The Baker's Daughter (4 page)

E
lsie, hurry! You don't want to keep Herr Hub waiting,” Mutti called from downstairs.

Elsie fumbled with the buttons on her kid gloves. She'd worn them only once—years before at her First Holy Communion. They made everything she touched feel like newly risen dough. At communion, she'd kept them on when the Lutheran minister handed her the chalice. The smooth cup against gloved hands felt truly divine; the bite of red wine, not so much. She'd instinctively put a hand to her mouth after tasting the tart sacrament and stained her right fingers. Mutti thought it a sacrilege and soaked the gloves in water and vinegar for nearly an entire day. Still, the index finger retained a slight blush.

Elsie dabbed a last bit of rouge on her bottom lip and smeared it round, checked that all her hairpins were hidden and blinked hard to make her eyes glossy bright. She was ready. It was her first official Nazi event—a coming-out party—and she couldn't make a better appearance. The dress, ivory silk chiffon trimmed in crystal beading, hung at just the right angle so as to give the illusion her breasts and hips were rounder than their actuality. She puckered her lips at the mirror and thought she looked exactly like the American actress Jean Harlow in
Libeled Lady
.

Her older sister, Hazel, and she had spent one whole summer holiday
sneaking into matinee showings of pirated Hollywood films.
Libeled Lady
was a favorite of the owner who also operated the reel. He ran it twice a week. Elsie had just completed an abridged English language course in
Grundschule
and eagerly plucked familiar words and phrases from the actors' lines. By the time school resumed, she was performing whole scenes for Hazel in their bedroom adorned in Mutti's feather hats and fake pearls. So accurate in her English clip with its musical up and downs, Hazel swore she could've passed as the American blond bombshell's doppelgänger. That was before Jean Harlow died and the Nazis closed the cinema for displaying American movies. The owner, like so many, had quietly disappeared.

Shortly thereafter, the
Bund Deutscher Mädel
was made mandatory, and Elsie and Hazel participated in replacing all the beautiful theater posters of Jean Harlow and William Powell with stark images of the führer. It was their local BDM's community service project, and Elsie had loathed doing it. In fact, she hated most everything about the BDM. She failed at all the “wife, mother, homemaker” training activities except baking, and she detested that her Saturdays were spent in group calisthenics. While Hazel thrived and grew more popular, Elsie felt oppressed and stifled by the uniforms and strict codes of conduct. So at the tender age of eleven, she begged Mutti to work in the bakery. She'd overheard her papa discussing a new assistant to work the front of the shop, taking orders and helping customers. She'd eagerly jockeyed for the job. It would mean a reprieve from the BDM for her and save their family from paying out their earnings. While Papa agreed, he championed the national agenda and made Elsie promise to learn the Hitler Youth's Belief & Beauty doctrine from her older sister. She had, to some extent, but then Hazel became engaged and the BDM forbade participation of girls who were married. When her pregnancy was revealed, she moved to Steinhöring. The BDM didn't admit mothers, either. Thus, by the time Elsie reached the proper age to practice the principles, there was no one to teach her, and the war had made her participation in the bakery paramount. She didn't see the value in the BDM's “harmonic cultivation of mind, body, and spirit” if her family was struggling to make ends meet.

Now, a few hours before an official Nazi party, she wished she'd paid more attention to the BDM lessons of her childhood. It was like trying to conjure the taste of a fruit you've seen in paintings but have never eaten. She wished Hazel could give her solid advice. Elsie's only instruction on the art of glamour came from those faraway memories of a starlet sashaying
about the silver screen. Tonight was the first time she had ever been escorted by a man, and she couldn't afford to make a mistake.

“You dance divinely,” she whispered in English to the mirror and visualized William dancing with Jean, the image all silver-tipped and shimmering.

“Elsie!” Papa called.

Elsie quickly pulled her burgundy cape over her shoulders and took one last look in the mirror, liking the sophisticated woman she saw, then she proceeded downstairs.

At the base, Mutti, dressed in her best edelweiss-embroidered dirndl, swept crumbs out of sight. The rough broom bristled the burnished floor.

“I doubt Josef's attention will be on the
doppelback
crumbs. Leave the mice a Christmas present.”

Mutti stopped sweeping when she saw her and put a fist to her hip. “Ach ja, you'll stand up well with all those fine girls this evening.”

“Freilich!” Papa came from the kitchen. “You'll make Josef proud.” He put an arm around Mutti's shoulder, and she eased into his side.

“I promised Hazel I'd send a photograph,” explained Elsie.

Papa went to find the Bosley camera.

Mutti adjusted the folds of her hooded cape. “Be sure to laugh at his jokes,” she said. “Men always like that. And try—try to be temperate. The führer praises this in women.”

Elsie groaned. “I know, I know. Now stop fussing at me, Mutti.”

“Please, dear, try.”

Elsie yanked away. “Papa, did you find it?” she called out.

Mutti kept on, “Don't act like a gypsy or Jewess—unpredictable spirits. Remember your sister in the Program. Remember the bäckerei. Herr Hub has been so generous.” She cleared her throat. “We'd be as bad off as the rest if it wasn't for his kindness. Look at Herr Kaufmann. The Gestapo came in the middle of the day and packed him off to one of those camps. And all he did was refuse to have his son join the
Deutsches Jungvolk. One cross word—that's all it takes, Elsie
.”

Papa returned with the Bosley. “I'm not sure the film is good.” He opened the shutter and wound the knob.

“Kein Thema.” Elsie sighed.

Mutti worried too much. Like most women in Germany, she wanted her children to be proper, her marriage to be superlative, and her household to be a paragon of decorum. But try as she may, Elsie had never been proficient in the set standards.

“He'll be here any minute. Papa, hurry.” Elsie arranged herself beside
Mutti and prayed to God she wouldn't let them all down this night. She wanted them to be proud.

