Miklas Famous Chocolate Torte

To celebrate the 70th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz this year, I am sharing my short story: 

MIKLAS FAMOUS CHOCOLATE TORTE 

The café was abuzz with activity; waitresses smiled quick smiles as they weaved smoothly between the tables. Steam rose from the coffee bar and the smell of fresh grounds wafted through the frequently opened door, tantalising passers-by. A steady stream of customers kept the ambience consistently inviting. People came alone or in groups. Some read the newspaper, some came to write - it was after all a favourite spot among the artists who found the atmosphere inspiring. Then, there were others who came just to people watch. And, this is exactly what Sokol did as he sat in his favourite corner at the back of the café, perched high on a bar stool, his crayons and paper abandoned before him, he simply watched. 

He loved being in the café, seeing friends greet each other, watching as the artists transformed blank paper with scenes from their vivid imaginations. Most of all, he loved watching his Abba. Sokol loved his father very much. He watched as Abner Miklas’ face broke into a hearty, welcoming smile with each greeting, it made Sokol’s own face break into smiles too. Abner ran the café every day that it was open, greeted almost every customer by name and remembered too the way the regulars liked their coffee. 

Sokol’s loving stare was suddenly interrupted by Magdeleine. His eyes followed the piece of Miklas Chocolate Torte she carried to him. As usual, she held the precious treat high up in the air weaving expertly between the tables, smiling sweetly. It was Sokol’s favourite piece of matinee theatre. His father allowed him to have only a little piece of the famous Miklas Chocolate Torte. Abba said it was so sweet and so full of chocolate; it would take hours of drawing and playing before he would be able to fall asleep. Sokol certainly liked his sleep because he got to dream wonderful dreams so they agreed a small slice was better than no slice! Maggie, as Sokol affectionately called her, elegantly waved the crayons and paper away and deposited the torte right in front of Sokol. She waited, tapping her cheek, as she leaned in for a kiss. With a wink, she was off again. As was customary, Sokol savoured every bit of the torte, letting each spoonful melt on his tongue and swirl around his mouth before he swallowed. If he tried really hard he could make his little slice last a whole hour. 

His father waved at him from the coffee bar with his usual beaming face. Abner Miklas was a proud man; he had earned his living working hard and had taken good care of his family. It was what a mensch did. He was well respected in the community and enjoyed the intimate friendships the café and the close-knit community engendered. Abner often brought friends back after the Shabbat meal on a Saturday evening and those were special times of fellowship and real bonding. The community of men got to talk about family, business, politics and share their dreams. 

It was early in 1938 and the talk was mostly about encroaching German ambitions. Eastern Europe and the Jews were under threat and speculation was rife about whether Germany’s ideology would succeed. Abner Miklas appreciated his life, gave thanks to Adonai and knew that one day Sokol would happily take over where he left off, but he did not want his family to live under threat for who they were and what they believed. Some of his friends had left, others were preparing to leave, they were selling their belongings and it filled Abner with a deep sadness.

A glint of silver from the back of the café caught his eye and Abner was momentarily relieved of his heavy thoughts as Sokol waved back at him with a sticky teaspoon and a chocolatey grin. He blew his Soky a kiss. Chocolate made Sokol happy and he wanted his son to be happy. Abner and his wife had tried for many years to have children. They had finally given up the weary struggle to conceive and gain understanding on their childless lot when Mischa found she was pregnant. They tried not to be too excited but couldn’t help themselves. Soky, as his parents affectionately called him was born five years ago and he was the apple of his parents’ eye. Abner loved his son with his whole heart, believing he was an answer to their many prayers.  And even if Soky had wanted another piece of that famous Miklas Chocolate Torte, he would easily give it to him, he only had to ask. 

Sokol watched as his Abba locked the door to the café. Abner then picked up a heavy, bulging bag and reached for his son’s hand as they began their short walk home. Sokol loved the feeling of his Abba’s big, warm hand around his. He smiled up at his father, a streak of dried chocolate across his cheek, increasing the magnitude of his smile. 

