Breaking Bread with the Past

---(SENSITIVE subject matter about the Holocaust)

​​ The foul odor is overwhelming and inescapable, and it is one of my earliest memories. The smell is indescribable, and it clings to my clothes and permeates the walls like an evil spirit guarding its territory. 

The putrid smell comes from the strange ingredients my grandmother Astrid uses in her family's secret bread recipe, which she keeps in a high cupboard out of reach. 

She sifts the fine powder from an old mason jar and grinds the harder bits down the garbage disposal to produce a cup of fine, dusty powder she uses in her secret recipe. 

When mixed with water to form a tough dough, the mixture has an initial earthy aroma that develops into a robust and wet wood smell. The dough gradually ripens and emits a stinky, smoky yeast smell that stings your nose hairs. As the dough bakes, it releases a powerful odor similar to charred wood that claws its way down your throat and brings tears to your eyes. It makes me want to vomit. It is one of the most unpleasant smells I know and reminds me of my grandmother Astrid.

As I pondered the enigma of that smell, I absent-mindedly brushed an itch from my forehead, unwittingly showering my nose with the fine white powder that triggered a sneeze.

"Gesundheit! Guter Herr! Cover your mouth." Grandma Astrid barked at me as she heaved the fluffy ball of dough back and forth, kneading it like a stout Viking rowing out to sea. 

She was masculine. She looked more like my father than a petite housewife like my mother. Her shoulders were as broad as a linebacker, and her feet were as long as my forearm. They also stunk.

The blue veins on her biceps bulged and taunted the frayed threads of her shirt with each heave and ho.

The intrusive thoughts that dominate my subconscious constantly play out in my mind. I shuttered, trying to rid the invasive images of Astrid's distressed seams that combust with a final grunt, unraveling her blouse like the Incredible Hulk—popping each button off one at a time like a hot kernel of kettle corn, leaving her standing there vulnerable in shades of crimson. 

It's a disturbing thought, but this whole mandated process is. I dread this time of year when my parents insist I spend time with this uncivilized and boorish woman. 

My father demands this annual visit since she is the last living relative on his side of the family. He desperately urges me to initiate a special bond with her, hoping to help preserve and carry on their legacy proudly. 

I have no desire to be related to his side of the family. There are no cousins to play with or aunts and uncles to horse around with. And I knew nothing about their past. It was never discussed, and talk was always averted when brought up.

So every year, I would begrudgingly self-sacrifice my entire week detained in a house covered in orange fuzzy wallpaper and shag carpet, whose hallways are decorated in strategically placed black and white olden-day photos. 

The dark hallways always creep me out. I've always felt like the sad eyes of the mothers and children were watching me as if begging me for something. At the same time, the fathers, wearing uniformed trousers and tunics with sleek, long mustaches that fringed their upper lips, intimidated me, instantly making me look away. Most of these relatives I'd never met or even heard about. I only saw them at funerals every few years when I was younger, but none spoke English or tried to get to know me.

The worst part of staying here for the week was the different smells that bombarded me and made me nauseous every time I turned a corner. Especially the bathrooms, with a disturbing smell of Altoids and Pepto Bismol masked by a bitter, sweet floral concoction named Eau de Cologne. The squishy, indented blue toilet seat especially makes me cringe.

After enduring these visits for 16 consecutive years, one would expect it to become more tolerable, but it's quite the opposite. The experience continues to be just as unbearable as before. I'd wake up to the rooster's cawing, chores would be slayed until lunch, which is always a ham sandwich with a slab of processed cheese on white bread, and then the agonizing baking of the bread, a strict ritualistic process with no room for mistakes. The baking of the Astrid Bread was the ultimate smell this entire experience encompassed. 

To make matters worse, the small talk is null and void with Grandma Astrid. I once bravely questioned what the secret recipe to her famous homemade bread was, and she shot me the look of death, mumbled something gibberish under her breath, and flung the embroidered dishcloth over her shoulder. How would I ever break her hard shell and uncover the past she desperately seemed to hide from to please my parents?

