Light was starting to break through the charcoal sky when Elzunia hurried to the kitchen, rehearsing what she was about to say. Her stomach was grinding as she wondered how the chef would react. His moods could change so rapidly from bonhomie to hostility, and there had been times when he’d brandished one of his sharp knives and threatened to kill her, yelling that the filthy Slavs were the scum of the earth and should be exterminated. She could always tell what the day would be like by looking at his hands. If they shook, it meant he’d already started on the schnapps and would soon be stumbling around the kitchen, bellowing. But somehow he always managed to finish cooking before collapsing in an alcoholic stupor. The following morning, he had no recollection of his drunken outbursts and reverted to his gruff manner, which, as Elzunia had discovered, concealed a good heart. While grumbling about useless Polish kitchen maids, he often slipped her and the children some of the leftovers. For the first time since they arrived, they weren’t starving, and the dark hollows disappeared from their faces.
As soon as she saw him, she glanced nervously at his hands and was relieved to see that they were steady as he bustled at the stove preparing eggs, Weisswurst and Späetzle potatoes for the staff. After breakfast, she scrubbed the kitchen more meticulously than ever and made sure that the frying pans sparkled and the floor shone before saying, ‘Herr Schnabel, can I speak to you for a moment?’
He waved an impatient hand. ‘Go on, get on with it; we have to start preparing lunch.’
She swallowed. ‘I thought you should know that one of the women in my hut intends to come and see you to tell you something about me,’ she began.
His neck seemed to swell and his face turned a forbidding shade of red. ‘What the hell are you gabbling about? What woman? What business has she got with me?’
‘She’s going to tell you that I’m Jewish.’ Hearing herself say the word, her legs almost gave way. She watched him anxiously. Would he denounce her? Her decision to forestall the Polish woman’s accusation was a dangerous gamble and could go either way.
He stared hard at her. ‘Why are you bothering me with this rubbish?’
‘Well, because if she tells you, then you’ll wonder … you might think that … and then …’ she stammered.
‘I’m not interested in women’s idiotic gossip. And, as for you,’ he poked a warning finger at her, ‘stop wasting my time and get on with your work. Peel those potatoes and don’t stop till they’re done. Rumours indeed,’ he muttered as he waddled off to the pantry.
As she reached for the potatoes, it struck her that he hadn’t even asked whether it was true.
A few days later, when she arrived in the kitchen at five-thirty as usual, ready to light the stove, she was dismayed to see him lurching around and hiccuping.
‘Herr Schnabel,’ she said, ‘the people from the Arbeitsamt office are coming for lunch today. What would you like me to prepare?’ She wanted to jog his memory without arousing his fury.
He reached for the bottle, took a long swig and swore loudly. ‘Scheisse! A bunch of nobodies throwing their weight around, that’s all they are.’
She looked around to make sure no one heard him. With her help, he managed to get breakfast ready for the staff but as soon as it was over he staggered to a chair, flung himself into it and drained the rest of the bottle.
She was alarmed. He was making dangerous comments and in this state he wouldn’t even be capable of preparing the soup, let alone the three-course meal the officials would expect. The factory manager would be furious and the chef would get the sack. And if he was fired, what would happen to her?
The chef was already snoring, his mouth wide open, his legs sprawled out. She couldn’t risk the manager or one of the foremen coming into the kitchen and finding him in this condition.
With Gittel and Zbyszek’s help, she dragged the chair with him in it into the storeroom adjoining the kitchen and closed the door. If someone came in, she could say he’d stepped into the storeroom. On the back of the door he’d pinned the menu for that day’s lunch: pea-and-ham soup, wiener schnitzel, fried potatoes, sauerkraut and Apfelstrudl. She knew how to make schnitzel and fried potatoes, and the sauerkraut came from a huge barrel in the cellar, but Apfelstrudl was another matter.
The richness and profusion of the food in the larder made her dizzy with longing, the hams glistening with fat, the pork neck tinged delicately pink, the smooth, brown-shelled eggs lined up in rows. The pantry smelled of vanilla, apples and lemon rind but she forced herself to focus on her task. If she failed, the chef wouldn’t be the only one in trouble.
Boiling potatoes and crumbing the veal was no problem but when she tried to roll out and stretch the strudl dough, just as she’d seen the chef doing, it kept tearing and breaking, and in frustration she tossed it into the rubbish bin. Time was marching on and her hands shook so much that she could hardly hold a spoon. Lunch was always served on the dot of one. What if she wasn’t ready on time? Searching desperately in the pantry, she found some Eierküchen in a metal tin. If she crumbled these sponge cakes, beat up some eggs and stirred plum jam through the mixture, perhaps she could pass it off as Kaiserschmarren.
Delighted at having the freedom to move around the kitchen, Gittel and Zbyszek ran around, eager to help. The preparations were progressing well when Elzunia suddenly stopped and swore aloud. She’d forgotten about the soup. While the children ran to and from the pantry, bringing peas and carrots, she threw the vegetables into the huge vat with the ham hocks and surveyed the bubbling broth with satisfaction. She’d made enough for the factory workers as well. For once they would eat a nourishing soup.
Just before one, she peered into the storeroom. The chef was still asleep but he was stirring. If he woke up and found the door closed, he might start shouting.
Leaving the door ajar, she put on her white cap and apron, poured the soup into the porcelain tureen and carried it into the staff dining-room as usual, praying that her culinary efforts wouldn’t arouse suspicion.
She was arranging the schnitzels on the Rosenthal platter while Gittel was decorating the edges with sprigs of dill when a booming voice almost made her drop the plate.
‘What the bloody hell is going on?’ he roared.
Her heart was banging against her ribs. ‘You weren’t well, so I thought I’d better let you rest,’ she said, motioning for the children to return to their usual place in the recess beside the stove.
He stared at the schnitzels and examined the fried potatoes.
‘Where’s the soup?’ he shouted.
‘They’re having it now.’
‘And what’s this supposed to be?’
‘Kaiserschmarren.’
He snorted with derision. With a sheepish look in her direction, he threw the empty schnapps bottle into the rubbish bin. ‘Go on, don’t hang around,’ he said gruffly. ‘Clear the soup plates and serve the main course.’
‘Your chef has excelled himself today,’ she heard one of the officials telling the manager as she cleared the table after the dessert. ‘If you ever get tired of his cooking, send him to me.’
While she was cleaning the kitchen and putting away the dishes, she caught the chef watching her speculatively.
‘When the war is over, I suppose you’ll go home and tell everyone how terrible we Germans were.’
Elzunia didn’t answer. She waited for him to say it was the fault of the Versailles Treaty, or the Allies, or war in general, but he took several slow puffs of his cigarette and shrugged. ‘We all believed the ravings of a lunatic.’
Elzunia was silent. People were willing to believe any lie, as long as it confirmed their prejudices and blamed others for their troubles.
From snippets of conversations she overheard at the table, it seemed the Germans realised that the end wasn’t far off, and they knew they had lost. If only she could cling to this safe little corner until the end came.
‘You’re a clever little thing for a Pole,’ the chef grunted. ‘I’m going to promote you to assistant chef, and we’ll get another girl in to do the washing up. But your Kaiserschmarren stinks.’