In an attempt to usher in normalcy, Mutti enrolled Julius in Grundschule as soon as the local elementary reopened; but it was nothing like his Lebensborn education. He sulked for two days because the teacher sat him next to a girl with a strawberry birthmark across her forearm. Papa explained that skin colorations had nothing to do with a person’s character. It was a lesson lost when two black Amis came into the bäckerei and Papa refused to serve them.
Elsie thought it foolish to turn away any coin. A full till meant full stomachs for the patrons and themselves. Without Nazi patronage, the bakery’s accounts suffered. Weeks after the American occupation began, neither old nor new customers had come through their doors consistently. Though Papa never said a word, Elsie could tell by his gruff demeanor that something had to give. Since no one else was amenable, she took it upon herself and asked Robby if they could use a practiced baker in the R&R Center’s kitchen.
Military regulations were strict, however, and German citizens were suspect. Robby’s commander said he couldn’t run the risk of underground agents infiltrating the kitchen and conspiring a mass poisoning; but Robby convinced him she was harmless and might even make the men’s recreation a bit more recreational. A seventeen-year-old who looked like a pinup girl was an easy sell, though his superior warned him not to get too chummy. Military nonfraternization laws had been established. Any soldier found engaged in unprofessional socialization with a German was threatened with sedition charges. Luckily, the US War Department was an ocean away. Robby gave his commander a wink and a nod, and three days later received an authorized, semiofficial work permit for Elsie to be hired as a waitress.
She worked the dinner shift, but told Mutti and Papa that she got a job washing dishes at the Von Steuben restaurant. Papa grumbled at that. The Von Steuben had earned a fast reputation for catering to rowdy American soldiers who stumbled in for steins of dark ale, bratwurst, and oompah music. It was distasteful to think of Elsie among the patrons, but he soon relented, considering the pay and the fact that she was only a dishwasher. The truth would be harder for him to accept, and she simply didn’t have the energy to argue over it right now. They needed the money, and this provided it. She’d tell him eventually. Meantime, she hoped he never questioned why her hands weren’t raw and sore or why she consistently smelled of molasses, onion, and tomatoes. Robby’s barbecue was the center’s weekly special.
She didn’t like taking orders and carrying trays of hamburgers, fried potatoes, mac and cheese, and other dishes labeled “Home Favorites,” but she did enjoy the time in the kitchen. After hours, Robby taught her more English than all the lines of Libeled Lady, and how to cook American food. In exchange, she taught him German recipes.
Robby’s first lesson was American apple pie, which was basically Papa’s versunkener apfelkuchen, give or take an ingredient. She showed him how to make bienenstich, bee sting honey cake. He said he’d never tasted anything like it, and Elsie was glad for that. Next, Toll House cookies. Robby argued that they weren’t the same because they used military-issued chocolate instead of his favorite Nestlé chocolate. The cookies weren’t anything special, in Elsie’s opinion. Sugar dough with chocolate bits thrown in haphazardly. Too sweet for her palate.
So the days went: early mornings in the bakery and long nights in the R&R kitchen. She liked spending time with Robby, and it hadn’t taken long for their butter and sugar to come together outside the mixing bowl.
The chocolate cakes were baked and cooled. Elsie cut each through the diameter. “Kirschwasser.” She dosed the four moons with cherry liquor.
“This stuff might as well be German holy water.” Robby put his arms around her waist and kissed the back of her neck. Her arms and knees went weak, and she let the bottle glug into the soft center.
Before the wars, the Lutheran Church proclaimed sex outside of marriage as sin. Virgins were championed in life and fables; girls of lesser reputation were shamed and ridiculed; children born out of wedlock were shunned as bastards. But all that had changed. Hazel was regarded as a Nazi broodmare; commended, revered, and now, simply ignored as an unsightly artifact of war. Sure, everyone in Germany had regrets; acts no man could right or cleric forgive. Piety was out of fashion, and Elsie had quickly learned that her youth and beauty would either be put to others’ devices or her own. Never again would she be powerless. What she did with Robby had nothing to do with him and everything to do with herself.
She set down the Kirschwasser bottle. “You will ruin the kuchen,” she warned, then grabbed Robby by the shoulders and yanked him closer.
“What’s the next step?” he whispered under her grip.
“Fill layers mit creme,” Elsie commanded and nodded to the bowl of whipped white.
“And then?” He ran his fingers across her collarbone.
Her cheeks were hot, her dress too tight. “Icing.”
“And then?” He undid the buttons of her bodice.
She could breathe so much better with the front of the dress open, the cool air on her bare skin. The heat of her cheeks rushed down her center like molten chocolate, satisfying her hunger without restraint.
“Schokolade und …” He kissed the ridge above her breasts. Her skin goose-bumped. “Cherries.”
She shoved the bowl and cakes aside as Robby lifted her onto the counter.
Chapter Thirty-five
ELSIE’S GERMAN BAKERY
2032 TRAWOOD DRIVE
EL PASO, TEXAS
JANUARY 30, 2008
“Happy birthday, dear Elsie. Happy birthday to you,” they sang.
Elsie sat at the café table, face aglow in the candlelight of the largest cake Jane could manage to bake secretly.
Reba and Riki came together. They’d reconciled since Jane’s wedding day but had decided to take things slow. He stayed in his apartment downtown, but Reba no longer had to guess in which building he lived. She went there often, bringing dishes she’d cooked at home, and they finally ate together.
Jane and Elsie were giving her a crash course in Baking 101. Her cinnamon sugar kreppels were a hit. Riki said they reminded him of churros his father used to buy him from street vendors in Juárez. Reba’s farmer’s bread was less successful. The yeast hadn’t bloomed, and it came out as hard and flat as cardboard. Riki commended her effort and said they could pretend it was a large, rectangular tortilla. They’d laughed and eaten the bread with homemade salsa and queso fresco. Reba hadn’t felt so light in all her life.
Elsie blew out her candles and the room went dark. “I’m happy to have made it this far!”
Sergio flicked on the lights while Jane cut the cake in thick squares.
“I made one of your favorites, Mom—spiced crumb cake.”
“Spiced crumb cake?” asked Reba. “My granny used to make this. Is it German?”
“No.” Elsie passed them all forks. “I learned the recipe from a friend, a chef from North Carolina. He was stationed in Garmisch after the war.”
“You never told me that,” said Jane. “I figured it was an adaptation of a German cake.” She took a bite.
“Proof—even at my age, I still have secrets.” Elsie scooped a heap of caramelized topping into her mouth. She chewed thoughtfully and swallowed. “Delicious. I could not have made it better.” She winked at Jane and took another forkful.
Jane smiled. Sergio kissed her cheek.
“So you bake German and American recipes—ever considered learning Mexican? You’d make a profit round these parts,” said Riki.