The Lentil Pot

It was a gloriously gray, damp day in Nuremberg. A perfect day for Hilda. She loved staying at home when it was cold outside and the streets had a fine dusting of snow. On days like these, Hilda would hunker down and cook — filling the entire apartment with delectable aromatics, which no doubt rose up to the apartment of the smart-looking widower above. She intended to make him a tin of thin-sliced seed cake before the day was out. It would still be warm when she left it on his doormat, made her polite knock, then quickly, in slippered feet, made her way back to the apartment below. Shy, she would be out of view before Heinrich opened his door.

Hilda often thought of Heinrich, though her husband had only been MIA for eleven months. Heinrich was the type of man she wished she’d married when she was young. He had a neatly trimmed silver beard and smooth olive-colored skin, which belied his age. Heinrich always dressed stylishly — for an important desk job perhaps, and he smelled wonderfully fragrant as if inviting close contact. She could well imagine kissing his soft, pink lips and feeling his warm, gentlemanly embrace. He was not the type of man who would be brusk and talk crudely, as her husband had done, though admittedly, she sometimes enjoyed his rough ways.

Hilda was lonely for men, hers, in particular, portraits of which sat framed on the credenza in the dark, unwindowed dining room in the center of her rowhouse flat. The heavy wood paneling and red and gold flocked wallpaper, dulled by the room’s single white glass ceiling fixture, gave the space a dank, mysterious feel. When her family dined there, their brassy voices and agitated discussions about the Tausendjähriges Reich and Germany’s progress or lack thereof in the war, crowded further a room already oppressively warm from the heat of radiators and Hilda’s heavily seasoned stews.

Where were her men? No one had heard from Gerhard for the better part of a year, and though he was presumed dead, the Army would not declare him so until ten years had passed, unless, of course, his body was found and could be properly identified. In the meantime, Hilda was expected to carry on as if he would be returning, and in his absence, she continued to receive his meager benefits. Her son Aldo, on the other hand, periodically sent postcards from remote locations, but his leaves, and thus his visits to see her, grew further apart as the war progressed.

Back in the days when things were less chaotic nationally, Hilda’s husband and son would return home on prescribed holidays and, on those occasions, would relax in the parlor, exchanging stories and, in animated voices, talk about the Nazi cause and whether the Third Reich had the ability to carry out their noble mission. It was a rhetorical discussion, of course, as both men were heavily invested in the war (and positive Germany would be victorious), to the point of wearing their eye-catching Nazi regalia at the dinner table, minus the hats, gloves, and overcoats, which Hilda had carefully hung on the rack and set on the shelves in the foyer.

The rhetoric they parroted gave the impression they were high in the ranks, among those leading Germany to its destiny as the homeland for the master race. Even Hilda was convinced of their importance, despite the fact that neither man had the means to pay even the most basic of household bills, resulting in Hilda’s having to take on weekly cleaning for a wealthy couple several blocks over. Even this work and income stream was tentative, as it was rumored that the Katzensteins might soon be losing their home. Already, the Nuremberg Chamber of Commerce had taken possession of their department store and was in the process of Aryanizing it.

Alina and Josef Katzenstein had been wonderful employers to Hilda for the last five years, helping the Müllers financially on numerous occasions, in particular when Hilda had medical issues that needed addressing. Now, they found themselves strapped for cash, and part of Hilda’s pay of late was items from their food pantry. They assured her they would catch up on her hourly wages as soon as they shored up new work to replace what they normally earned from the store. Hilda was fine with this arrangement, as none of her local food sources had what she needed to prepare a proper meal. Food from the Katzenstein larder, in exchange for her time and hard work, was more than an even exchange, in Hilda’s estimation.

On this frigid winter day, Hilda set to work in her tiny galley kitchen, preparing the weekly pot of lentils. The Müllers had not been allocated a nice pork roast for a couple of years now, nor was one expected anytime soon, so this would be a mostly vegetarian stew. Little did that matter now that the men were off serving in the Wehrmacht. This stew was for Hilda, and she preferred a lighter version of the dish.

On the previous Wednesday, Hilda had miraculously scored half a chicken and with the bones, made a lovely broth, adding to the flavor with parsnip and potato peelings she had squirreled away. All of this and a half head of cabbage, a few carrots, and a yellow onion would do the trick. There was also plenty of vinegar at the bottom of the sauerkraut jar, and she had one container of tomato paste left that had been put up the summer prior. Hilda set to chopping, then sautéing the vegetables in bacon grease. While periodically tending to the sizzling skillet, Hilda also worked on cleaning and sorting the Ukrainian lentils, a large bag of which she had been allocated at the army surplus. From Alina and Josef’s house, Hilda had procured a canister of flour, another of sugar, and a smallish bag of poppy seeds. Eggs, though in short supply, could be had from the corner grocery, though they were rationed out in threes, so it took careful planning if one was thinking to make sweets or bread.

