The Baker's Secret(39)
As lackeys hovered on either side, the Field Marshal conducted a preliminary review, ordering measurements in one place, adjustments in another. Toward the end he peered down on the laborers and said a single word. “Sunburned.”
“They are not wearing caps today,” the supervising officer said. “Out of respect for you.”
The Field Marshal raised one eyebrow, whether out of pleasure or skepticism it was impossible to tell.
“Sir,” the officer said, bowing and backing away, then turning to shout at the men to step lively and work harder.
The next day dawned gusty with rain, metal-gray clouds hanging ponderous and low, and the Field Marshal in a comparable humor. Following an impulse of either courage or folly, the Kommandant suggested a diversion on the way to inspections farther up the coast. It might lift everyone’s spirits to meet the local woman he insisted was the finest baker anywhere. “An artist of flour,” he called her. The Field Marshal made a face, which the others took for affirmation, and the caravan detoured into Emma’s soggy barnyard.
As the cars and truck stopped and the Kommandant explained himself to the assemblage, Emma fretted over whether a person unaccustomed to straw in his bread would notice. Either the Field Marshal would discover her subterfuge, or her baking would receive its highest compliment yet.
But that was a fool’s vanity. If he tasted straw she would die, and her death would cause others to starve, Mémé first among them.
Dry under an umbrella held by an aide, the Kommandant in his aristocratic lisp professed her praises to the waiting troops, his minions, his visiting superior officer. Emma said nothing, and knew what she knew.
“Give the Field Marshal a taste,” the Kommandant said in her language. “Let him judge for himself.”
Emma observed the Field Marshal frankly. He was a handsome man, with sharp cheekbones, his eyes soft as though they had witnessed great sadness, and a tentative manner that she decided might be a form of humility, because every person those gentle eyes fell upon was instantly seized with fear.
“I apologize,” Emma said. “The bread is still baking.”
“Mademoiselle, make me look good,” the Kommandant urged, his smile hardening.
“Your aide normally comes at eight, and it is seven fifteen,” she explained. “I put the loaves in the oven only a moment ago. They must bake for nineteen minutes and cool for ten.”
“You are saying this commander cannot have a sample?” The Kommandant stiffened. “I order you to give him bread.”
“With respect, I cannot obey. All he will taste is hot dough.”
He turned and said something to the Field Marshal, laughing, but it was a strange and strained sound that came out and the Field Marshal’s expression did not change.
The Kommandant grabbed his aide’s green canvas bag and threw it at Emma’s feet. “You will bring the loaves to the command post on the bluff the moment they are done.”
“That is six kilometers from here. Will you be sending a car or motorcycle?”
By way of reply, the Kommandant climbed into his staff car and tapped on the roof. The vehicle sped away, the retinue of other cars and trucks close behind, splashing puddles and dirtying themselves with mud.
After the last vehicle had lumbered down the lane, Pirate came charging out of the barn in full crow.
“Oh, now you show up,” Emma said. But the bird only preened and pecked at the ground, pretending not to hear.
As the loaves baked, Emma knew that there would be no satisfying the Field Marshal. If she made new dough, it was two kneadings and three risings away from the oven—hours upon hours. There was the beauty of baking and the frustration of it: the process could not be hurried, any more than a calf could be forced to grow or a tree to take root. Bread takes its own time. Therefore, if she made a new batch, without straw, she could not deliver loaves to the Kommandant till midafternoon, which would generate all manner of suspicions.
No, she would have to bring compromised loaves to the command post, and pray that the Field Marshal’s taste buds were as undiscerning as the Kommandant’s. Donning oven mitts, she slid the baguettes one by one out of the heat and onto a cooling rack. The Vs were nearly invisible, fading as the bread torpedoes had crusted and browned.
Emma was not concerned for her own well-being any longer. She had already accepted the losses inevitable to living in that difficult time. There would be no marriage or children, no home comforts or taste of prosperity. Pleasure had ended with her youth and it was not coming back. Philippe—how she ached for him, his affection, his innocence—would never return from conscription. Or if he did, it would be as a broken shell. The Allies would never invade; the occupying army was a permanent fact of life. Emma’s concern therefore lay with those who depended upon her, whose lives leaned on the crutch of her network. For her to die would be an act of abandonment. Somehow it was easier to worry about Mémé’s survival than her own.
The command post was not that far. Emma covered a greater distance in her rounds every day. Nor was she concerned that it had begun to rain in earnest, coming down like a cow peeing on a rock. Wet weather was something the villagers adapted to from birth, as readily as desert people to blazing sun and arctic people to ice. Primarily Emma felt the pressure of time: she had connections to make, trades to accomplish, and needs to satisfy before the evening curfew. The extra walk would compromise everything else, and fish on the dock would not keep unrefrigerated any more than chickens could lay without feed.