In an attempt to appease Julius, Mutti fashioned a mattress out of old tablecloths and straw and cleared the kitchen pantry closet of its few remaining items. This was to be his bedroom. He wasn’t thrilled but accepted it as the only extra space available. Sullen and ill-tempered in his new surroundings, he spent a majority of his days therein lining his toy soldiers in the grooves and divots of the wooden floorboards. Like curdled milk, he seemed soured with a great sadness no one could alleviate.
Elsie didn’t blame him entirely. He didn’t know them. Hazel moved to Steinhöring while still pregnant, and they’d only visited him as a newborn. His family was the Program. He talked incessantly of his instructors, of Nazi customs, and how much he hated foreigners. All of which no one dared debate, but such harsh words from a seven-year-old made them uncomfortable. Julius knew everything about authority and discipline and nothing of family and compassion.
Though they were of similar age and shared a fairness of eye, Julius and Tobias were as different as night and day. Julius remained stony and emotionless, even when Mutti showed him photographs of his mother, Hazel, and smoothed his cheek with the back of her hand. It produced not a flicker of reciprocated affection or appreciation. He refused to wear the sweaters Mutti knitted, declaring the wool smelled of sheep’s dung as did the mattress on which he slept. It seemed the only pleasure he gleaned was in food, though he had a word of criticism for all they offered, balking at the vegetables and griping that the spaetzle tasted like shoestrings—a product of his own beloved SS flour and powdered eggs. Nothing was right. Nothing was good enough.
Mutti doted on him regardless, but Papa was reserved. Elsie knew him well. He didn’t approve of the boy thinking himself so far above their station as bakers. After all, this was his daughter’s son, his blood. So in the first week, he put the boy to work. Julius whined and complained through each batch of brötchen and pastries. He brought a bitterness to the kitchen that they all feared would bake into the bread. After a week, Mutti asked Papa to let him be, and he spent the rest of his days playing war games in the kitchen pantry.
Before daybreak, while Papa heated the oven and Mutti catered to Julius, Elsie often had the whole upstairs to herself, allowing her time to tend to Tobias before joining Papa in the kitchen.
After all her earlier descriptions of Julius, Tobias was curious about her nephew’s arrival. Still, it came as a surprise when he whispered one morning, “I’ve been listening for his music.”
Elsie was in a rush to give him the wool socks Mutti had knitted for Julius, and Julius had subsequently thrown to the floor for their itchiness. He would never wear them, and Mutti would be wounded once again for a gift rejected. Elsie figured it worked out well to put the items to Tobias’s good use.
“I put my ear to the floor, but all I heard was the pots and pans and customers,” Tobias continued as Elsie pulled the socks up to his knees. “What songs does he sing for you?”
“Sing? Who?”
“Julius. You said he sings. Since I can’t anymore, I thought I might listen to him.” His eyelashes fluttered.
Elsie handed him the breakfast Mutti had brought her: a deformed pretzel wrapped in a muslin napkin.
“He hasn’t had a chance yet,” she said and tugged his nightcap down over his ears so he wouldn’t catch cold. “Now eat.”
Tobias nodded. “I haven’t sung in a long time either—not really. The officers made me sing, but their songs are not so beautiful. Not like the ones my father wrote and my mother, sister, and I sang together.” He cradled the napkin in his lap. “Sometimes I worry that I’ll forget them. Sometimes I think I’ve already forgotten my voice.”
Elsie winced and ran her hand over his head. “I’ll never forget your voice,” she comforted. “And you haven’t forgotten either. It’s still inside you and always will be. Trust me.”
He nodded and scooted back into the nest of blankets and items in the crawl space. A Boy’s Will lay open to “The Trial by Existence.”
“That’s a good one,” said Elsie. “ ‘And the mind whirls and the heart sings, and a shout greets the daring one,’ ” she recited from memory.
“ ‘But always God speaks at the end,’ ” Tobias whispered back as Elsie secured the board closed again.
Papa had been pleased with Elsie’s success while they were in Steinhöring and entrusted her with many more of the family recipes. Elsie enjoyed her new responsibilities in the kitchen and had grown accustomed to greeting Frau Rattelmüller at the back door prior to opening. She’d been doing it for so long now, Mutti and Papa thought nothing of it. Her daily order became a kind of unspoken code. A dozen brötchen meant all was well. Her absence today signified trouble.
The customer line had shortened. Elsie was grateful. Papa’s sourdough loaves wouldn’t be out of the oven for another thirty minutes.
Julius came from the pantry room with his face freshly washed and hair still holding comb tracks. Mutti had pressed his pants and shirt for him, just as they had in the Program.
“You look very nice,” said Mutti. She took his hand and gave his arm a jiggle. “Say good morning to Tante Elsie.”
His stare shot straight through her. “I would like lebkuchen for breakfast.”
“Come now, you shouldn’t have sweets for breakfast. They didn’t let you have that for breakfast in Steinhöring, did they?”
“Nein.” Julius rolled his eyes. “We had soft-boiled eggs and sausage, white bread with fresh butter, apricot jam, and fruit from every corner of the German empire. But I don’t see that here.” He pulled his hand free from her and crossed his arms over his chest.
Mutti nodded. “Doch, you don’t.” She wrung her hands together. “Elsie, give Julius a lebkuchen—and a glass of milk.”
Elsie had no time to cater to her spoiled nephew. She picked up the last gingerbread, a large witch house hung ornamentally from the bread bin since Christmas, broke it in half and handed it to Mutti.
“Elsie!” snapped Mutti.
“Pumpernickel raisin?” asked the next customer while balancing a bundled child on her hip. The child slept, cheek against the woman’s breastbone, mouth hung open.
“No raisins. Only pumpernickel,” replied Elsie.
The woman dug in her pocket and extended a gold christening cross. “It’s all I have?”
Elsie paused long enough to notice the young mother’s sharp cheekbones and ashen lips. “Keep it.” She patted her hand and reached for the dark loaf.
The woman’s eyes glazed tearful, and she kissed her sleeping babe. “Thank you so very much.”
“Elsie, the milk?” asked Mutti.
Elsie huffed. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to get it yourself, Mutti. I’m busy.”
Julius’s icy glare pricked the back of her neck. Mutti led him away, presumably to get milk, but Elsie knew they would find none. They hadn’t had milk for weeks. Papa had made do by watering down cream and bartering with the cheese maker for the leftover whey.
“Next?” Elsie called, and a new customer stepped up.
“A word with you?”
Elsie didn’t recognize the figure at first, wearing an ankle-length trench coat and a black lace-trimmed hat. Frau Rattelmüller lifted the edge of her veil, revealing a terse expression and sunken eyes. The patrons behind groaned impatiently.
“Give me two minutes, and I’ll meet you by the back woodpile,” whispered Elsie. She wrapped a thin slice of stollen in brown paper and handed it over the counter. “Thank you.”