“Reach under the bedside,” instructed Mutti.
Elsie did as she said until her fingers grazed a stack of bound paper, leafy with age. She held them to the light and recognized her own handwriting.
“My letters to you?”
“Not the last two,” said Mutti.
Elsie flipped the stack and pulled the bottom pages from the collection; the stationery was thin and more brittle than the rest. Carefully, she unfolded and at last read the words of Frau Rattelmüller:
Elsie, I heard the Gestapo was at your home so I went to see for myself. It was God’s providence for I was outside the bakery when the soldiers came with Tobias. Upon seeing me, the boy let out a shout as mighty as the archangel Gabriel. In the confusion of the storm and panic in the streets, I was able to rush him to my home undetected. He is here now. I have packed and plan to leave with him at nightfall with all those fleeing the city. I believe he will pass as a son of Germany on the journey to the Swiss border. Old as I may be, these bones will have to manage. I promised I would do what I could to help you. I make good on that promise now. Before we take our leave, I wanted you to know of the boy’s safety. Do not worry. I will protect him with my life. I hope this note reaches you without consequence. I leave it at your back door and pray you are the first to cross the threshold. May God bless and protect you and your family, dear Elsie. I will try to contact you again when it is safe.
—Frau R.
FROM: 30 PLATTENSTRASSE
ZURICH, SWITZERLAND
POSTMARKED: JUNE 25, 1945
Elsie, I hope this letter finds its way to your good hands. Tobias and I are among friends in Zurich. The news of the Allied invasion of Garmisch is bittersweet. Though we are German, our Fatherland is no longer a welcoming place. The Jewish families I hid for over a year—the Mailers and the Zuckermanns—lost nearly all their extended family members over the course of these wretched years. Thanks to your engagement ring, we were able to bribe the SS guards and smuggle Nanette Mailer, her friend, and the Zuckermanns’ niece, Tabita, from KZ Dachau before the march. Unfortunately, Tobias’s sister, Cecile, succumbed to the camp’s harsh conditions mid-January. I have broken the news to him and am deeply sorry we were not able to help her and so many others.
The Mailers and Zuckermanns have decided to leave Europe. The Mailers are bound for Israel. The Zuckermanns for the United States of America. I am too old to undertake such extensive pilgrimages. My sister-in-law lives in Lucerne. I will go to her instead and have offered Tobias a home with me there, should he choose. However, he has formed a strong kinship with the Zuckermanns. Having lost their nine-year-old son in the KZ Dachau, Tobias is a balm to their hearts. They have asked him to join their family in America. This proposition brought a smile—the first since the news of Cecile’s death—so I pray it is a sign that he plans to accept. I believe he would be happy with the Zuckermanns. They are among the finest people I have ever been blessed to know. Tobias would be provided for and loved the rest of his life. He is so young with so much living yet to do. I hope this knowledge brings you comfort.
Tobias and I will be at this address until the second week in July when we all take our leave from Zurich. He is anxious to hear from you and to write to you, but until we know for certain you are receiving these letters, it is safer for me to correspond. I pray daily for your safety and the safety of your family.
—Frau R.
Elsie’s eyes welled and ran wet and unabated. Tobias lived! She had saved him. She consumed the words like a starved captive, pressing them so close that she left pink lipstick smears on the fragile pages. Tobias was in America, like her. She might’ve walked right by him at the grocery store and never known. The Zuckermanns? Had she heard the family name mentioned over the years? Though she had not, her joy ballooned, threatening to lift her from the bed.
But Mutti’s face remained dark and doleful. “I’m sorry I kept these from you.” She clasped her hands together. Her wedding band slipped down her finger. “I was afraid. I found the first letter at the back door the night after the Gestapo had …” She swallowed. “I didn’t want them returning to hurt you again. I didn’t want them to harm Frau Rattelmüller, either. When the second letter arrived and the Americans were here, I still feared for us. I couldn’t risk the only daughter I had left.” She put a feeble hand on Elsie’s cheek. “I hid the letters and prayed for Frau Rattelmüller to stop writing. I thought it best if we all forgot those hard years. Whatever you did, whatever you were involved with, I didn’t want to know.” Her fingers had gone clammy against Elsie’s skin. “I simply wanted to move on. And you did, though not in the way your papa or I expected.” Her forehead shimmered with fever sweat. “He was so angry with you for agreeing to marry an American. I didn’t want to bring any more strife to our house by exposing the letters. So I kept them hidden and you moved to America. And year by year, they seemed less important, less relevant to our lives.” Her hand dropped to the bed. “But I was wrong. Wrong to keep them from you and wrong to be afraid of their contents. I should have been proud.” She turned, her countenance intense and bolder than it’d been since Elsie arrived. “I am proud—of everything you did to help that Jewish child. I’m proud of everything you have done in your life,” she said, her body collapsing inward from the force of it.
Footsteps echoed on the stairs; a slice of light fell across the bedroom floor followed by the tangy aroma of onion and caraway seeds.
“Schwarzbrotsuppe,” said Papa. He and Lillian each carried two bowls.
Mutti squeezed Elsie’s hands still clasped round the letter bundle. “These are yours and always were,” she whispered.
“Bread soup warms the soul,” said Lillian. “Isn’t that what you say, Opa?”
Mutti ran her hand over his arm. “My Max. A finer husband a woman could not have prayed to have. Thank you.”
Papa cleared his throat twice, but his voice failed him.
“Eat, Elsie,” she instructed. “It’s been a long trip, and I want to hear about Jane and Albert and your bakery. Can you believe it, Max? Our daughter is a baker and businesswoman. The girls today.” She smiled at Elsie and winked at Lillian. “The world holds so much promise for them.”
Papa looked to all three; his chest expanded with approval.
They sat around the bed together clinking spoons in bowls, laughing and listening to Elsie’s stories of home. But while they filled their stomachs warm, Mutti ate nothing, her soup congealing on the night table.
Chapter Forty-eight
SUNSET FUNERALS
9400 NORTH LOOP
EL PASO, TEXAS
MAY 11, 2008
The funeral parlor was crowded and balmy hot from too many bodies pressed against one another. In the center was a stone urn containing Elsie’s ashes and beside it, an ornate gold plaque inscribed: IN LOVING MEMORY OF ELSIE SCHMIDT MERIWETHER, BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER, TRUE FRIEND AND BAKER. JANUARY 30, 1928—MAY 7, 2008. The simplicity of the urn and the opulence of the plaque contrasted. Reba figured the funeral home had supplied the latter. It matched the gold thread curtains and brocade rug.
Reba had taken the first flight from San Francisco to El Paso, but it made little difference. By the time she had seen the Franklin Mountains out the plane window, Elsie was gone.
While Jane arranged for the cremation and funeral, Reba wrote up and sent out the obituary to every newspaper in Texas. She knew it only mattered locally, but somehow that didn’t seem enough; besides, it gave her something to do, unlike now. She paced between the memorial wall and the urn, bumping elbows and hips and making awkward conversation with strangers.