Free The Baker's Daughter by Sarah McCoy Page A

Loy. That’s what Elsie wanted—the moon.
    Emptied, the snow clouds hung low, shrouding Zugspitze Mountain and the stars above and ensconcing the valley in a globe of endless winter.
    â€œI—” She forced herself to meet Josef’s gaze. “I can’t,” she began, but Josef interrupted.
    â€œI understand. Your first Nazi party, Christmas Eve, an engagement proposal and …” He stroked his thumb over her hand. “So much in one night.”
    His hand was warm against hers, and she wished it were enough to heather whole body, melt her into liquid sugar. He unlatched the door, and a chill swept through the inner cabin. “I’ll come to wish your family a Happy Christmas.”
    She shivered. He was right; there was enough heartache this evening. On Christmas they all deserved a little peace. She’d make him understand later. She nodded good night and stepped out.
    Josef pulled her back. “Elsie?”
    She turned slowly, afraid of the question she imagined to follow. Instead, Josef kissed her. Unlike Kremer’s wet mouth and sharp teeth at her neck, Josef’s lips were soft and precise, like a
springerle
mold on cookie dough. She dared not breathe for fear the imprint would be ruined.
    â€œI’ll see you tomorrow.”
    â€œTomorrow,” Elsie whispered.
    She left the car, worn T-straps slipping on new snow. The door handle was frozen and took a good push and pull before turning. In the dark car window, Josef’s shadow watched and waited until she was inside before driving on.
    Elsie shut the door. After the sharp click of metal, all was quiet. No violins or Jewish songbird, no gust of wind or screams, nothing but the peaceful cadence of the cuckoo’s pendulum. She put down her purse and slipped out of Mutti’s shoes, the cold tile floor warmer than her toes.
    â€œElsie,” Mutti’s small voice called. “Is that you?”
    Elsie wrapped her cloak tight around her body and went to the base of the staircase. At the top, Mutti stood in her nightgown holding a waxy chamberstick. The candle flickered light and shadows down the steps.
    â€œYour papa is asleep, but I couldn’t. Was it a nice ball?” she asked, sprightly for the late hour.
    Elsie longed to collapse at Mutti’s feet and cry herself to hiccupping, but she was no longer a child and the gravity of adulthood weighted her to the spot.
    â€œDid you do as I said? Were you good and proper? Was Josef pleased?” She waited with bated breath for Elsie’s response.
    â€œJa.” The lump in Elsie’s throat grew harder. She swallowed, but it stuck.
    Mutti smiled down at her. “You are lucky, Elsie. Josef is a handsome man.”
    Elsie nodded. “Please, go back to bed. It’s late. You’ll catch your death.”
    â€œJa, good night. Happy Christmas, dear.”
    The light of Mutti’s candle grew dim and finally disappeared. Elsie went to the kitchen, lit the stove, and put on a kettle of water. Lebkuchen gingerbreadhearts lay on the floured wooden table, their icing hardening into neat curlicues and dots. Papa made five: Max, Luana, Hazel, Elsie, and Julius. Per tradition, he’d rise before them all to hang the hearts on the strongest branches of the Christmas tree.
    The kettle steamed. She undid the buttons of her gloves and began to take them off. The ring snagged the satin. She pulled the material free, then examined the hole and loose thread. Not even Mutti could fix that. The ring glinted in the light of the stove’s flame. She took it off and searched the underbelly for the Hebrew letters. Though she couldn’t see them, she knew they were there. She set the ring on the table and rubbed the tight indention on her finger. She’d think about that tomorrow. The night was already too long. Her head throbbed, her eyes burned; all she wanted was something hot to drink and the eiderdown of her bed.
    In the dark, the