information from the Mountain Troops to Reichsführer Himmler. Imagine that! But he’s not like the others. His rank hasn’t changed him a bit. He still comes to the bäckerei and eats raisin kuchen with Papa every Saturday. Mutti swears he has the bluest eyes in the country, but I told her there are plenty of perfectly blue eyes all around. She’s just partial to Josef for all he’s done for us.

How is Julius? You said they enrolled him in a special kindergarten for future officers. Papa nearly burst his buttons when I read that part to him. He’s so proud. We all are, of both of you.

Don’t worry about us and the bäckerei. The SS rations are small and of poor quality, but they are more than any other baker in town. Josef and Papa have a deal. The Gestapo bring SS flour, sugar, butter, and salt to the back door on Sunday afternoons, and Papa takes a cart of bread to headquarters each Monday. Business couldn’t be better. I know I shouldn’t complain about the long hours when so many of our countrymen are facing harder times than us.

Did Mutti tell you? I’m going to the Nazi Weihnachten party. Josef said it is time I attend one. He gave me the most beautiful ivory dress. Though the tag has been cut out, he said it came from Paris. At first I thought I oughtn’t to accept, but he gave Mutti an iridescent clamshell compact and Papa a rosewood pipe. So I assume these are our Christmas presents. Quite extravagant! Not having any family of his own, Josef dotes on Mutti and Papa like his own parents, God rest their souls. His company has been a godsend, and I hope it means more sacks of sugar and presents! The dress is proof of his good taste.

I’ll have Papa take a photograph before I go to the party. I want you to see the dress. I’ll write again at Christmas. I hope you get this letter soon. Mail is moving slow, these days.

Heil Hitler.

Your loving sister,

Elsie