Forbidden Love IN THE HEART of The Third Reich (2)

Forbidden Love
My mother, uncanny in her instincts, seemed always to sense my mischief—even when her gaze was trained in the opposite direction, as if she possessed some supernatural sixth sense. This time, as I reached for the forbidden strawberry strudel, her back was to me, yet she struck with the precision of a hawk, her trusty wooden spoon meeting my knuckles with a sharp crack that sent a fiery sting through my hand. I had barely moved my fingers past the edge of the white porcelain dish, the golden crust glistening with sugar crystals, when the spoon descended. The pain radiated, hot and immediate, leaving a vivid red imprint—a mark not of cruelty, but of her unwavering discipline, a lesson taught countless times in the warmth of our kitchen. The kitchen, filled with the scent of cinnamon and baking pastry, was alive with the gentle clinking of cups and the chatter of Gretchen and my younger sister, whose laughter usually softened even the harshest reprimand. She believed that the lesson would only sink in if it truly hurt, and this time, it certainly did. My cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and defiance, and I withdrew my hand, careful not to let my siblings see the tears pricking at the corners of my eyes.
“Will you kindly stay out of the strawberry strudel, Mr.?” she scolded, her voice a mix of exasperation and affection. “For heaven’s sake, Han’s, let it be! That’s for dessert, my son. If you’re famished, eat an apple—don’t spoil your supper, you hear? And you’ll scorch your tongue; I just pulled that strudel from the oven, you rascal.” The strudel was still piping hot, steam curling above it, promising a sweetness that made my stomach rumble. I glanced at the basket of apples she gestured toward, their skins polished and red, but they held none of the allure of the pastry I’d been caught coveting.
“All right, all right, Momma! Don’t be angry with me—I swear I’m powerless against the smell. Who could blame me? You’re the finest baker in all of Germany!” I pleaded, rubbing my sore hand, hoping my flattery might soften her mood. In truth, no one in our village ever left our home unimpressed by her baking; her strudels were legendary, drawing praise from neighbors and strangers alike. Even the local grocer, Herr Stein, often exchanged fresh flour for a slice of her latest creation.
Momma’s stern facade melted into a gentle smile, her laughter ringing out like a balm to the tension. “Oh, Han’s, now you’re laying it on thick—but that’s awfully sweet of you to say!” Her laughter was infectious, and soon Gretchen and my sister joined in, their giggles weaving through the kitchen like sunlight. For a moment, the heaviness of the outside world—the whisper of distant war, the uncertainty that haunted our days—seemed to fade, replaced by the security and comfort of family gathered around a well-worn table.
I seized the moment, my heart pounding not just from the scolding but from the anticipation simmering inside me. “Say, Momma… has the mail come today?” My voice trembled slightly, betraying how much I hoped for news—perhaps a letter from Father, stationed far across the border, or a reply from my cousin in Berlin, who wrote of changes sweeping through the city with every postmark.
“Yes, it has,” she replied, her tone returning to its everyday rhythm. “It’s on the coffee table. Gretchen brought it in just before you stomped in.” The mail, a rare comfort in uncertain times, sat beneath a vase of fresh daisies, promising stories and news from beyond our little village. I darted toward it, eager to discover what awaited us, my mischief momentarily forgotten in the hope of connection and the thrill of the unknown.