The Baker's Daughter by Sarah McCoy Page B

possibly die on American soil than be sent back to her homeland. He’d seen it a hundred times over: desperation justifying the implausible.
    â€œSeñora,” Riki comforted. “This”—he pointed to the car—“is not a good life for your children. There’s a way, and this isn’t it.” He opened the door wide. “Come on now.”
    She took his hand in both hers. “No deportación. Por favor, señor.”
    He gulped down the knot in this throat. It came every time. “I’m sorry, but it’s the law, and you’re breaking it.”
    Riki was born in El Paso, an instantaneous American. His father and mother, born less than a mile away in Juárez, Mexico, waited two years for a visa and another seven for citizenship. It was a broken system that only benefited the very wealthy or very patient. His parents had been the latter. He understood this woman’s trepidation, but he also understood duty and justice. His family obeyed the laws of their new land, and, like it or not, he thought everyone else should too. Riki believed that the only way to appreciate what life gave was to respect and honor the rules that governed it. Subvert those and you might as well steal from your neighbor and piss on the Bible. Still, the greater law of compassion made him uneasy carting a woman and her children off like criminals.
    In the distance, Linda Calhoun watched from her doorway holding her dog. Her diamond earrings sparkled like bonfire licks.
    Riki radioed Bert at the station while the woman collected her things.
    â€œI’m bringing in a woman and two kids. Pretty sure they’re Mexican nationals. Haven’t seen anybody else.”
    â€œ10-4.”
    A toddler in shorts and flip-flops sat on his rusted tricycle in the yard of a nearby home. He did not watch them. His eyes were fixed on the padlocked trailer next door.
    â€œHeaded back to the station,” Riki said and slid the handheld back into his front pocket clip. He kicked a wad of mud from his boot.
    The Mexican woman instructed her children to gather their things. The older boy shoved a worn shirt and a pair of jeans into a duffel bag. The girl climbed between the driver and passenger seats and over her mother’s lap. She sat by the front tire, clasping her doll to her chest and sucking her thumb. Beautiful black eyes watched Riki, never blinking. He wondered if this is what his daughter would look like, only with Reba’s strong nose and fair skin.
    The boy on his tricycle turned to them. “Bye!” he called out and waved. “Bye-bye!”
    His mother stuck her head out of her open trailer doorway. “¡Vete aquí! Lunch.”
    Smiling wide, the boy threw his tricycle to the side and obeyed. The woman glowered at Riki before closing the door. All the while, the little girl at his feet hugged her knees and continued to stare up at him. The outline of his CBP baseball cap reflected in her dark gaze.

SCHMIDT BÄCKEREI
56 LUDWIGSTRASSE
GARMISCH, GERMANY
DECEMBER 25, 1944
    Happy Christmas, Hazel. I write to you with cold feet and a mustard rub my chest. I slept poorly last night. The Gestapo came to our house past midnight searching the town for a runaway Jew. They made Mutti and Papa stand in the kitchen wearing only their nightgowns—on, Christmas Eve! What horrible times we live in
.
    Mutti said I’ve caught a fever. Perhaps I should have eaten more at the banquet. They had suckling pig, potato cream, white sausage, and reisbrei for dessert, but none of it tasted the way it should. I didn’t care for the champagne, either. The bubbles made the food feel wrong in my mouth. Mealy, like it’d already been chewed. My stomach was soured. As for the dress I spoke of in my last letter, chiffon might be lovely to look at, but it’s not much good against the cold. It’s ruined anyhow. The skirt is stained, and the crystals hang from their stitches
.
    We tried