Hilda loved making lentils; a pot’s worth would feed her for a couple of weeks. Once cooked, the large stew stayed fresh in her unheated kitchen simply by being kept on the unlit stovetop. Add to that the seasonal chill that eased its way through the leaky window frames, and the entire kitchen was transformed into an icebox, at least during the winter and early spring. Hilda’s splurge this week: an accompaniment to her pot of lentils in the way of homemade spätzle. Thanks to the Katzensteins, she now had the flour and an egg for putting it together.

Today’s big celebration, however, was in Hilda’s acquisition of everything needed for making her favorite seed cake: flour, eggs, poppy seeds, sugar, butter, and baking powder. She’d not enjoyed sweets for over a year as baking supplies had been unavailable. And now here she was on this gloomy Tuesday, making a cake, something she would enjoy noshing on for many days, as well as sharing with her neighbor Heinrich. What an extravagance!

Once the lentil stew was done simmering on the stove, Hilda turned off the flame and covered the ancient pot with a lid. She then lit the pilot for the oven, set to work putting together the seed cake batter, and prepared a bundt pan. After many months of abstinence, whipping together these simple ingredients in less than ten minutes proved to be a bit anticlimactic, yet into the oven the mixture went. Within no time, the irresistible smell of seed cake permeated the apartment, driving Hilda out of her mind and causing a salivary reflex so strong it stung. Hilda had at least 45 minutes to wait and so decided it best to walk to the corner grocery to pick up a nice herbal tea, something that would make a worthy accompaniment to a warm slice of cake. Hilda had her mouth set on Dr. Richter’s Frühstücks Kräutertee, her favorite. She prayed there would still be some in stock at the local store.

After pulling her hair tightly into a bun, Hilda put on her watch, and tucked her rations card into her wallet, then wriggled her house shoes into black galoshes. Next, she put on her winter overcoat, some wool gloves, and a matching hat, and off she went. Hilda had exactly thirty minutes to go two blocks, get her tea, and make it back in time to pull the seed cake out of the oven. Today, there would be not one minute for idle chitchat.

It was a bracing walk to the corner grocery, as the wind had picked up and was biting Hilda’s cheeks. Very soon, however, she was within the warm and steamy environs of the brightly lit store. Briskly, Hilda walked to the back of the center aisle, where she could normally expect to find her favorite tea. Relieved to find two containers remaining, she grabbed a tin and popped open the lid to ascertain its freshness. The heady smell of fennel, spearmint, licorice root, and rosemary awakened her senses, taking her back to her grandmother’s parlor at the farmhouse. There was no more time for dawdling, so straight to the checkout Hilda marched — all the while, her mouth anticipating the cake that would be waiting for her when she reached the top of the stairs at her apartment building.

Up front was one cashier and a thankfully short line: an older man with a few dry goods and a young mother with two children, who was clutching four cans of condensed milk. The two transactions took all of five minutes before it was Hilda’s turn to approach the counter.

Suddenly, at the moment Hilda had begun rummaging her handbag for Reichsmarks, there was a deafening boom. Following, a hot, powerful wave of air shot across the back of Hilda’s legs. She raised her head to look forward and saw the cashier tightly scrunch her face, squeezing her eyes shut, her hair suddenly blowing straight back, at which point she fainted and collapsed, disappearing altogether behind the counter. Hilda grew dizzy and nauseous watching all of this go down. On the wall behind the cash register, a shelf of cigarettes swayed, cartons, matches, and lighters tumbling to the linoleum floor. On the roof and against the outside walls of the grocery, bricks could be felt raining down in a heavy, uneven rhythm.

Within the confines of the grocery store, customers and staff remained safe from harm, though a fine layer of dust had filtered downward and accumulated on everyone’s shoulders, in their hair, and on their hats. Dumbstruck, not a soul spoke, until a small child’s shrill voice cried for his mother, which unleashed a cacophony of panicking adult voices. Hilda, her mouth involuntarily clenched shut in silence, held the tin of tea tightly against her chest and fled the store.

Outside, the sun was peeking through the thick cloud layer, casting a cheerful aura on the scene as if a pastoral setting. Piles of dust, bricks, and rubble took the place of what had once been someone’s beautiful parlor with a Bösendorfer and a shelf full of piano scores, a baby’s nursery with a crib and toys, and the room where an older gentleman, with a full tummy, had lain on top of a neatly made bed, curtains drawn, as he took his post-Mittagessen nap.

On top of Heinrich’s unresponsive body was a jumble of bricks and part of a window frame with its scalloped lace curtains intact. He lay on his back, hands gently clasped over his belt buckle, eyes peacefully closed. His journey to death had likely been imperceptible — from deep slumber to eternal sleep. Hilda took comfort in that.

Then she remembered her beautiful seed cake. She could still smell it, or so she thought. She searched everywhere amongst the rubble, imagining the cast-iron stove had survived the blast and thus her cake, too. Instead, near the remains of her belongings, steam could be seen rising through an opening in a pyre of broken framing lumber. There was her lentil pot, its contents still hot, though co-mingled with plaster and shards of wood. She picked it up by the handles, then flipped it upside down, dumping the contents onto all else that was spoiled forever.

Filthy, exhausted, and homeless, Hilda made her way down to the Pegnitz, where she sat on the riverbank and washed her pot, all that remained of the life she knew.