The Baker's Secret(45)

“Good morning, mademoiselle,” he said, straightening. As usual he was freshly shaven, his uniform neat. He nudged the mortar and pestle with his boot. “What we have here?”

“Grain,” she said, swallowing hard. “A special grain. I use it to add body to the loaves.”

The captain bent to pick up the bowl. “A special grain.”

Emma’s heart fluttered. “A kind of grass, like wheat.”

“To add body? What does this mean?”

“So the loaves travel well, with a toothy crust,” she said.

He sniffed the bowl’s contents. “You add this every day?”

“If the dough feels weak, I do.”

“We cannot be giving officers of weak bread.”

“Of course not.”

He nodded, considering. “You will eat some.”

“Excuse me?”

“I do not know if it is poison, or filth, or some clever idea, but I do not trust this special grass. You will eat some now.”

Emma had not swallowed one sip of water yet that day. Her throat was already parched. There was no way she could swallow straw, no matter how finely ground. She would gag, or possibly choke.

But the captain had a spoon. Where had he found it? He motioned for her to sit on the stool where she’d been grinding earlier. He held a heaping spoonful in front of her face.

“Now,” he said.

And Emma opened her mouth.





Chapter 22




No deception lasts forever. Truth rises like good bread dough. Emma collapsed to the baking barn’s dirt floor, her breath blocked by a knot of yellow powder. Captain Thalheim stood with the spoon in his hand, his expression blank while the straw choked her. Emma’s vision became a tunnel, surrounded by gathering dark. Finally she hooked a finger in her mouth and scooped the dry knot out, coughing, wheezing relief through a cramping throat.

“As I thought,” Captain Thalheim announced, his voice flat. He squatted beside her. “I must now report for duty. When I have made return, we will hear more about this special grass that chokes the baker.”

His motorcycle gargled into life, and sped off with a flatulent clatter. Emma staggered to the barn door, and who was standing there but the Goat. He held a bucket of water.

Emma wobbled past him toward the house, then fell to her knees. In an instant the Goat was beside her, one hand on the back of her neck, the other ladling water into her mouth. She swallowed and rinsed and spat to one side, then gulped greedily. Finally she caught her breath, and worked herself back to her feet. “Your hands are filthy.”

He remained there on the ground, not answering.

Mémé appeared at the farmhouse door. “Gypsy? Do we Gypsy now?”

Emma scooped herself more water. Without turning her head she asked, “Do you have shoes on?”

Mémé looked down at her stocking feet and laughed in surprise. “Shoes,” she said, holding up one finger as she vanished back into the house.

Emma collected herself, scrutinizing the Goat as he knelt. His sleeves were worn at the elbows, his beret streaked with mud. He stank of pig. He fixed his gaze on the bucket, as though it would be wrong to look at her. Yet he had shown the audacity to offer help, and in a moment of weakness she had accepted it. At the notion of being indebted to the Goat, Emma reared back as a horse does from a snake in the road.

A windup timer rang in the barn. The Kommandant’s loaves were ready. Emma swatted dirt from her dress as though it were an old rug, splashed her face from the bucket, and assessed the Goat once more. Still he knelt at her feet.

“Do you have anything to say?”

He touched his beret. “At your service, Emmanuelle.”

“Oh, stand up,” she said, turning away. “Where is your self-respect?”



Not an hour later, Emma had composed herself sufficiently to hand the Kommandant’s aide his dozen loaves indifferently, and he puttered off on his motorbike. The dust from his departure still hung in the air as she organized her daily cart of tricks: containers and loaves, items for barter or salvation, tools and necessities, all under a pile of cloth and jackets and means of concealment. She had nearly choked, and the captain had found her out, but the work could not wait.

“Gypsy Gypsy,” Mémé cried, rapping the knuckles of one hand against the other, harder and harder until Emma reached over to calm her.

“Are you coming with me today?” she asked. “Or do you want to water the garden?”

“Garden,” Mémé said with a fierce expression.

“Lovely.” Emmanuelle lowered a tin watering can from a hook inside the barn and handed it to Mémé. The old woman hugged the can to her chest with both arms. Emma caressed her grandmother’s cheek. “Can you keep out of trouble? I’ll be back for the noon dinner.”

“Come. I want.”

“Then please do,” Emma said. Shoving the cart’s clutter aside, she placed a pillow in the middle. Mémé settled her rump there. Emma went to the front and slipped the harness around her shoulders, Mémé’s feet dangling half a meter off the ground.

“Gypsy,” the woman sang to herself, squeezing the watering can with her thighs. “Gypsy.”