Free The Baker's Daughter by Sarah McCoy

you tell me about a typical Christmas in Germany?” She decided to be direct, cut and dry, get the information.
    â€œI could not.” Elsie popped another piece and chewed. “I grew up during the wars, so there were never typical Christmases.”
    â€œOkay.” Reba drew a circle on her pad—a bull’s-eye she needed to hit. “How about that Christmas.” She nodded to the photo. “Can you just tell me about that one?”
    Elsie’s gaze moved past Reba to the wall and the photograph hanging slightly askew on its nail.

NAZI WEIHNACHTEN PARTY
19 GERNACKERSTRASSE
GARMISCH, GERMANY
DECEMBER 24, 1944
    B ack at the banquet table, Elsie trembled beside Josef.
    â€œHere, eat something hot. It will help,” he offered.
    Though they served her favorite cinnamon
reisbrei
, she could barely swallow the steamy spoonfuls. They burned her tongue tasteless and left her chest stone cold.
    Josef didn’t ask her about Kremer in the alley, and she was glad. She couldn’t have spoken of it, even though she wanted to—wanted to stand, point her finger, and scream out his offense. But he was an admired Gestapo officer, and she, a baker’s daughter. With Hazel in the Lebensborn Program and her family’s resources dependent on Nazi patronage, she had responsibilities beyond her honor. Her silence protected them all. For now.
    The waiters cleared the dessert plates. The musicians played a jazzy number, and couples rose from their seats to take the dance floor.
    â€œPlease, I’d like to go home,” Elsie whispered. She collected her gloves from the back of her chair and slid them over her newly ringed finger. The diamond and rubies bulged the once perfect silhouette.
    Josef pulled her chin gently toward him and inspected her face. She averted her eyes. He took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Of course, Fräulein Schmidt.”
    Minutes later, he escorted her out of the banquet hall, down the silver corridor, and into the black car, humming warm and waiting. A short drive across town and they parked outside the bäckerei. A light flickered in the upper window. Mutti waiting up, no doubt.
    Elsie and Josef hadn’t spoken since leaving the table. Made paranoid by Kremer’s slander and still in shock, she worried Josef might be angry with her or blame her for the disgraceful incident with his colleague. She played with the buttons on her gloves, loose on their threads.
    â€œI’m sorry to have made you leave early.” It was all she could say without her panic mounting. She had to remain calm. Exhibiting too much emotion might cause him to suspect Kremer’s espionage accusations to be true.
    â€œI’m not one for late parties anyhow,” Josef said and looked away from her, out the window. “I apologize for what happened. I hope you were not hurt.”
    Elsie fingered her lip. It had stopped bleeding but had begun to swell. “Nein.” She swallowed hard.
    Josef exhaled, but his attention remained fixed in the opposite direction. “Kremer is a good officer. He had too much to drink tonight. Unacceptable behavior.” He cleared his throat. “His marriage is one of convenience, not love. So sometimes he goes searching for it in places he oughtn’t.”
    Elsie nodded, her body rigid as a nutcracker soldier.
    He drew in a long breath before facing her. “You never gave me an answer, Elsie.”
    Then it was she who looked away, to the bakery front door; she wished she were already safe inside with the yeast rolls sleepily rising. She had to tell him how she felt. She wasn’t Mutti. It wasn’t enough for her to simply be a good wife, and she bristled at the thought of Kremer’s “marriage of convenience.” She wanted much more. She wanted the effervescence she felt when Myrna Loy asked William Powell to marry her in
Libeled Lady
. “To the moon,” Powell had said right before he kissed