But they couldn’t go on much longer this way. They’d have to close soon. The till was empty anyhow. They’d been bartering with customers for weeks.
When Elsie went to the butcher looking for scraps in exchange for brötchen, he’d replied, “My family eats boiled rats and rotten turnips. We aren’t kings of a bakery like you.”
Kings of a bakery? The very suggestion was laughable. How easy it was to assume that elsewhere was infinitely better than where you stood. Sometimes at night, she dreamed of the TEXAS, U.S.A. magazine advertisement, envisioning a land with row upon row of fat loaves laden with jeweled fruits; bread cubes sodden with thick lamb stew; sugar-dusted sweet breads, ginger-spiced cookies, and fat wedges of chocolate cake soaked in Kirschwasser. She’d awake with cold drool down her chin.
Regardless of the family’s lack of resources, one of Papa’s famous Black Forest cakes had miraculously prevailed. Dressed in a layer of bittersweet chocolate shavings and liquored cherries, it was too expensive for anyone to purchase. So while all the other sweets were parceled out, it stood perfect and untouched beneath the display. Elsie caught herself staring at it with a kind of craving that transcended hunger. She knew every cherry dimple, every beautiful chocolate curl. For her, the cake was a reminder of all that had been and a pledge of all that she’d have again. Somewhere in the world, there was real butter and sugar, flour and eggs, and smiling people with shiny coins in their pockets. Papa would soon take a knife to the cake, cut it up for hungry customers and their family.
A slice of late-April sunlight came through the front windows making the cherries’ cheeks glossy and bright. Yes, Elsie thought, the sun still shines.
Mutti and Papa came from the kitchen, Sunday hats and gloves in hand.
“Julius isn’t coming,” announced Papa.
They were on their way to the Lutheran Church. Elsie had feigned a headache and said she feared a trip out might exacerbate a coming illness. God forgave white lies if they worked for the good of another, she figured.
She wanted to stay home alone with Tobias. His hair had grown out to a short crop, and she’d promised to wash it for him with heated water.
“Real hot water?” Tobias had asked.
He’d never had a warm bath. They’d bathed with rainwater in the Jewish Quarter and by hose in the camp. It pained her to hear of Dachau, both because of Tobias’s poor treatment and her knowledge of Josef’s hand in it.
A tepid bath seemed a small offering. If she could make a pot of tea, she could certainly heat water to wash the hair and neck of a little boy. She should’ve thought of it sooner, and she planned on using the last of her rose shampoo to compensate for so much denied him.
Elsie hadn’t told Tobias about Frau Rattelmüller or Cecile and didn’t intend to. Since she couldn’t be certain of the frau’s success, she decided it best to keep it to herself. She was acutely aware that the cruelest pain was false hope. Sometimes she thought it would be a relief to discover Hazel dead instead of agonizing over whether she was or wasn’t. Such thoughts shamed her so severely she’d developed headaches that left her inconsolable.
“He’s not feeling well either. Hawthorne berry and meadowsweet tea. I’ll make a pot when I get home,” said Mutti.
Julius had been to church a handful of times since his arrival. During his first visit, he complained the entire service of the chill in the chapel and swore the attendance would put him in the grave like his father … and mother. A bitter remark meant to sting them, and it did until Papa said, “Rather to die in righteousness than live in soullessness. That is your mother’s belief. It is what the people’s community was based upon.”
To that, Julius shut his mouth. He knew better than to disagree with Nazi dogma, and he was learning fast not to challenge Papa, either. He never again used Hazel vengefully, but church was an uphill battle. Mutti stopped insisting he attend a few weeks prior when Julius demanded to wear his Pimpfen uniform, though it was still cold out and the short leder-hosen completely inappropriate. He’d gotten his way then and stayed home to play toy soldier in his closet.
This Sunday, Elsie hoped Papa would step in, force the boy to wear practical leather trousers and accompany them. No such luck.
“But Papa,” began Elsie.
He lifted his palm to her. “I need more nuts for the week. I want Julius to collect at least two dozen by the time we return.”
“If he’s in poor health, he shouldn’t be outside,” said Mutti.
Papa huffed and put on his Trenker hat. “Best be off, Luana. We don’t want to be late.
“Keep the windows and doors shut,” called Papa over his shoulder. “There’s a storm cloud to the west.”
Elsie assessed the sky. The sun shone bold and clear. She went back to the kitchen to prompt Julius in his chore. She hoped to give Tobias the promised bath during his absence.
Julius lay sprawled on the floor, his tin men in neat lines before him. “Ja,” he said without looking up.
“Didn’t Opa ask you to get nuts?”
“He did.”
“It could rain. You should go now,” said Elsie.
Julius noted the sunshine through kitchen window and rolled onto his back.
“We need nuts for the week’s bread,” she pressed.
He yawned. “Nobody comes in anymore, so what does it matter?”
Elsie stomped her foot, knocking over a row of toys. “Do you want to eat?”
He met her gaze. “I’ll go when I feel like it, and I don’t right now, so get out of my room.” He kicked the pantry door closed, and it battered against Elsie’s forehead.
That was it. She’d had enough. He’d been with them three months, and she was tired of everyone treating him with kid gloves when he showed no concern for them or his absent mother. On impulse, she lunged through the door, picked up Julius by the collar, and brought him Schmidt nose to Schmidt nose.
“You listen to me, child,” she growled. “Your mother, my sister, would never allow such pigheadedness! And your papa, God rest his soul, would have taken you to the woodshed with a heavy belt by now. Trust me, I knew him well. He was not a man who tolerated insolence. And as for your precious Program.” She shook her head. “Look outside your little closet! Have you heard of the bombings in Vienna, in Berlin? You silly boy. The Third Reich is falling. It will fall absolutely, and all your comrades and teachers will be shot through the gut by the Russians.”
His eyes grew round as eggs.
“It. Is. Over. The Program is over, and I am tired of being hungry. I’m tired of watching Mutti and Papa suffer. I’m tired of good Germans humiliated because why?” She gave him a good shake. “Because their birthrights aren’t pristine enough! Well, you are the son of a common baker’s daughter with as much right to a good life as—as Isaac Grün!”
As much right as Tobias. She felt her insides coming loose at the seams. Her fists trembled with his weight.
“I’m tired of all the hate and fear and ugliness, and most of all, I’m tired of ignorant boys who are too selfish to see that the people around them are dying for them and because of them! I am tired!”
Julius’s lower lip began to quiver; his neck grew red where the linen shirt pulled hard against his skin.
She let go. He buckled at her feet. She clenched her hands together and placed them against her throbbing head.