Free The Baker's Daughter by Sarah McCoy Page B

kettle steam rose like an angry ghost. Elsie took it off the heat and picked chamomile from Mutti’s collection of hanging herbs. A frigid gust swept under her. The back door was chained but left open. A carp, no bigger than her outstretched hand, lay in a tub of ice beside it. Families traditionally kept their carp outside on Christmas Eve. Some said it was for the blessing of Saint Nikolaus; others claimed it was to flavor the fish with Alpine air. In the last few years, the practice had ceased. People were desperate. A scrap of bacon fat left out for a dog was snatched by hungry hands. Elsie guessed Papa had bargained a great deal of their bread on the black market to acquire this small fish. Mutti’s attempt to keep tradition by leaving the door ajar seemed a frivolous relic of happier times, but Elsie couldn’t reproach Mutti for something she did in her own ways every day. Burning pine lingered in the night air. She inhaled deeply.
    Needle-thin icicles had formed on the metal links of the door chain. She broke them off and tossed the blades out onto the backstreet. Just as they darted the snow, something shifted in the dark. Elsie stopped. Her breath caught.
    â€œWho’s there?”
    The snow fell. The wind crackled the stiff trees.
    It was the snow playing tricks on her, she decided. She hadn’t eaten much that night and had her first champagne; it was a wonder she didn’t see purple polar bears. She touched the back of her hand to her cheek. Without having drunk the chamomile, she was hot—feverish. Straight to bed, that’s what she’d do.
    â€œPlease.” A thin, pale face appeared at the bottom of the door.
    Elsie jumped, knocking the chamomile buds to the floor.
    â€œPlease,” it said again and reached a hand through. “Help me.”
    Elsie scrambled away, crunching on dried blooms underfoot. “Go on,” she hissed. “You—you ghost. Get out of here.” She lifted the simmering kettle.
    The hand retracted. “I followed your car.”
    â€œWhat?” Elsie’s heart beat fast. Her arm, raised high, trembled with the weight of the water.
    â€œThey’re going to kill me.” He leaned into the crack and turned his eyes up to her.
    And then she recognized him, the singing boy, the Jew. “What are you doing here?”
    â€œHe broke the cage open, so I ran,” he said.
    â€œYou ran away?” She set the kettle down. “Oh, God.” She rubbed the growing ache in her temples. “If they find you here, they’ll arrest us all. Go on!” She shooed him from the door. “Get out of here!”
    â€œI helped you. Please, help me.” He stayed pressed against the frame. His breath came in short spurts; his skin was tinged blue from the frost.
    He was just a boy, nearly the same age as Julius and as dangerous and evil as any—Jew or German. He’d die out there, by nature’s will or man’s force. She could save him, if she unlocked the chain.
    The wind blew across his face. Fat snowflakes stuck to his eyelashes.
    She thought of Kremer’s allegations. Obviously people were talking about her and her family. If the boy stayed, died on their doorstep, the Gestapo would surely think she had a role in his escape. She closed her eyes. Her head pounded. He was only a child. Nothing of importance or threat. She could turn him out tomorrow; take him to the wooded Eckbauer trail and let him loose like Hansel and Gretel. What did it matter? One boy. One Jew. She wished he would simply vanish.
    Outside, voices carried down the quiet street, ice crunched, dogs yipped. They were coming. Elsie moved forward, undid the chain, and pulled the icy child into the kitchen. She closed the door behind. He was smaller than he looked on the Nazi stage, his wrists as thick as petite almond rounds, his fingers like vanilla beans.
    â€œQuickly,” she said. “You’ve got to hide.”
    The voices