Those Who Save Us (10 page)

Ruth is not in her office nor in the teachers’ lounge, but Trudy finally spots her in the cafeteria. She is sitting alone at a long wooden table, picking withered blueberries out of a muffin and wiping them on a napkin with a child’s scowl of distaste.

What are you doing here? she asks Trudy.

Looking for you, Trudy says.

Well, that’s flattering, but I don’t get it. I’d have thought you’d be home in a hot bath by now.

Trudy pulls out a chair and sits next to her.

Listen, she says rapidly. I need to pick your brains about your Remembrance Project. How you organized it, exactly how you’re going to find subjects, where you’re going to get your videogra-phers—

Does this mean I’m going to have a shiksa interviewer? Ruth interrupts.

Trudy laughs. She is shaking all over with excitement.

No, she says. I’m afraid not. But I have a proposal for you, and I’m going to need your help. Because I’ve got my own Project to do.

Anna and Mathilde, Weimar,

1940–1942

“Backe, backe Kuchen!”

der Bäcker hat gerufen.

“Wer will guten Kuchen backen,

Der muss haben sieben Sachen:

Butter und Salz,

Zucker und Schmalz,

Milch und Mehl,

und Eier machen den Kuchen gel’.”

“Bake, bake a cake!”

the baker called out.

“Whoever wants to make a good cake,

He must have seven things:

Butter and salt,

Sugar and lard,

Milk and flour,

and eggs to make the cake gold.”

12

ANNA HAS BEEN AT THE BAKERY FOR A WEEK BEFORE SHE ventures upstairs. Or perhaps it is more than a week. She doesn’t know for certain; she has lost track of time. As she lies on the pallet in the bakery cellar, she stares at the ragged black marks on the damp wall next to her head. Somebody hidden here before her has obviously charted the duration of his stay with a lump of coal: about a month, all told. Anna could do the same. But she rejects the idea as involving too much effort, and in any case, the passage of time means little to her.

She curls on the cot like the embryo within her, drifting in and out of sleep. Sometimes when she wakes, she hears the wooden soles of the bakery’s patrons clocking overhead, the meaningless snippets of their conversations. At other times, she opens her eyes to a darkness so complete that it seems to press on her with the weight of a mattress. It is only then that Anna can bring herself to choke down the food Mathilde has left for her, in a covered tray at the foot of the treacherous wooden staircase.

Since Anna’s arrival, mindful of Anna’s delicate condition and the cellar’s lack of amenities, the baker has implored Anna to move into her own living quarters above the storefront. But Anna cannot stomach the thought of lying beneath a braid of Mathilde’s long-dead mother’s hair, surrounded by dried flower arrangements and gay photographs of Mathilde’s deceased husband Fritzi. The claustrophobia of the basement suits Anna much better; it is as close as she can come to the conditions Max must be enduring. Cupping her swollen breasts, Anna relishes the ropy rasp of rat tails across the floor with a penitent’s zeal. She is grateful to cough in the fine black dust that the delivery of coal into the nearby chute raises each morning. The rank smell of fear from the others Mathilde has concealed here comforts Anna; with her eyes closed, she might be in the maid’s staircase in the
Elternhaus.

One evening, however, when Anna wakes from her doze, she bolts upright as if in response to an interior command: Enough. The movement is too abrupt; minnows of light dart across her vision. Anna waits for them to disperse, then climbs from the pallet and up the steps to the kitchen. Even this simple act requires enormous will; her limbs are filled with wet cement rather than blood. Anna recalls this same sensation from the days after her mother’s death. Grief is heavy. Perhaps a new anguish invokes the physical symptoms of an older one.

She sways in the doorway of the kitchen, shading her eyes with a hand.

Mathilde, she says, her voice a croak. What day is it?

The baker doesn’t hear her. She is attacking the vast wooden worktable with a butter knife, dislodging flour paste from its cracks. Merely watching her makes Anna tired.

Mathilde, she says again.

The baker starts, breathing hard.

Well, well, she says. Sleeping Beauty awakes.

Is tomorrow Sunday? I haven’t heard churchbells. Have I been here longer than a week?

It’s August, Mathilde says.

She continues her task. Her buzzing voice, trapped in layers of fat like a fly in a bottle, is punctuated with small gasps of effort when she asks, And how is our princess this evening?

Wunderbar,
Anna says.

