Young Writers Society

Stollen
Stollen Out in the streets, a dog is barking at the car horns. By the window, the soldier's mother weaves her hair into a bun. Her hands are thickening at the knuckles now, the rings won't come off. Wiry white hairs bristle above the neat habitual knots. She secures the apron tightly, just below her heavy breasts. She tries not to think about the trim, blue-eyed Australian girl in a wedding gown, who is sitting in the living room.

Every night she always walks through the village in her head. This is the baker, this is the builder, this is the tailor. This is a tree she skinned her knee on, climbing. This is her parent's room, her brothers' room. She used to go through all the faces, but over time they smudged like newspaper ink.

Once there had been a woman, at temple, who had grown up in a town near hers. She had married a rich man and spent all her time and money acquiring, in secret, the pictures of the bodies in the streets. The woman had shown her the pictures, murmuring feverishly, “Do you know them? Did you know them at all?” The soldier's mother had kept her eyes tightly shut. She was scared and ashamed that she would not recognise them. The last of her shtetl, and she let them die, because she couldn't remember the shape of her sister's face, or how old the neighbour's son was. She dusts her hands with rye flour and checks that the resting dough has doubled it's size.

“Mama,” The soldier stands in the doorway. He doesn't slouch, cannot slouch around her, but he keeps his head bowed, and his eyes sharp upon her. “Would you like a hand?”

She sighs, her chest folding in on itself as she braces herself against the counter.
The soldier returns to the living room to overanalyse and regret everything he has said to her.

Her husband is dead.

He was an interpreter from Vienna; always listening, listening, listening to everything anyone was saying. Full of voices, everyone he had ever met, chattering away inside of him. He would watch her walking to the sweat-shop, face reddened with the cold and shame, tucking her frizzy hair into her hat so he couldn't see it.
“Let it loose, young lady, chestnut and vay-vee.” He calls after her in the swaying clipped Austrian accent of his childhood neighbour.
She despised him.

She turns the mixture out on the breadboard. Even at fifty seven years old, she can not push her hands into dough without blushing. It is too naked, too dense and supple, salty, moist. Aaron's shoulder's, Aaron's back, Aaron's chest.

It was three months of his teasing before she snapped.
“Let it loose, young lady, chestnut and vay-vee.”
She turned and started yelling at him in Yiddish, all the foulest words she knew. It gushed from her in a singular violent jet of pent up fury and humiliation. She threw herself at him and mashed her fists into his thick wool coat. Her throat was raw and metallic. The next thing she knew, she was sobbing across his lap. It was the first time she had cried since she had heard the news of the shtetl.

And what can she say to her son, the soldier? She traps air into the dough, sealing in the short gasps of effort, pressing dried apple, citrus peel, and raisons in with her thumbs. What does he want her to say? The Russians burned her village to the ground, the Germans gassed Aaron's entire family, yet her son accomplishes what they could not by marrying a Gentile. The end of the line, the end of a culture, because of her turned up nose and milky thighs. He is expecting her to say it, he wants her to say it, why shouldn't she give him the satisfaction?

She looks through the doorway. The soldier's sweetheart is holding his hand, twisting the new ring around his finger.
“Mama always makes stollen when she's ready for a fight with Dad. It was his favourite food when he was growing up, and she would work tirelessly to find the right recipe, but it was never quite right.”
“Stollen?”
“Sweet bread, with nuts and fruit.”
She tries to commit it to memory. A life of meat and three vegetables had already led to a number of gaffes he would tease her about for the rest of her life. “When was it your father-?”
“Two months ago. She said.”
“Are you-?”
“I'm fine. Fine.” He considers. “I'm worried about her.”
She smooths her skirt, “Darling, maybe I should go.”
“Honey-”
“You were counting on your father smoothing it over, I understand, but this is too much for her, for anyone. I'll go, I'll give you two some space.”
“Meg.” He takes hold of her. “Her family are dead for being Jewish. Dad's family are dead for being Jewish. For thousands of years, they have been subjugated, tortured and killed, and all my life I have been wondering, what God would choose that for his Chosen People?”

The soldier's mother is livid. She wants to scream, thrash, tear her clothes, claw his face, she wants to be a mad woman, but she is frozen. Her veins are choked with ice.

“I saw her suffer, I saw her hating herself for not being with them, for surviving. What God would do that to her? Still, everything she does, she does for others. I can't imagine what it takes for her to get up in the morning, let alone go to temple, sing the praises of a God and a faith that has cost her everything.” He breathes deeply, and lowers his voice. “So I enlisted. I managed to get through training despite my flat feet, but I hated needles, so when it came to the malaria shots, I... faked them.”
Despite herself she laughed. “What?”
“There were two lines, one in and one out, so...I joined the other line, moaning and rubbing my arm.”
“Lou! You could have died.”
“I was going to war. But yes, I did get malaria, and I almost died, so they sent me away to Brisbane. And there in the War Office was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.” He paused. “So you see, it wasn't a bris that made me a Jew, a bar mitzvah that made me a man, it was you. What God but a Jewish God would make my greatest blessings malaria and a fear of needles?”

The soldier's mother washes her face and dries it on her apron, then stands in the door way. “You were counting on your father to 'smooth things over'?” She barks.
The soldier jumps. “Mama-”
She stops him. “So was I.” She pauses. “I couldn't bare losing you, but I had time for that. I could pray for you. The schmuck has a heart attack walking up the stairs. Typical of him, to be so weak, to leave me to be serious, practical, to grieve while he is all 'laughter and life and language.'”
The soldier is in shock. It is surreal to see her swear.
“I don't know about 'at first sight', I'm afraid I couldn't see past my own feet, but I loved him.” She walks to her son. She barely reaches his chest, but she takes his hand. “I am glad for you.”
“Thank you.” He says.
She snaps out of sentiment. “Do you want strudel?”
“Strudel?” The soldier's sweetheart is bewildered. “No, Mama, we don't need strudel.” He says.
“You don't like my strudel?” She snaps.
“No Mama I love your strudel ” He says.
“I'll make you some.” She bustles off to the kitchen.
“What about the stollen?” He risks a smile.
She nods. “It'll keep.”