Zaturday at the Bakery

Saturday began as Saturday began--with a trip to Wentz Bakery on Bremen Street. Mutter had given me and Bruder Josef strict instructions about picking up the customary apple cinnamon coffeecake for the Saturday dessert. "No peach! No cherry! But APFEL!" Those were her orders. And me and Josef were eager to obey.

Dawdling in the "Bäckerei" was an Eckstein family ritual. As soon as you opened the door and heard the little bell go ding-ding, you smelled the aroma of powdered sugar mingled with the fresh bread baking in the ovens. Ah, Himmel!

It made our mouths water to see the menagerie of pastries lining the trays; the flaky fruit-filled Danish, the fluffy funnel cakes and cream horns, the custard eclairs and the glazed tea rings. Josef pressed his nose against the glass of the display case and gazed longingly at a coffeecake garnished with dark red cherries. We figured it couldn't hurt to ask: "Herr Wentz, how much is that cherry one?"

Mister Wentz, the baker, stood regally behind the counter that separated us thin, ragged peasants from his Kingdom of Sweets. He wiped the flour from his hands with his apron, shaking his head. "Every Zaturday dees kinder come in asking same question… and every Zaturday I give dem same answer!" His hands moved quickly as he lifted the apple cinnamon coffeecake from the tray and pushed it into a bag. "Ten zent!" he said in his gruff voice.

"Why is he always so cross?" Josef would ask, once we were outside the bakery and far from Mister Wentz's hearing range. And I would shrug my shoulders, befuddled. "And why does Mutter never let us have the cherry cake?" Josef would ask again. And again I would shrug my shoulders, befuddled. Then one day Josef said, "I heard some of the kids at school say that Herr Wentz might be a........"

"Shhhh, Josef!" I pressed a finger to his lips. We knew to never so much as whisper the word "spy" in public. "Fadder would paddle us but goot!"

Me and Josef took our traditional long way home--down Berlin and Hutmacher Streets, at least these were the names of the streets before the Great War. After the war they were changed to "Banks" and "Hatmaker." And not only these streets, but all the German street signs were torn down and replaced with Ameri---can.... Ah, well, this has not a thing to do with the bakery now, does it?

So as I was saying, me and Josef took the scenic route home: past the bustling restaurants and happy beer gardens, the theaters, the shooting galleries and singing halls; past the clang-clang of the trolleys and the clip-clop of horses hooves and the rattling chains of wagons. Oh, and look, spit-sputter-honk-honk! There went a motor car! Suddenly the pretzel man appeared around the corner with his squeaky vendor cart and garbled cry, "Prrrrretzzzzzzzzls! Get your hot pretzzzzzzzls!" Then a Bach chorale rang from St. Michael's church tower.

Ah, Rhineland! Rhineland in Zinzinnati was a magical place in those days. I can still feel the warm summer sidewalks beneath my bare feet. I can still smell the cinnamon from the coffeecake in the basket that swings pleasantly at my side. And I can still smell the air, sweet with the scent of Friday night's empty beer kegs, because this was before Prohibition too, you see? Before the War and Prohibition when the streets bubbled over with German music, beery laughter and life!

Did I say life? Look at Josef, look at him now, a wrinkled old shell of a man slumped over there in the corner chair, snoozing away with his glasses propped on the edge of his nose, the newspaper on his lap. He always gets to nodding after a big supper and a big piece of the cherry coffeecake, or maybe my story-telling bores him to sleep? Come now, Josef, wake up! We got company! Wake up and sing that old song you used to sing skipping home from the bakery every Saturday. I can still hear it--that song familiar to us since infanthood--the one Fadder taught us to sing on his knee before we could even babble a complete sentence in English. Do you remember it, Josef? Sing it, Josef, sing....

"Die Tage sind gegangen

Die Tage weichen Sonnenscheins

Die Tage sind gegangen

Auf Wiedersehen süße Jugend von mine."

"The days are gone, the days of soft sunshine,

The days are gone, goodbye sweet youth of mine."