She makes her way to the sink, which is enormous and double-sided, like the laundry basin in the
Elternhaus.
She pumps water into it, then drinks some from her cupped hands. It tastes of the iron in the pipes. Her hair, hanging over her shoulders, has separated into oily ropes, and she is suddenly aware of how she must smell. She sniffs the crook of her elbow: a bit sour, salty and creamy, like buttermilk. Since conceiving the baby, Anna’s own scent is strange to her.

I hope I’ve not been too much of a burden, she says.

Mathilde snorts. Hardly. Hardly even knew you were down there.

Anna sizes up the baker as she bustles about: the bulk constrained by an apron; the tiny doll’s head, its thin dark hair combed in such severe lines that it appears painted on; the scalp shining between the furrows; the suspicious black eyes embedded in flesh.

I’m no princess, Anna tells her. I’m ready to start earning my keep.

Mathilde gives Anna an incredulous look.

Shit, she mutters, brushing past Anna to soak a rag with water. Returning to the worktable, she says as she scrubs: Your papers are still good, you know. You could still go to Switzerland, have your baby there.

No, says Anna. I’m not leaving Weimar.

Oh, you’re a princess all right, used to getting your own way. Have you thought about what it’ll be like for you here? Your father alone could make your life miserable.

I don’t intend to have any contact with him, Anna says. He doesn’t know where I am, and if he finds out, I don’t care. He turned Max in to the Gestapo himself.

Of course he did. Who else? I’m surprised he didn’t turn you in too. No father likes to think of his daughter rutting with anyone, let alone a Jew. But I suppose he spared you on account of the baby.

I didn’t tell him about the baby, Anna says.

This earns Anna a second startled glance.

Hiding a Jew he could forgive, if he could still keep me in the house until he marries me off, Anna explains. But my condition will show soon enough, and he couldn’t turn a blind eye to that. Not only would I be worthless goods, it would make him a laughingstock among his friends. They might even accuse him of condoning
Rassenschande
under his own roof. He would have to turn me in.

Mathilde gives the table a sweeping stroke.

Don’t you have a nice auntie in some other city, she asks, somewhere else you could go, away from this mess?

No. And I wouldn’t go if I did. I must be where I can get news of Max. Have you heard anything? Have they— taken him to the camp?

The baker nods, rubbing at a floury patch with a fingernail.

He won’t last long up there, she says, skinny as he is.

Tears spring to Anna’s eyes at this blunt statement. She longs so to slap Mathilde that she can see the reddening mark her hand would leave on the older woman’s face. By nature, Anna is not given to anger, and the fury that has paralyzed her for days frightens her. There is an irony in it: having finally escaped Gerhard’s rage, she is now enslaved by his emotional legacy. Like father, like daughter. But the feeling is now useful, steeling her spine to deal with Mathilde. If there is any belated lesson that Gerhard has taught Anna, it is that the only way to earn a bully’s respect is to respond in kind.

She walks over to the table. Then I’ll carry on the work Max was doing, she tells Mathilde. I’ll take his place.

Mathilde doesn’t bother to look up. A princess like you? she scoffs. Please! You have no idea what you’re talking about.

Then tell me.

Mathilde tosses the rag into the sink and waddles into the storefront. Anna hears the
ding!
as the register is opened, the sound of the baker removing the cash drawer. She folds her arms and waits.

Upon her return Mathilde lowers herself onto a stool and scrapes it over to the table. She separates Reichsmarks, change, and ration coupons. Counting under her breath, she enters numbers into a ledger, tongue lodged in the corner of her mouth.

You’re still here? she asks, looking up in feigned surprise. Not back to bed yet? You should go. A woman in your condition needs rest.

Anna reaches over and slams the ledger shut, nearly catching the baker’s stubby fingers.

Listen to me, you, she says. Don’t you forget that I hid Max in my own house, right under my father’s nose. I couriered information back and forth for you. I’ve got as much nerve as you or anyone else.

Mathilde examines Anna for a moment.

Sit, she commands.

Anna obeys.

The baker gets up and walks to the cuckoo clock on the wall. Opening one of its tiny decorative doors, she retrieves something that she sets on the worktable.

You know what this is? she asks. You should have used a couple of these.

Anna picks up the condom, gingerly.

Go on, says Mathilde, unroll it.

Inside the prophylactic Anna finds a slip of paper no longer than a finger, covered with writing the size of ants. She brings it to her eyes, squinting to decipher the minuscule code. One line in particular catches her attention:
The Good
Doktor
sends best regards.

Max, Anna murmurs. She glances at Mathilde. You got this from him?

The baker nods, sitting back down. Not directly, she says. But we have our ways of communicating.

How?

If your lover didn’t trust you enough to tell you, why should I?

