“I—” She forced herself to meet Josef’s gaze. “I can’t,” she began, but Josef interrupted.
“I understand. Your first Nazi party, Christmas Eve, an engagement proposal and …” He stroked his thumb over her hand. “So much in one night.”
His hand was warm against hers, and she wished it were enough to heat her whole body, melt her into liquid sugar. He unlatched the door, and a chill swept through the inner cabin. “I’ll come to wish your family a Happy Christmas.”
She shivered. He was right; there was enough heartache this evening. On Christmas they all deserved a little peace. She’d make him understand later. She nodded good night and stepped out.
Josef pulled her back. “Elsie?”
She turned slowly, afraid of the question she imagined to follow. Instead, Josef kissed her. Unlike Kremer’s wet mouth and sharp teeth at her neck, Josef’s lips were soft and precise, like a springerle mold on cookie dough. She dared not breathe for fear the imprint would be ruined.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” Elsie whispered.
She left the car, worn T-straps slipping on new snow. The door handle was frozen and took a good push and pull before turning. In the dark car window, Josef’s shadow watched and waited until she was inside before driving on.
Elsie shut the door. After the sharp click of metal, all was quiet. No violins or Jewish songbird, no gust of wind or screams, nothing but the peaceful cadence of the cuckoo’s pendulum. She put down her purse and slipped out of Mutti’s shoes, the cold tile floor warmer than her toes.
“Elsie,” Mutti’s small voice called. “Is that you?”
Elsie wrapped her cloak tight around her body and went to the base of the staircase. At the top, Mutti stood in her nightgown holding a waxy chamberstick. The candle flickered light and shadows down the steps.
“Your papa is asleep, but I couldn’t. Was it a nice ball?” she asked, sprightly for the late hour.
Elsie longed to collapse at Mutti’s feet and cry herself to hiccupping, but she was no longer a child and the gravity of adulthood weighted her to the spot.
“Did you do as I said? Were you good and proper? Was Josef pleased?” She waited with bated breath for Elsie’s response.
“Ja.” The lump in Elsie’s throat grew harder. She swallowed, but it stuck.
Mutti smiled down at her. “You are lucky, Elsie. Josef is a handsome man.”
Elsie nodded. “Please, go back to bed. It’s late. You’ll catch your death.”
“Ja, good night. Happy Christmas, dear.”
The light of Mutti’s candle grew dim and finally disappeared. Elsie went to the kitchen, lit the stove, and put on a kettle of water. Lebkuchen gingerbread hearts lay on the floured wooden table, their icing hardening into neat curlicues and dots. Papa made five: Max, Luana, Hazel, Elsie, and Julius. Per tradition, he’d rise before them all to hang the hearts on the strongest branches of the Christmas tree.
The kettle steamed. She undid the buttons of her gloves and began to take them off. The ring snagged the satin. She pulled the material free, then examined the hole and loose thread. Not even Mutti could fix that. The ring glinted in the light of the stove’s flame. She took it off and searched the underbelly for the Hebrew letters. Though she couldn’t see them, she knew they were there. She set the ring on the table and rubbed the tight indention on her finger. She’d think about that tomorrow. The night was already too long. Her head throbbed, her eyes burned; all she wanted was something hot to drink and the eiderdown of her bed.
In the dark, the kettle steam rose like an angry ghost. Elsie took it off the heat and picked chamomile from Mutti’s collection of hanging herbs. A frigid gust swept under her. The back door was chained but left open. A carp, no bigger than her outstretched hand, lay in a tub of ice beside it. Families traditionally kept their carp outside on Christmas Eve. Some said it was for the blessing of Saint Nikolaus; others claimed it was to flavor the fish with Alpine air. In the last few years, the practice had ceased. People were desperate. A scrap of bacon fat left out for a dog was snatched by hungry hands. Elsie guessed Papa had bargained a great deal of their bread on the black market to acquire this small fish. Mutti’s attempt to keep tradition by leaving the door ajar seemed a frivolous relic of happier times, but Elsie couldn’t reproach Mutti for something she did in her own ways every day. Burning pine lingered in the night air. She inhaled deeply.
Needle-thin icicles had formed on the metal links of the door chain. She broke them off and tossed the blades out onto the backstreet. Just as they darted the snow, something shifted in the dark. Elsie stopped. Her breath caught.
“Who’s there?”
The snow fell. The wind crackled the stiff trees.
It was the snow playing tricks on her, she decided. She hadn’t eaten much that night and had her first champagne; it was a wonder she didn’t see purple polar bears. She touched the back of her hand to her cheek. Without having drunk the chamomile, she was hot—feverish. Straight to bed, that’s what she’d do.
“Please.” A thin, pale face appeared at the bottom of the door.
Elsie jumped, knocking the chamomile buds to the floor.
“Please,” it said again and reached a hand through. “Help me.”
Elsie scrambled away, crunching on dried blooms underfoot. “Go on,” she hissed. “You—you ghost. Get out of here.” She lifted the simmering kettle.
The hand retracted. “I followed your car.”
“What?” Elsie’s heart beat fast. Her arm, raised high, trembled with the weight of the water.
“They’re going to kill me.” He leaned into the crack and turned his eyes up to her.
And then she recognized him, the singing boy, the Jew. “What are you doing here?”
“He broke the cage open, so I ran,” he said.
“You ran away?” She set the kettle down. “Oh, God.” She rubbed the growing ache in her temples. “If they find you here, they’ll arrest us all. Go on!” She shooed him from the door. “Get out of here!”
“I helped you. Please, help me.” He stayed pressed against the frame. His breath came in short spurts; his skin was tinged blue from the frost.
He was just a boy, nearly the same age as Julius and as dangerous and evil as any—Jew or German. He’d die out there, by nature’s will or man’s force. She could save him, if she unlocked the chain.
The wind blew across his face. Fat snowflakes stuck to his eyelashes.
She thought of Kremer’s allegations. Obviously people were talking about her and her family. If the boy stayed, died on their doorstep, the Gestapo would surely think she had a role in his escape. She closed her eyes. Her head pounded. He was only a child. Nothing of importance or threat. She could turn him out tomorrow; take him to the wooded Eckbauer trail and let him loose like Hansel and Gretel. What did it matter? One boy. One Jew. She wished he would simply vanish.
Outside, voices carried down the quiet street, ice crunched, dogs yipped. They were coming. Elsie moved forward, undid the chain, and pulled the icy child into the kitchen. She closed the door behind. He was smaller than he looked on the Nazi stage, his wrists as thick as petite almond rounds, his fingers like vanilla beans.
“Quickly,” she said. “You’ve got to hide.”
The voices became shouts. The dogs barked.
Elsie searched the kitchen. There was no secret place here. The only one she had was upstairs, the crawl space in her bedroom wall, but they’d never reach it in time. There was but one option. Elsie opened the oven, still warm from the day’s baking. She lifted the boy, his whole body as heavy as a double batch of pretzel dough.
“You’ll be safe,” she told him.
His bony fingers gripped her arms.