Greta pushed open the bakery door. Making the bell above the bakery door jingle softly and, at the same time, letting in a soft gust of September air and the scent of burning leaves from the town square.
“Rye,” Greta said, her hand held tight to Emil’s arm as she tugged him inside the bakery door. “It will be better. Also, It lasts longer.”
Emil shook his head. “But you don't like rye, Greta.”
She looked over her shoulder at him, the weight of being awake all through last night still visible in her eyes. “It has nothing to do with the taste. It’s practical.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “But wheat is softer. Sweeter. Your mother used to bake with it, remember?”
She groaned her teeth. “But she died.”
The baker, an old man with a flour-stained beard and a scar that looked like he had fought the last war, glanced up at them. No one has ever dared to ask how he got the scar. He pretended not to hear them.
Greta gave him a quick smile.
"Rye. Two loaves please." She said to him, without uttering a word the old man wrapped two loaves of rye in a paper and handed it over to her.
“Anything else?” the baker asked, glancing up briefly and finally breaking his silence.
“No,” Greta answered before Emil could speak. She turned her stare from the old man to Emil who dipped his hands in his pants pocket and brought out a few coins. He dropped it on the counter before the old man who counted it and gave them a nod.
Then they turned and made their way out of the bakery with Greta walking ahead. Her horse boots clicked hard on the cemented floor.
“The Germans. There are rumors that the Germans are coming,” Emil said softly to Greta. Holding the door open for Greta to pass.
“It’s just talk. They’ve been saying that for months,” she replied.
They stepped into the cobbled streets. The market was bubbling with weekend noises. A little girl ran past them chasing her little brother between the market stalls. Chickens clicked in the distance. Somehow, the air felt heavy, just as if the sky had been holding back a long sneeze. Greta held tight to the edges of the bread wrapped in paper, her fingers white.
“I was thinking,” Emil said, trying to sound casual and without fear. "Maybe we could visit your aunt on the far side of the country. Just for a week.”
Greta looked up to him. Her countenance changed. “Are we running away? Do you wish for us to hide? From who?.”
“No, no." Emil cuts in quickly. "I'm just saying, we are going away for a while. Now that the trains are still running. It will be nice.”
She stopped walking and looked at his face. “Greta, my aunty hates you. You know that already. Besides, she has just one bed and no bathroom."
“Of course not, she doesn’t hate me. It was just a misunderstanding at our wedding."
“But she called you a godless fool at the wedding.”
Emil chuckled. “In fairness, that was a very long wedding.”
"What are we running away from?" Greta finally hit the question. Changing the mood.
But Emil didn’t reply immediately. He stared at the statue in the middle of the square. An angel holding a broken sword, definitely because it has been weathered by too many storms. He looked around like he was avoiding something. Then he whispered,
“I dreamed of tanks last night. Tanks, from the Germans invading our city."
Greta held his face with her right hand.
“Dreams, my love. Dreams are just dreams.”
“No. My dreams are always real and you know that. I dreamt of the king losing his throne to the last war and it happened. I dreamt of the Germans capturing the West, and it happened. Now this. Besides, my mother always said....”
"...dreams warn you about your future." Greta completed it.
She turned and looked around the market square. Apart from the presence of soldiers, it felt normal. She looked at the priest’s windows, it had been boarded up. She remembered asking why but no one spoke of why. “Let's sit by the statue. I want to remember this while we're gone,” Greta said.
“What?”
“This. The square. We, arguing about bread like fools. I want to remember everything.”
Emil walked closer to her and held her hands. He nodded. “Me too.”
She took his hand and rested her head on his chest. Something in the air felt like goodbye.
Just then, a boy vendor ran by waving a newspaper. The headline was bold and black.
"Are The Germans Invading?"
A question on everyone's lips.
Greta shut her eyes.
Emil shook his head as his face turned pale. He wondered when the war would end.
The church bell rang loudly behind them. It was time for prayers. He shut his eyes and prayed for the strength to be back at the square once the war was all over. Hand on hand with his lover Greta.
