Max took a bite. “I like it. You’re a remarkable cook to make savory soup out of dormant leeks.”
Anna appreciated their efforts to compliment her on the food, but she couldn’t stop thinking about the dwindling food supplies, due to the British naval blockade, and the rumors that many Germans would die from starvation before spring.Famine has become a weapon.A fusion of hunger and dread gnawed at her stomach.
“Have you told Norbie?” Max asked.
“Nein,” she said, staring at her soup.
“Tell me what?” Norbie asked.
“It’s nothing,” Anna said. “It can wait until tomorrow.”
“Anna and Nia trained with me,” Max said.
A smile spread over Norbie’s face. “That is glorious news.” He leaned to Anna and hugged her. “I’m so proud of you.”
Anna’s angst faded. “Danke.”
“Why didn’t you want to tell me?” Norbie asked.
“I’m worried about us not having enough rations,” she said. “What if the British blockade doesn’t end.”
“Everything, including war and blockades, eventually ends,” Norbie said. “If rations continue to be sparse, I’ll find a way to get us food, even if I have to barter every one of my clocks and timepieces to get us through winter.” Norbie patted her hand. “Now, tell me about your day.”
You always have a way of making terrible things tolerable, Anna thought. She took a bite of soup, bitter and bland, and for the next several minutes she told him about Fleck permitting her and Nia to temporarily train with Max until healthy shepherds became available.
Norbie beamed. “This calls for a celebration.” He stood, opened a china cabinet, and retrieved crystal wineglasses.
“What are you doing?” Anna asked.
“I’m going to pour us drinks for a toast.”
Anna furrowed her brows. “But we don’t have any wine.”
Norbie looked at her. “Do you remember what wine tastes like?”
She nodded, feeling confused.
“Gut.” He poured water from a clay pitcher into the wineglasses. “To Anna, Max, and Nia,” he said, raising his glass. “And their success with guide dog training.”
Anna clinked their glasses and took a sip of water.
“Ah,” Norbie said. “That’s a fine Riesling.”
“Ja,” Max said. “Citrusy and sweet. What year is it?”
Anna smiled.
Norbie pretended to examine a label on the pitcher of water. “1913.”
“A fine year,” Max said.
“Let’s have some sauerbraten and spätzle,” Norbie said. He carved the small, shriveled field sausage with a paring knife and placed the bits of meat onto their plates with a thumb-size piece of black bread.
Max sniffed his food. “Smells divine.”
Norbie chewed a bit of dry sausage. “It’s delicious but not quite as tender as my wife, Helga’s, sauerbraten. Her recipe called for the meat to be marinated—in a secret family recipe of wine, herbs, and spices—for seven days.”
A childhood memory of Anna and hermutterpouring pretend tea for dolls flashed in her head.