“Look,” said Papa. “Two of the three finest women in Germany. You'll be a good wife, Elsie. As the führer says”—he paused and lifted a stiff palm to the air—“ ‘Your world is your husband, your family, your children, and your home.' Mutti and Hazel are excellent examples.”

Within the last six months, Papa had begun perpetually referring to her as wife material and quoting the führer with every reference. It wore on Elsie's nerves. She'd never understood why people quoted others. She tried never to quote anyone. She had ideas of her own.

“Gut. I understand. I'll be on my best behavior. Now take the picture.”

Papa looked through the back of the camera lens. “Luana, get closer to your daughter.”

Mutti scooted in, smelling of dillweed and boiled rye berries. Elsie worried the scent would stick, so she squared her shoulders hard to keep a margin between them.

“Ready?” Papa lifted his finger over the button.

Elsie smiled for the camera and prayed Josef would come soon. She was anxious to have her first glass of champagne. He'd promised.

“It's so beautiful,”
said Elsie as the driver pulled up to the Nazi banquet hall on Gernackerstrasse.

The timbered lodge was ornamented with heart-carved balconies and colorful frescoes depicting shepherds in lederhosen, jeweled baronesses, and angels with widespread wings. From each window, red-and-black swastika flags joined their flight, fluttering in the alpine breeze. Cascading lights had been masterfully strung over the snow, illuminating icicles and casting a stunning corona about the structure. Its frosted eaves looked like piped sugar on a lebkuchen. A fairy-tale gingerbread house. Right off the pages of the Brothers Grimm.

“
You
are beautiful.” Josef laid his palm on Elsie's knee. His warmth emanated through the wool cape and chiffon dress.

The driver opened the door. A burgundy carpet had been placed over the snow to keep the attendees from slipping or ruining the shine of their boots. Josef took Elsie's hand and helped her from the cab. She hurried to step out and let the swathe of ivory and crystal gems hide her feet. Although Josef had purchased her dress, she had no shoes to match.
Reluctantly, she'd borrowed Mutti's nicest pair of black T-straps, which still looked worn after an hour of buffing.

Josef took her gloved hand and threaded it through the crook of his arm. “You shouldn't be nervous,” he consoled. “Not with such a pretty German face. They will love you the moment they see you.” He touched her cheek with a leather-gloved finger. Her stomach jumped—the same lurch she felt when the pretzels were a minute from baking to brick. She knew exactly what to do then, rush to pull them from the fire and cool by the window. But here, dressed like a film star, she hadn't a clue. So she took a deep breath. The smell of burning pine air stung her nose. Her eyes watered. The lights ran together, and she gripped Josef's arm to keep steady.

“There, there.” He patted her hand. “Just smile.”

She did as he said.

The door of the lodge swung open and strains of violins cut the wind. Inside, the doorman took her cape. Exposed to the lamplight, the crystal beads cast miniature rainbows against Josef's uniform.

“Heil Hitler, Josef!” greeted a stocky man with a poof of a mustache above his lip, and the remnants of some sticky food caught in the sprout.

Elsie wondered what other bits might be lodged there and tried to hide her repulsion.

“Who is this?” he asked.

“May I present Fräulein Elsie Schmidt.” Josef clicked his heels. “And this is Major Günther Kremer of the SiPo.”

Elsie nodded. “A pleasure.”

Kremer turned to Josef. “Charming.” He winked.

“Günther and I have known each other for many years. He was one of my men in Munich. Is Frau Kremer here tonight?”

“Ja, ja. Somewhere.” He waved over his shoulder. “No doubt discussing her pewter spoons or some such nonsense. Shall we have a drink?”

Down a corridor lined with Nazi flags and fir trees covered in candied fruits, they followed Kremer as he chatted about the wine and food and glitterati in attendance. Elsie wasn't listening, too caught up by the brilliance of the scene. It was everything she'd dreamed, exactly like the lavish ballrooms and festive parties in the Hollywood films of her youth. Her pulse raced. Oh, how she wanted this world: Josef's world of power, prestige, and uncensored euphoria. It dripped off everyone and everything in the room, like fruit glaze on a strawberry tart. For this moment, the dust of the baking board and black cinders of the oven were forgotten; the smudge of labored coins and soiled ration coupons in her palm, washed clean. By
Josef's side, she could pretend to be one of them, a royal princess of the Third Reich. She could pretend the world outside this place wasn't full of hunger and fear.

The corridor opened to the grand banquet hall. Long white tables striped the floor with silver candelabras at each fourth chair. A string quartet sat on a platform, their bows moving back and forth in perfect unison. Couples spun in slow circles on the dance floor like miniature figures on clock gears. The men wore SS uniforms, a background pattern of tan dress coats and beet red armbands. The women highlighted the scene in vibrant dress shades, plum and apricot, orange and cucumber green—a harvest of young and old.

A fleshy brunette in a scarlet lamé dress examined Elsie from head to toe, pausing at her feet. Elsie followed her gaze to the toe of Mutti's T-strap. She quickly scooted it back under the hem. A waiter approached with a tray of bubbling blond flutes. Josef handed one to Elsie.

“Here you are. I always keep my word. But be careful. One never knows the effect of champagne until you've tried it.”

Champagne. Elsie's mouth went wet. She'd only ever watched as screen stars sipped and grew giddy on the beverage. She hoped it would have the same magical effect now. She took a glass and marveled. She'd never known its color: light gold, like the wheat shafts just before cutting. She guessed it would be as sweet as honey and as filling as bread. She licked her lips and drank.

The tangy bubbles bit hard. Brüt dry. A mouthful of baking yeast bloomed in water. She gulped to keep from spitting back into the flute but was not quick enough to hide her expression.