Karl was the town baker, an
immigrant from Germany.
When he was a boy in pre-war
Germany, Karl joined the Hitler Youth Brigade, it was a witching that consumed
an entire generation of Hansels and Gretels. Across Germany, the monster moved
under the beds of children and turded their dreams with candied death. Karl was
moved to join a kiddy machine gun battalion and got the tip of his pinky finger shot off
during an exercise.
Many years later he sought refuge
in our town and served the community with his küchen. I could tell
he was haunted. One day we were driving back from Boston and came to a toll booth
that was operated by an African American. He gave the toll booth man a dollar
and tried unsuccessfully to take his change without touching the black hand that came
in the window. Overwhelmed by his demon of disgust, he shook his hand and wiped it
on his trousers the rest of the ride home, following the trail of crumbs back to
his ovens.
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