Silently, I concentrated on breathing through my mouth, trying not to smell while slowly measuring salt into a metal tablespoon. Grandma's grunting relaxed momentarily, and she placed the white fluff before me. Her large, protruding black eyes stared down at me as she took a deep breath and exhaled sharply through her flared nostrils, creating a high-pitched whistling noise that rattled the long black hair on her chin and simultaneously made the hairs on my arms stand erect.

As a waft of the distinct smell crept across the counter, I gasped, burning my nose hairs and causing my stomach to churn like cottage cheese. I watched as a bead of sweat trickled down the peak of the feral woman's arched, wiry eyebrow, feeling increasingly distraught.

"Fetch me the rolling pin out of the pantry, lad. And when you return, I will include you in my secret family recipe." Gramma wheezed, flailing her crooked pointer finger in the pantry's direction. 

In relief, I pounced off the stool to escape the uneasy moment and wandered over to the arched door, thankful the pantry was in the cellar below, which I had just realized was the only part of this house I had never ventured to because it was always locked.

I deftly turned the skeleton key, unlocked the door, and flipped the stiff yellow switch as the light flickered like a firefly, casting enough light to illuminate the stairs leading down the steep and crooked steps.

Ducking my head under the arched doorway, I was hit by a vile, musty smell that replaced the other nauseating scents bothering me earlier. The stench grew stronger as I descended the creaky, chipped wooden steps, making my stomach churn even more.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I timidly felt along the damp, mildew-covered wall for a light switch. A chill ran down my spine as my senses heightened. As I flicked on the light, I could see rows of shelves on either side of me, lined with dusty jars, cans, and boxes. I scanned the shelves, looking for the rolling pin Gramma had sent me to fetch.

While I was scouring the shelves, I noticed something strange. Small wooden crates were strategically aligned on the top frame adorned with golden metal Roman numeral numbers in numerical order from one to ten across their fronts. 

I felt droplets of sweat forming on my upper lip, and my left eye started to twitch with my heartbeat rhythmically. I nervously climbed up the metal shelf to get a closer look and realized the crates had rusted locks on top of them, clearly barring sacred hidden secrets inside. 

A slight beam of sunshine crept through a small egress window at the top of the shelf, creating a stream of sparkling dust diamonds tinted from the red, black, and yellow striped flag draped over the window. The ray cast enough light to make out dates torched on the top of the crates from the 1930s to the present day.

My curiosity spiked as I clambered closer and noticed small cursive handwriting etched in the wood below the numbers in a foreign language. I traced my finger across the dusty surface, and a dull ache sporadically started throbbing in my chest, which I alluded was a premonition I was treading on fragile ground. 

I made out a few words that appeared to be people's first names: Ezra, Ruth, David, and Sarah. They all had the same last name, Horowitz, which triggered me. It was the name that had woven its way through the cryptic conversations of my mother and father, a name that bore an unspoken weight within the confines of my family's history. 

An undecipherable saying was inscribed below: Zachor et haShoah. 

My heart started pounding faster as I noticed crate three's lock was dangling unhitched. Intrepidly, I inched my way towards the container.

With a rusty groan, the lock yielded to my touch, and I nervously lifted the lid, unleashing a distinct waft of fresh earth, triggering a startling connection. Amongst stacks of papers, letters, and postcards was a mason jar identical to the one in which Astrid stores her family's secret ingredients. 

My darkest intrusive thoughts unraveled, weaving a horrifying narrative of atrocities and clandestine rituals. The dusty remnants seemed to whisper to me, fueling my suspicion that they were the remnants of a sinister past, a history concealed within the confines of the house. 

In my growing panic, I couldn't shake the morbid thought that perhaps my grandmother had been using the ashes of the deceased, a harrowing suggestion that sent shivers down my spine and threatened to unravel the very fabric of my understanding of this family's history.

Drowning in a deafening silence, the floorboards from the kitchen above started creaking, getting closer and closer till the dungeon door slowly screeched open. 

"Elijah David Harrison, Guter Herr! Have you found what you were looking for?" the voice cascaded down the planks. 

At that exact moment, the pipes above my head started hissing, and flames ignited in the vintage incinerator, lighting the entire cellar. The door flung wide open, and the room instantly filled with the stench of charred firelogs.