Anna says nothing, but the look she bends on the baker makes the older woman suddenly fall to inspecting her hands.

All right, I’ll tell you how it works, since you obviously won’t give me a moment’s peace otherwise, Mathilde mutters. Well . . . We have a deal, the SS and me. They provide me with supplies, I deliver whatever goods they order. Since 1937 I’ve been doing this, since that hellhole was just a muddy pit in the ground. Koch, the
Kommandant,
came to me himself. He said he’d heard about the quality of my pastries.

Mathilde preens a bit, then flushes at Anna’s arched brows.

Well, they are the best, she says defensively. And if I didn’t supply them, somebody else would. Why should another baker get the business? Besides, I could see the other advantages to the arrangement, ways to use it for the Resistance. Oh, yes, the network existed even then. You wouldn’t know it, but there are plenty of people in this city who hate what the Nazis are doing. And what I could see during my deliveries to the camp would be priceless information to them. So I accepted Koch’s contract. And I’ll tell you, did I ever see some things.

She leans closer to Anna, lowering her voice to a reedy whisper.

Every week the SS have Comradeship Evenings at the Bismarck Tower, she says. You know where it is, on the hill there? Such goings-on, you wouldn’t believe. Prostitutes, male and female, little boys. Orgies. Those fine officers will fuck anything that moves, don’t let anybody tell you different. They wash each other in champagne afterwards. Some comradeship, don’t you think?

Anna manufactures a worldly expression.

Mathilde gives Anna a caustic little smile. You won’t understand, a pretty young thing like you, but when you get older, men don’t really see you. To the SS, I’m just a fat old widow. That’s what they call me—
die Dicke,
Fatty. But the advantage is that I’m invisible. When I’m bringing pastries to the Tower, when I deliver bread to the officers’ fine Eickestrasse houses or to their mess, I might as well be a chair for how much attention they pay me. As if being fat makes you deaf and blind too. So I see everything, hear everything. And after my regular deliveries, I make a special one to the prisoners. I leave bread for them. The poor bastards, they— Where? Anna interrupts.

What?

Where do you leave the bread?

In the forest, by the quarry the SS have them working in. There’s a hollow tree where I can put the rolls and any Resistance information I can give them. And they pass camp information to me—this way.

She indicates the condom.

It’s not much, what I’m doing, she says, but it gives them some hope.

Anna slips the paper back inside the rubber. Its surface is greasy and foul, and Anna can imagine all too well where a prisoner would have had to conceal it.

I want to go, she tells Mathilde. Next time you go, I go.

Mathilde takes the condom from Anna and hides it back in the clock. Then she removes an embroidered pouch from her apron. From this she produces papers and a pinch of tobacco and proceeds, with maddening slowness, to roll a cigarette.

Did you hear me? Anna shouts. I want to help, I want to leave the bread, I’m going with you!

Mathilde scrapes a match on the side of the oven and lights her cigarette. Exhaling, she watches Anna through a drifting blue membrane. Anna glares.

You’ve got more balls than anybody’d think just to look at you, says the baker, but no. Do you have any idea how long it took us to set up this system? One false move and we’re all in the camp. You’re acting from the heart, not the head. Too risky.

I’m perfectly clearheaded. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.

And the baby, Mathilde continues, tapping ashes into a tin that once, Anna observes, held corned beef. Think of the baby.

Anna waves a hand at both this argument and the smoke, which has condensed in layers.

You shouldn’t smoke, she says with venom.

Suddenly I have the Reichsminister of Propaganda Goebbels in my kitchen? A good German woman never smokes, right, princess?

Anna wants to say, No, because it’s making me sick. Instead, she beckons for the cigarette.

Give me that, she says.

Shrugging, Mathilde hands it to her.

Anna inhales. As she fights not to choke, she tries to come up with a statement that will persuade Mathilde she is hardy enough to be included in this venture. She thinks of
Unterschar-führer
Wagner, who comes from the same social class as the baker, whose crude language Mathilde speaks and appreciates. What would he say to sway her?

If I could, Anna tells Mathilde, eyes watering, I’d blow this smoke right up the
Führer
’s ass.

Mathilde quakes with silent laughter.

All right, she says, with a wet, ashy cough. You don’t have to try so hard to convince me. But no Special Deliveries for a while. You stay here, work for me, we’ll see how you do. Then—

When? Anna says. When can I go with you?

Maybe after the baby, says Mathilde. She turns and spits into the sink.

But that won’t be for months! Until nearly Christmas—

That’s soon enough, Mathilde says, and remains implacable.