Page 122 of Hell to Pay
I took his hand and said, “Wait. Please.”
His face softened, and his hand came up to touch my cheek. “It’ll be all right. If it isn’t—” He frowned into the distance. “Is there a hotel? Someplace you can go?”
“You must know there isn’t.” I was a balloon with all my air let out. “Do you think—” I had to swallow. “You don’t think he’ll turn me out?”
“How can he,” Joe said, “after everything you’ve done? Don’t worry. It’ll be all right. And anyway—I’ll fix this. I have a plan.”
A shadow fell over us, and Herr Adelberg stood at the top of the stairs. “I told you to get out,” he said.
Joe said, still somehow so calm, “I’m just going.” He didn’t touch me again, and he didn’t kiss me goodbye. He just left, and I stood with my palm against the closed door, the bitter cold seeping in around it like icy fingers, and didn’t turn.
Herr Adelberg said, “I meant both of you.”
I turned then. I had to. I summoned all the self-possession I could muster and said, “I’m afraid I have nowhere else to go. Surely Frau Adelberg has told you about me in her letters. I’ve been here so long—months and months now. I’m Daisy. The baker.”
He didn’t answer, just stared at me some more as if I was making no sense whatsoever. Then he went back into the apartment and closed the door.
I tried to think of what to do. I couldn’t come up withanything, though, except to climb the stairs again. What would I do if he’d locked the apartment door? All those baggage counters and barns and cellars where I’d slept seemed a lifetime ago. Part of me knew I could do it again—if I could get my coat and a blanket, at least—but the rest of me was all but screaming inside, resisting every thought of turning back into a refugee.
The door opened under my hand, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Frau and Herr Adelberg were standing across from each other, Frau Adelberg’s arm across Matti’s shoulders, her face urgent as the words came out in a torrent. I didn’t stop to listen or to explain. I went to my bedroom, closed the door, sat on the bed, and tried to breathe.
What was going to happen now?
And would anybody even eat myStreuselkuchen?
I woke at three-thirty the next morning, as always, in the freezing dark. I remembered first that it was Christmas morning and I didn’t have to bake, but could go back to sleep instead. That it would be Christmas Mass this morning, and as beautiful as the church could manage in these hard times. Then I remembered the night before.
I’d hoped Frau Adelberg would come tell me what was happening. That she’d reassure me, or at least let me know where I stood. I’d heard nothing, though, so eventually, I’d crept out to use the bathroom, then climbed into bed and read my book, trying to dive into the pages and escape. At least it wasn’tBrideshead Revisitedanymore, butA Tree Grows in Brooklyn,which was wonderful. Even it, though, couldn’t possibly distract me enough, for I wasn’t a child anymore, and I had no confidence, as children do, that somebody else would handle the harder parts of life. I was responsible for myself, and I knew it. I kept readinganyway, though. I couldn’t think what else to do. Eventually, I fell asleep sitting up, with the light on and the book in my hands.
Now, I thought,I’ll bake Brötchen for breakfast,and got up to do it. Being helpful, being indispensable, had worked for me so far. Why wouldn’t it work now?
When I went down to the kitchen, though, somebody was already there.
Herr Adelberg turned in surprise when I came through the door, and I halted and said, “Oh! Good morning,” in a most tentative voice.
He sighed. It was a tired sort of sigh. “I don’t require help to bake the bread. Go upstairs.”
“But I—” I wasn’t sure how to go on.
“My wife gave you a home,” he said. “You’ve been here eight months, though, and the war is long over. Time to find a home of your own, don’t you think?”
Did I want to crawl away like a whipped puppy? Of course I did. Something stronger in me, though, refused. I said, “Haven’t you noticed her arm?”
“Her arm?” He looked confused.
“Yes,” I said. “Her left arm was broken and mended poorly. It needs an operation to reset it correctly, but she can’t get one, not with the state the hospitals are in now. She could barely bake bread at all. Did she tell you that?”
“And yet here is the bakery,” he said. “Good as ever. She’s clearly able to bake enough for that. I’ll thank you for helping her, but?—”
How I wished for Joe’s calm! For my father’s icy command! I had neither, but I did have a strong sense of justice. I said,“I’vebaked the bread. I’ve been up every morning at three-thirty, ever since I got here, to do it. I’ve bought the flour, too, and the fuel oil and the wheat and the rye berries, not to mention any meat we’ve had. I sold myfamily’s priceless heirloom to supply this place. To help myself, yes, and also to help your family when you couldn’t.”
“I was fighting for my country!” he said, his cheeks darkening. “Do you think I didn’t want to be here?”
“Do you think I did?” I was really angry now. “My family died, too. My house burned. I wandered for months. I’ve been grateful to have a place to stay. Of course I have. Grateful for work to do, too. But far from being fairly paid for that work, I’vepaid to do it! If you have flour now, it’s because I bought it. If you have customers, it’s because I served them. I don’t resent that. It was a trade, and I made it voluntarily. I do resent you acting as if I’m a … a parasite.”
“And the American?” His arms were crossed now, his brows drawn together.
I took a deep, deep breath. I counted to ten. I remembered my father. I said, “Can we have a cup of tea and sit down to discuss this? It’s Christmas morning, and you’re home from war. Surely we can talk about this without anger.” Another breath, and I added, “Please.” How galling was that “please”!
