Frau4Agnes, from next door, was watering the red poppies she had planted in the flower box outside of her front windows. "Guten morgen4, Charlie," she hollered with a quick wave. "Where are you off to so early in the day?"
"Papa’s bäckerei," I replied.
"Ah, very well. Charlie, come over here a moment," she said, waving me toward her flower beds. I did as Frau Agnes asked, wondering what she could want with me. She was an older woman, firm, but sweet. She often had her nose in our business, or so Mama would speak of at supper time. She was also known to be a bored housewife with too much time on her hands. Her gray eyes stared at me coldly as I came closer. Then her dark bushy eyebrows arched. "I would like to ask you to bring me back a small loaf of bread, ja?" Frau Agnes reached into the pocket of her apron and retrieved a five-cent coin. "I was going to make my way into town today, but if you are already on your way, I would be most grateful for the delivery," she continued, handing over the money.
"Of course, Frau Agnes."
"Good boy, Charlie. Don’t find any trouble on your way, now." Ever since Claude’s accident, Mama and Papa, as well as all the neighbors, think I’m one to look for trouble wherever I go. It isn’t true, however.
I waved goodbye to Frau Agnes and continued down the road, passing a few shops along the way. The barbier5shop was closed, and there was no usual line of men wrapped around the street corner awaiting their turn. I peeked into the window of the next shop. The cobbler, Herr6Franc was in his usual position, hovering over a tattered wooden table while hammering a nail against a shoe’s sole. The pungent scent of herring stung my nose just as I spotted a line spilling out of the small seafood market. I swooped around the line, bringing myself back to a parallel spot to the shop windows that I enjoyed observing on the way to the bäckerei.
Just as I was coming closer to Papa’s bäckerei, the clouds formed a thick mist. It wasn’t quite raining yet, but by the look of the darkening sky, a downpour was imminent. I snuck under the awning in front of the juwelier’s7shop. Herr Herwitz had run the place for more than fifteen years, but the storefront was dark that day. In place of the window displays were lines of newspaper, covering the glass from the inside. The store wasn’t just dark, it was closed, but writing scrolled across the window. The main headline on all pieces of newspaper read:
Die jüdischen Angreifer(The Jewish Attackers)
I wasn’t sure what the article meant by The Jewish Attackers, but I knew Herr Herwitz was a Jewish man. There was a chance I didn’t understand what was I reading, but I pieced together the facts well enough. Thinking of the situation more, Herr Belson, the barber who ran the shop just a few stores away was also Jewish. What was happening?
The black painted writing across the last storefront window blended in against the newspaper, but on the outside of the window, the words,NO JEWS HERE, were written in large letters. It pained me to think of Herr Herwitz, his position, and the business he spent his life managing.
I stormed into the bäckerei, letting the bronze bell hanging from the door’s spring announce my entrance.
"Charlie, hallo8!" Herr Paul greeted me from behind the front counter. "What brings you in today?"
"I thought I might help around the store a bit," I offered.
"Go on back and see your papa. I’m sure he could use a hand," Herr Paul replied, moving down the side of the glass showcases containing baked goods. The store smelled like heaven—a combination of surgery sweets and fresh loaves of bread. My stomach knew nothing but hunger when I stepped into the bäckerei.
Papa was in the back, pounding on a heap of dough. Flour was flying through the air like snow, and the thumping sound bounced off the nearby walls. "Charlie, what are you doing here?"
I slipped my hands into my back pocket and rolled onto my heels. "I came to help, Papa."
"Help?" he questioned.
I didn’t offer to help often enough, I guess.
"Yes, Papa. Put me to work."
Papa nodded his head to a broom in the corner near the lavatory. "Go on," he said. I rushed to the broom, swiftly taking it between my hands.
"Thank you," I offered.
A short time passed when Papa called my bluff on just wanting to help out in the shop.
"What is it that you want to talk about, sohn?"
Papa also knew me better than I figured. "I just wanted to keep busy," I lied again.
"Nonsense. I can see by the look on your face that there is something you would like to say. Plus, no one truly wants to sweep a bread shop. Tell me what’s on your mind, sohn."
I glanced up at Papa. His sky-blue eyes glistened beneath the light hanging overhead. He had flour on his right cheek, and his toque-hat was hanging crookedly to the side of his head. I could only see some straggly overgrown brown hair poking out beneath the hat’s rim. I hadn’t noticed Papa was overdue for a haircut.
"Why aren’t Herr Herwitz or Herr Belson in the shops today?" I asked, feeling concerned about the answer. Papa didn’t like me inquiring about adult knowledge, but I was curious as I was sure many people were.
Papa’s gaze dropped from mine, and he took his battered wooden rolling pin and took his emotions out on the dough. "I don’t have an answer to your question, sohn."
"It’s because they are Jewish, ja?" I asked.
Papa closed his eyes and nodded his head ever so slightly. "Charlie, there’s a mess over there that needs a sweeping." Papa brushed his arm across his forehead and pointed to the other side of the back area.
