I went to the Post Exchange today to purchase wooden bowls, mixing spoons, and a baking tray in preparation. We haven’t anything to our name. When I paid for the items, the man at the till said, “Thank you, Mrs. Meriwether” and for a moment, I’d forgotten that was me. Mrs. Meriwether. It has a nice sound, like a greeting. Don’t you agree? It rings of newness, and I can’t wait for the first time I introduce myself as such.
How is home? No word from Hazel still, I suspect. A week ago, Al and I were at the fabric store picking material for curtains when I swore I heard Hazel’s voice beyond the linen bolts. I raced around expecting to find her but, of course, it was not. My disappointment was so great, I set to trembling on the spot, apologized profusely to the woman, and dragged Al out as fast as my legs could carry me. I have not given up that we will one day be together again.
How is Papa? I deeply regret our harsh parting. I pray for his forgiveness and acceptance of us. I miss him and wish he understood that the world has changed and Germany with it. No one is good or bad by birth or nation or religion. Inside, we are all masters and slaves, rich and poor, perfect and flawed. I know I am, and he is, too. We love despite ourselves. Our hearts betray our minds. Al is a good man and I love him, Mutti. That is a gift I do not take for granted.
I’ll write you as often as I can. I hope you reply, though I will hold no ill feelings if you do not. I understand. Still, you are my mutti. I love you, and so I will continue to put pen to paper.
Eternally yours, Elsie
SCHMIDT BÄCKEREI
56 LUDWIGSTRASSE
GARMISCH, GERMANY
FEBRUARY 27, 1947
My dear Elsie,
Enclosed is a photograph of us. Papa had old film developed. He told me to throw this one in the garbage, still bitter over everything, but I could not. You are my child, and I will not lose both my daughters. It is too much in one lifetime. I send it to you instead.
I was happy for your letter from Texas, USA. On the same day, we received news from Hazel’s friend Ovidia. She claims that Hazel’s daughter was taken to the Waisenhaus orphanage in Munich. They call her Lillian. Papa and I are going there next Saturday, though I am unsure of the outcome. The whereabouts of the twin boy and Hazel continue to be a mystery.
Dear, I understand that love makes us do things we can’t explain or justify. So I write and hope that you will return to us someday. I often think of you and Hazel as girls whispering secrets and playing dress-up in your room. Too quickly those days went. Only in heaven will we all be together once more. This is certain.
With great love, Mutti
SCHMIDT BÄCKEREI
56 LUDWIGSTRASSE
GARMISCH, GERMANY
MARCH 8, 1947
Dear Elsie,
We have collected Hazel’s daughter, Lillian, from Waisenhaus. She closely resembles you and Hazel when you were young. It is a strangeness to find ourselves here once more—two young children in our keep. It brings me great joy to have her with us. Even your papa’s spirits have improved since her arrival. She is a pleasant child, strong and of a happy nature.
We have decided not to tell Lillian of her paternity since we have no documentation of the man’s identity. Although Peter Abend is Julius’s known father, the Lebensborn Program listed him under Hazel’s surname. Thus, both children will be Schmidt. It is easier this way. The truth is far too cumbersome. While Julius is at an age of remembering, I pray Lillian never knows. The matter is irreparable, and no good can come of acknowledging it. The Thousand-Year Reich was a fantasy to which your papa still clings. I see it more clearly now and am ashamed of my past foolishness. What Papa and I do agree on is that these are not children of the Fatherland. They are ours.
With great love, Mutti
Chapter Forty-five
SCHMIDT BÄCKEREI
56 LUDWIGSTRASSE
GARMISCH, GERMANY
DECEMBER 23, 1955
Lillian sat reading The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien. A British pilot on winter holiday had given it to her. He’d read it twice and was looking to free up space in his pack before returning home to London. Lillian was a perpetual bookworm and wanted the novel desperately as an early Christmas present. Her opa agreed to the gift for educational purposes only—so Lillian could improve her English. She was the lone family member who could properly communicate with the American and English patrons shuttling in and out the bäckerei door.
“Lillian, put that book down and help Opa finish up,” instructed her oma. “Strong, young hands like yours might be exactly what he needs.”
Lillian sighed and shut the book. Frodo and his friends had just set off to Rivendell. She was heavyhearted to leave the grand adventure and return to her mundane world of rising yeast dough and day-old bread.
Oma covered marzipan sugarplums with dainty strips of parchment so they wouldn’t be peppered with dead fruit flies by morning. In the kitchen, Opa still worked by dusky candle; some of the wax had splashed against the glass luminary, further marginalizing its light. She slid her fingers to the electric wall switch for the overhead bulb but then thought better and let it be.
She watched him from the shadows as he rolled the molasses dough into a smooth, thick skin across the baking board. He took up a giant heart-shaped cookie cutter, positioned it precisely, and pressed down.
For the last-minute Christmas customers, they already had over a dozen lebkuchen, iced with frilly edges and piped with Christmas greetings. But the ones he made now were not for anybody with a deutsche mark to spare. These were special hearts—the gingerbread Opa made each Christmas with their names embroidered in icing.
Opa hummed “Silent Night” as he cut and laid the cookies on the baking sheet. The names of her family: Max, Luana, Julius, Lillian, Hazel, Peter, Elsie, and Albert. He always made eight, though the last four stayed high up on the tree, uneaten and growing hard as slate.
Her parents, Hazel and Peter, had died during the war, or so her Oma told her. But children talk as children do, especially in small towns like Garmisch. When she was still in bloomers, the truth of her paternity was already being whispered about on the playground. It was her schoolmate Richelle Spreckels, the daughter of Trudi Abend Spreckels, who finally broke the news in a rage after being tagged out in a high-stakes game of Fangen.
“It’s not fair!” Richelle cried. “You’re not supposed to be here! Nobody even knows who your papa is!”
The group of children had hushed around Lillian. The game of chase abruptly ended.
“My papa is Peter and my mother is Hazel!” Lillian defended.
“Your mother may be Hazel Schmidt, but my mamma says Peter Abend is not your papa! She knows. She is his sister!” And with that, Richelle had scooped up a wad of soft mud and flung it, streaking Lillian’s smocked, pink dress. A handful of surrounding children had tittered.
She walked home muddy and shamed, and while Oma cleaned the dress as best she could, the stains remained.