Sergio nodded in agreement.
Jane wagged a finger. “You can get flan or tres leches on every corner of town, but ain’t nobody’s got authentic German bread. That’s what makes us unique. We’ve cornered the market.”
“Actually, I would like to learn,” said Elsie.
Jane’s cake crumbled off her fork.
Elsie shrugged. “Why not? You are never too old for learning a new trick. It will not be as good as my neighbor Maria Sanchez, but I don’t expect to open a Mexican bakery.” She turned to Riki. “Do you know how to bake?”
Riki swallowed hard. “Not really. My recipe repertoire consists of one: pan de muertos. The bread of the dead. I used to help my mom make it for el Día de Los Muertos.”
“The bread of the dead.” Elsie enunciated each word. “How appropriate!” She laughed alone.
“Don’t be morbid,” said Jane.
“Ach was! It is my eightieth birthday. I’ve lived long enough to know you can’t take your own mortality so seriously. We have a saying in Germany: Alles grau in grau malen. Don’t paint everything black. We have no right to when others have had it far worse.”
Reba gave Jane a consoling smile.
“The bread is actually a reaffirmation of life,” explained Riki. “Mexicans see death entirely different than folks in Western culture. We celebrate death and life as a continuum, a coexistence of sorts. We even eulogize it as an elegant woman.”
“Catrina—Lady of the Dead,” said Sergio. “A beautiful, fleshless woman with a flowered hat.” He grinned; cinnamon sugar stuck to his lower lip.
Jane brushed it away with her thumb. “Isn’t that uplifting.”
Elsie ignored her. “I love flowered hats. After the war ended, I went to a strassenfest in Munich and wore a hat with red geraniums. I’ve not thought about that summer in many years.” She patted Riki’s arm. “This Lady of the Dead sounds like my kind of woman. You’ll show me how to make the dead bread. That can be your birthday gift. Jane and Reba will learn too.”
“Us?” Jane looked to Reba.
Elsie nodded. “You must teach your children their culture. German and Mexican. Same for you, Reba.”
Reba choked on her mouthful of spongy spice.
Riki smiled. “Deal.”
“Prost!” Elsie lifted her glass of apfelsaftschorle, half apple juice and half mineral water. “To new friends and family! And, God willing, another year in this crazy world.”
A slow tune came on the car radio. Reba and Riki parked in front of Reba’s condo on Franklin Ridge. She couldn’t put off telling him about San Francisco any longer.
Leigh had called and left a message while Reba was at the bakery celebrating Jane and Sergio’s nuptials. The job was hers. She’d gone numb when she heard the news. Too much happiness packed into one day: seeing Riki, Jane and Sergio’s marriage, and then her dream job. It was everything she’d wanted. So why did she still feel like the sun had been eclipsed? She remembered Deedee’s words, Be happy, Reba. Promise me you’ll let yourself.
Reba returned Leigh’s call, accepted the job, and asked for the latest possible start date. Leigh hadn’t budged much. “First Monday in February,” she’d said. Reba gave the Sun City editorial staff notice and put the condo on the market with a local realtor. She boxed up what she could and offered the rest to her neighbors, paid the utilities through the month, canceled her subscription to El Paso Times, and emptied the cupboards. She’d told almost everyone about her impending departure except Riki. Things had been going so well. She didn’t want to burst the bubble.
Writing the date atop Elsie’s birthday card, she realized she’d have to start the drive to California by the weekend. Elsie’s birthday party wasn’t the appropriate moment to break the news to him; however, now didn’t feel right either. This was her chance at big-time journalism. She had to make him understand and had just gotten up the nerve to speak when he turned down the radio.
“Can you imagine being eighty years old?” He scratched his five o’clock shadow. “She’s seen so much.”
Reba nodded, deciphering how she could segue to San Francisco. “A real adventurer. Not afraid of the unknown.” It was the best she could come up with.
Riki nodded.
“What I mean is—all her life, she went for it, whatever that ‘it’ was.”
He cocked his head.
She was spiraling and needed to get to a definitive point. “It’s inspirational. Makes you want to—to take the bull by the horns, you know?”
The radio played a low jingle through the pause in conversation.
Finally, Reba blurted out, “Riki, San Francisco Monthly offered me an editorial position. It’s a top-notch magazine. A dream job! I start right away.”
She stared hard at the neon lights of the radio station: 93.1. The car idled loudly. She didn’t dare face him.
“You’re going?” he asked.
“It’s what I’ve always wanted.”
“Uh-huh.” The car heater whizzed and popped. “San Francisco. You’ll be on the water.”
Reba nodded. “The bay. You could come.” It was a weak offer, but she wanted him to know she’d considered.
He breathed in deep and held it. “My life is here. I can’t pick up and leave.” He blew out the air. “I’m happy for you, Reba. Really I am.” He put his hand on hers.
She turned and saw that he meant it. His eyes were soft and painfully earnest, and instead of feeling relief, the sadness within welled up.
Chapter Thirty-six
STRASSENFEST
LEOPOLDSTRASSE IN SCHWABING
MUNICH, GERMANY
JULY 28, 1945
“They got pretzels with mustard over there!” Robby yelled above the oompah band. He bobbed and weaved through the crowd, pulling Elsie along by the hand. Sam and Potter trailed behind with tall pints of frothy pilsner.
Elsie tasted bile at the thought of spicy mustard. She’d been feeling poorly for a couple weeks. At the end of her night shifts, she barely had the strength to wave to Robby from the kitchen galley and bicycle home. She was exhausted from sunup to sundown, and her lack of appetite wasn’t helping. The butcher received a new shipment of pork, thanks to the Americans, and Mutti was able to buy long links of sage sausage—Elsie’s old favorite—but the smell of grease from the kitchen made her nauseated, and she hadn’t craved a single bite. Mutti brushed it off as “working too hard,” which they all were; but after so many months of paucity, it was strange to now have no hunger for the very foods she once desired most.
A day off, that’s what she needed. The R&R kitchen was closed that Saturday so a leaky water pipe could be replaced. Elsie asked Papa if she could take the day off from the bäckerei, too. Robby and a couple friends were catching the train to Munich for a summer street carnival. Since the Nazis forbade celebrations unconnected to the party, no town had been able to host their traditional events in years. Deep down, Papa missed the old ways as much as everyone. He consented for her to go with a friend from the Von Steuben, though no such friend existed.
The morning of the festival, she’d slept longer than usual and it helped. She awoke energized and seemingly restored, even eating a plate of boiled ham for breakfast, though it tasted off.
Mutti surprised her with a new dirndl beautifully embroidered with delicate poppies and trimmed in matching red. It was the material Hazel had sent.
“You need something new to wear to the festival,” Mutti had said and smoothed the dirndl’s seams between her fingers. “I know red was your sister’s favorite, but she would want you to have it. With your eyes, you can wear any color and look beautiful.”