“Well then, I shall have brötchen and butter to eat here. If it is not too much trouble.”
She shrugged and turned to the bread bin. “You get fed. We get money. I don’t see how that could be trouble.” She spoke with her back to him.
Her waist was slim and bent easily without the bulge of full womanhood. He could have fit one hand around.
She returned with a roll and a pat of butter. “The butter costs extra. 30 Reichspfennig or the equivalent in ration coupons.”
Hub set coins on the counter, but he halted her hand before she took them. “Hazel?”
The girl frowned then and swept the coins into her palm.
“My name is Captain Hub. I was a soldier with Peter Abend,” he explained and waited for her reaction.
She gave none. Cool and steady, she deposited the coins in the till and closed it with a shove. “I am Elsie. Hazel’s sister.”
He nodded. Yes, of course. If Hazel shared this fair skin and light hair, it was no surprise they took her into the Lebensborn Program. Even the bones of Elsie’s cheeks and nose showed classic signs of Nordic descent. He’d spent hours researching the scientific legitimacy of Aryan supremacy, hoping to further validate his actions and the hooked cross he wore.
He took the plate. “I’ve come from the Abend home and paying my respects to his family. They said Peter was engaged to Hazel.”
Elsie moved sticky cinnamon-swirled buns from a metal tray to a glass cakestand. “Is that why you’ve come?” she challenged.
“Why I’ve come?” He looked down at the brötchen, the cracked top split into four quarters by a baker’s cross.
She finished arranging the cakes and wiped away a dribble of icing with her finger. “Ja, they were engaged. He died, and she went to Steinhöring with Julius, their son.” Elsie sucked her finger clean, pursed her lips, and ran her eyes from his collar insignias to his boots. “If you want to ask questions, you will have to speak to my father. It is not my place to discuss our family matters with a strange man. Nazi officer or Winston Churchill, I do not know you.” She flipped the fishtail of her braid over her shoulder and took the tray back to the kitchen.
She was bold, a trait both championed and admonished by the statutes of the Bund Deutscher Mädel. Right or wrong, Josef found it refreshing.
“Doch, I came for breakfast,” said Josef with a shrug. His headache was receding.
He sat at one of the two small café tables and tore the roll apart with his fingers, exposing tender, white flesh, slightly gummy in the center.
A woman and her son entered the shop arguing over a sugar roll versus a cheese pretzel. The woman told the boy he’d grow fat as a cow if he ate nothing but sweets, while she herself was round and soft as a baked apple. Exasperated by the cold walk and prolonged argument, she wheezed through her mouth and yanked the boy to the counter.
“Pick something healthy,” she instructed. “How about a bialy?”
The boy pressed his nose against the display case, leaving a greasy smudge.
His mother crooked her head toward the back kitchen. “Elsie!” she called. “Max—Luana! Did you decide to take a holiday?”
The boy stuck out his tongue at her while her attention was deviated.
Josef crunched his crust, amused by the child’s disdain and eager to see Elsie again.
She returned clapping flour from her hands. “We are here, Frau Reimers.”
An older man with a ruddy complexion and hair the color of sea salt followed close behind. “Grüs Gott, Jana! And Herr Ahren. How are my best customers?”
“Gut,” said Frau Reimers curtly. “I need a loaf of bauernbrot and Ahren will have—” She looked down at the boy. “Well? Tell Herr Schmidt what you want?”
“A cinnamon roll,” he said flatly.
The woman sighed and adjusted her hat. “Of course you pick the most expensive thing. Fine, but remember, the Hitler Youth doesn’t take fat boys.”
“I don’t want to go to Hitler Youth,” he spat back.
The mother smacked his cheek. “Stupid. Look—” She turned to Josef and pointed. “All good Germans want to be officers. But you’ve got to fit the uniform.”
Josef continued to chew without acknowledgment. The boy was far too young to worry about joining the military ranks or the consequences of a sweet bun.
“Oh, Jana. Let the boy be. Look at me! I grew up on sugar bread and pastries and the doctor says I’m fit as a fiddle.”
“One cinnamon roll?” asked Elsie.
The woman shrugged her shoulders. “I suppose. But Max, at these prices …”
“Sugar is hard to find. Supplies aren’t what they used to be.”
“And wouldn’t it be God’s punishment to give me a child who eats nothing but sugar and butter!”
Elsie bagged the bread and boxed the pastry while her father changed the discussion to that of the cold weather’s effect on his dill plant by the windowsill.
“Here you go, Ahren,” Elsie whispered to the boy. “I like these, too.” She winked.
He gave a quick smile.
“Wunderbar!” Frau Reimers peered into the bag. “Max, you are the best baker in the Fatherland.” She pulled shiny coins from a velvet change purse and clinked them on the counter. “Now come, Ahren.”
The boy followed her out. In the absence of the woman’s loud breathing, the bakery seemed too quiet. Herr Schmidt’s footsteps thudded the tiled floor as he approached.
“Hello, Officer,” he said. “My daughter says you have some questions about my eldest, Hazel, and Peter Abend, God rest his soul.”
Josef respectfully stood and wiped crumbs from his lips. “That is partially true—I came to see the Abends and stopped here for breakfast.”
“Ack, ja. And we are happy you did.” Herr Schmidt extended his hand for a firm shake. “The Abends are good Volk. Losing Peter was terrible for us all.” He took a seat at Josef’s table and gestured for him to do the same. “Elsie, bring us black tea.”
“All we have is chicory root,” she replied.
“Then brew the chicory,” instructed Herr Schmidt.
“But, Papa, we don’t have much left and—”
“Do what I say, child,” he firmly commanded. “It is not every day we have an officer and a friend of the family as a customer.”
Elsie obeyed and left the room.
“She misses her sister,” explained Herr Schmidt. “She’s young and doesn’t fully understand politics, war, patriotism … But we are very proud of our Hazel.”
Josef swallowed a last bit of brötchen caught in his cheek.
“Sag mal, where are you from?” asked Herr Schmidt.
“Munich,” replied Josef.
Herr Schmidt leaned back in his chair. “Ah, the capital of the movement.”
Josef nodded with a smile and pushed away his plate, a lump of the sweet butter left unused.
Chapter Sixteen
EL PASO BORDER PATROL STATION
8935 MONTANA AVENUE
EL PASO, TEXAS
NOVEMBER 11, 2007
“Carol’s making spaghetti with meatballs for dinner, Rik. You sure you don’t want some?” asked Bert, pulling on his coat.
“Thanks, but I picked up Taco Cabana.” Riki pointed to the large takeout bag on the minifridge. “Figured the kids would like it, too.”
“I don’t know how you do it!” said Bert. “I tried your Taco Cabana diet and gained six pounds in a week. That’s almost a pound a day!”
“Must be genetics.” Riki flexed an arm. “A body knows the food of its heritage.”
Bert laughed. “Or more likely, when I have a meal with Carol and the kids, I only get to eat half of my plate. There’s always too much going on.” He shrugged with a smile and rapped the schedule board with his knuckles. “Tomorrow, you’re taking them over?”