“You must be hungry,” she said, seating him at the table. “I’ll make you something to eat.”
Before lightly frying Franz’s doubtful meat in a pan, she went through it carefully, extracting several small bones. She shuddered. They were far too small for mule; they looked too small even for cat or dog. Some of her store of vegetables she chopped and added to the pan. Then she brought the mixture to a good temperature. A couple of slices from the bread loaf completed the meal. There was barely enough for the two of them, but she gave Oskar the lion’s share and watched him carefully as he shoveled it into his mouth.
When the food was all gone, she wiped his moustache and beard. She washed the plates and cutlery in the sink. Then she stood Oskar up and moved him onto the sofa by the window. He smiled in anticipation and took his seat. She opened the window and placed a handful of breadcrumbs on the sill. They waited together.
Within minutes a large pigeon flew across from the adjoining block and perched on the windowsill. Gretchen watched her husband’s face light up in delight as the bird pecked at the breadcrumbs. When all the crumbs were gone, the pigeon tilted its head and stared in at them for a moment before taking to the air in a noisy flapping of its wings.
“He thanked us,” said Oskar.
“Clever bird,” she said. “He knows where to find food.”
He smiled. “Lucky bird.”
“Yes, Oskar, he’s free to fly wherever he wants. He’s lucky.”
Oskar closed his eyes for a moment. Then they opened wide and he said, “A loaf of bread cost a million marks. A million! Do you remember?”
“Yes, and three million a couple of days later. When was that? Nineteen thirty or thirty-one?”
“My father sold his tools… He should never have sold his tools…”
Gretchen bit her lip. She’d heard that story many times before. “What did we do wrong, Oskar? What terrible transgression put Germany in the hands of these monsters and drove God to punish us so mercilessly?”
Oskar closed his eyes again, apparently thinking deep philosophical thoughts. He looked peaceful and contented. Then his mouth opened and he threw up, losing his meal all over his beard and down the front of his shirt.
Gretchen swore under her breath. She cleaned him up and put him in his spare pajamas, all the time thinking what a shame it was that the food had been wasted. Was she evil to think that way? She put him to bed. Perhaps he could sleep through his hunger.
As she washed his soiled pajamas, a button fell off. She wondered if the extra rye in the Kommissbrot had upset his stomach. Or was it the meat? She began to feel queasy at the thought of what might have been in the meat.
5
In the early evening, Martha Engels, the daughter of an old friend, came calling. She pulled a man’s woolen jumper from a bag and handed it to Gretchen. “It’s Paul’s. I thought Oskar could wear it.”
Gretchen asked about Martha’s fiancé, fighting somewhere in France. She knew the last letter Martha had received from him was dated 1943.
“No news is good news,” said Martha.
“Is it?”
“Of course. If anything had happened to Paul, I would have heard. The Wehrmacht always send notifications home when a soldier is injured or…”
Martha prattled on about the army, her fiancé and their plans for the future. Gretchen tuned in to her memories for a moment. This tall, blonde, garrulous beauty was so like her mother, it was uncanny.
“…What do you think, Gretchen?”
Gretchen held the jumper up to the light. “It’s a fine jumper, but won’t he miss it when he comes home?”
“He has a newer one. This one barely fits him.”
Gretchen nodded. “Thank you, Martha. There’s enough wool here to knit two small garments. We could have one each.” She gave her friend a third of a loaf.
Later, two of Gretchen’s neighbors called to the apartment.
Gertrud Carlson was a small, mousey individual with eyes that were hooded and perpetually downcast. She offered a man’s watch, its glass cracked, its face brown from age.
“It’s broken,” she said. “It belonged to my father-in-law. I’m sorry to part with it, I hope you understand.”
Gretchen handed it back. “I can’t take this.”
Frau Carlson looked on the edge of tears. “I have nothing else.”
“It doesn’t matter. You can give me something next time.” Gretchen cut Frau Carlson a thick slice from the loaf and handed it to her.
Frau Carlson mumbled tearful thanks and scuttled away. Frau Tannhäuser, the undertaker’s wife, rolled her eyes in disapproval and offered a single earring. Frau Carlson had broken an unwritten rule by accepting charity, and Gretchen was complicit.
Frau Tannhäuser, was a portly woman who wore a sour expression and floral prints made from enough material to make a good-sized pair of curtains.
Gretchen said, “What can I do with one earring?”
“It’s real silver. I’ll let you have the other one next time.”
Gretchen gave her the last piece of the loaf. “How is Herr Tannhäuser?”
“Busy. He’s finding it difficult to keep up. And he’s stockpiling coffins. You understand…”
“And young Anton? How old is he now?”
“He’s twelve. Like any active youngster, the Hitler Youth fills his every waking moment.”
Frau Tannhäuser asked about Oskar’s health. She seemed genuinely concerned, but after she’d gone, Gretchen wondered how sincere she really was. Schadenfreude was a powerful antidote to jealousy. Would the undertaker’s wife be so solicitous in the future, when Gretchen had no bread to trade?
As darkness fell, Gretchen began to unravel the woolen jumper, gathering the thin wool into a ball, careful not to break it. There was a knock on the door. Gretchen put down the garment, opened the door, and Dora stepped inside.
Dora Hoffmann was an old schoolfriend, once a robust, buxom woman, now a haggard shadow with barely a pick of flesh on