Astrid's monstrous shadow descended slowly down the steps with loud claps of her hands, dispersing a cloud of powder throughout the room. I glanced at the crates looming over myself like crypts in a forgotten catacomb, and my heart arrested in terror, shooting blood through my veins to my brain. My reality slowly slipped from the mast I held of my sanity as the anchor of my consciousness dropped, fading my world to black.

The cold sheets felt comforting around my body as I regained consciousness. Disoriented, my eyes were having difficulty adjusting to the bright lights. I could hear muffled voices that seemed distant but familiar and calming. The figures appeared as if they were floating above me as my eyes began to focus. 

I was relieved when I realized it was my father and mother hovering over me, exchanging laughter and acting as if they were unaware of the crime scene I had just discovered. I abruptly sat in bed, and they ran to my side. Glancing around the room, my eyes locked in terror at the monster casually rocking in a wooden chair, reading the stack of papers I had found in the crate with the jar of ashes sitting on the side table beside her. 

Her eyes gazed up at mine as she slowly stood from the chair and started walking towards me, holding the large crate under her left arm like a football. A different energy radiated from her aura as she glided across the room. Her eyes were not dark and soulless under the warm lights but a beautiful light gray that allowed me to let my guard down. 

She sat on the bed beside me, laid her giant hand on my thigh, and asked how I felt. 

"Elijah, my dear boy, you must have been so frightened," she said, her voice tinged with concern. "The look of terror in your eyes said all there was to know racing through your mind. When you fell from the shelves, I ran to your side and saw the rusty lock clenched in your hands. I immediately knew how you could have misinterpreted things. I think I have some explaining to do. I think you are old enough now to finally hear the true story of our family, and if you're interested, I'll let you in on our family's secret bread recipe."

She explained that hiding her past was to protect and preserve her descendants' innocence and emotional well-being from the traumatic experiences and painful memories she endured.

She began telling me how she fell madly in love with a Jewish man named Alexander during WWII and became pregnant with twins. With her being of German descent, their relationship had to be kept a secret. But word got out, and one fateful day, the love of her life was abruptly ripped from her arms and transported to a concentration camp, never to be seen again.

The stress and heartache she endured made her go into labor three months early, and she delivered two beautiful premature identical twins, but sweet David passed away 2 days later.

My middle name was given to me in remembrance of my father's twin brother.

Most of her family died in the war, and the Holocaust robbed the lives of many of Alexander's family. She raised Adam alone, never wanting to remarry again. But adamant about preserving these people's honorable lives.

Grandma Astrid's past became more apparent, her struggles and pain more palpable. I sat there, absorbing every detail, my eyes wide with shock and empathy.

She explained that the ashes I saw in the crate weren't the secret ingredients. Still, the remains were of her beloved, her lost family, carefully preserved as a symbol of resilience and remembrance. 

Astrid said the family's secret ingredient, representing the ashes, was a unique blend of spices passed down through generations. 

It honored the unwavering spirit that had persevered through the darkest times.

Astrid had embedded her resilience and love into every loaf she baked, passing down a legacy that transcended mere culinary traditions.

As the final pieces of her story settled within me, I was enveloped in a newfound respect for Grandma Astrid. The realization dawned on me that her gruffness was a shield for the pain she had endured.

In that moment, I saw beyond the tough exterior and the overpowering aroma, recognizing the fragility she had concealed behind her stern demeanor. With a shared understanding, we forged a connection that transcended words, uniting us in a shared legacy of resilience and love.

As I stood by her side, kneading the dough under her watchful eye, I sensed a profound transformation within me. With each measured addition of the secret powder and each rhythmic motion of the rolling pin, I felt the weight of generational pain lifting, replaced by a sense of belonging to a history that had shaped me in ways I had never imagined.

With the oven's warm embrace enveloping the rising bread, I understood that the true secret behind the family recipe lay not in the ingredients alone but in the unspoken stories that infused every batch with a legacy of survival and unyielding love.

In that kitchen, amidst the flickering light and the heady aroma of baking bread, I discovered a newfound appreciation for the complexities of family, the resilience that transcends generations, and the enduring power of love to triumph over the darkest of adversities. As I savored the first bite of that secret family bread, I realized that it wasn't just a recipe—it was a testament to the unbreakable spirit that had carried us through the echoes of history.