After hugs and kisses from his Mama, Sokol was sent to wash before dinner. He stood on the stool that helped him reach the basin and surveyed his reflection in the mirror. He tried several chocolate smiley faces enjoying the effects afforded by the streak on his cheek.  When he finally tried the tap, it was turned so tight he couldn’t open it, so he went to get his Abba. The kitchen door was unusually almost shut, only a tiny gap was left. Sokol could hear his parents’ hushed voices. He was about to open the door when he saw his parents move the heavy cooker aside. He watched silently through the crack in the door as his father miraculously opened the kitchen floor and proceeded down into the opening. Mama lowered the heavy bag Abba had brought from the café into the darkness below. Sokol knew he was not meant to know about this and he felt instantly guilty for watching. He chose to use his parent’s bathroom instead. 

The secret cellar was being filled daily with food, candles, clothes and other provisions as tensions in Prague and throughout Czechoslovakia grew. Abner had considered moving his family to America, he had connections there yet he was loathe to leave his community, his home and his café and prayed that President Beneš would remain stiffly opposed to the advancing Germans. 

Several months had passed and Sokol noticed that his father’s friends also carried heavy bags jutting with boxes and cans. He wondered if everyone had a secret cellar. Was it a game? Perhaps he would ask his Abba tonight as he tucked him into bed. 

That night at bedtime, Abner took Sokol’s head in his hands and kissed his son gently and then again. Sokol blinked suddenly as a tear dropped on his face. Abba was crying. “Soky,” his Abba began softly, “You cannot come to the café in the afternoons anymore. Your Mama will collect you from school and bring you directly home, ok?” 

“But I love being in the café with you Abba! Please can I come! Have I been bad?” Abner, smiled lovingly at his son. “No, you have been a very good boy but you must listen to your Abba, it is important that you listen to me and your Mama. Will you do this for me?”

Sokol was confused, he had been a good boy and his Abba had always enjoyed having him at the café. He sighed as he looked as his father’s sad eyes, “Yes, Abba.” 

Abner kissed his Soky once more and before he switched off the light said, “You will still get a piece of your favourite Miklas Torte, I promise I will bring a slice home with me every day, now don’t be sad, go to sleep and dream sweet dreams.” Sokol smiled, his Abba was not mad at him after all. That night he dreamed of his next slice of chocolate torte.

Sokol noticed his parents began wearing white armbands with the blue star on them and with each passing day, they grew thinner and sadder. Mama’s kisses didn’t make a red bow on his cheek anymore, she had stopped wearing lipstick. Abba no longer sang songs at their Shabbat meal on Fridays and he even began to bring home a whole torte instead of just a slice, so Sokol ate torte to his heart’s content with no objection from his parents. He had had his sixth birthday so he guessed that part of being six was that you got to eat as much torte as you liked. His parents hardly ate. They didn’t laugh or talk like they used to. Sometimes the only sound in the house was the radio. 

Eventually the torte stopped coming and Abba didn’t go to the café. There was no school so Sokol happily spent his time drawing. He drew the different sad faces all around him. His parents often took him to their friends’ homes nearby and he played with the other bored children, while the adults talked very seriously with each other. It was a great occasion when one of the children had a piece of chocolate and it was even greater when they shared it with him. Sokol looked forward to these times, he missed school, he missed the café and he missed his Abba’s special Miklas Chocolate Torte very much.

Then one day there was the loudest noise Sokol had ever heard. The Nazi sirens blared frighteningly through the night air. His Mama held him close and put her hands over his ears but he could still hear them. 

Abner decided it was time to let his son in on the secret cellar. Sokol watched as his father deftly lifted a part of the kitchen floor and revealed the dark space beneath. Sokol was afraid of what was down there so he clung onto his Abba’s shirt. Over and over again his Abba said, “Don’t be afraid.” Slowly, Abner lowered himself down into the cellar and as he reached the bottom, a light came on in the cellar. Abner beckoned for Sokol to follow and his Mama helped to get his footing on the ladder. Sokol’s heart beat faster than it ever had. He didn’t feel well and wanted to cry with all his might. As he reached the bottom, Abner drew Sokol into his arms and the warmth of his Abba steadied him. The cellar was full of bags, food, candles, cans and boxes of matches. There was his tank engine and his favourite storybook, both of which he had missed dearly and about whose disappearance he had plagued his parents daily until he forgot about them. The cellar was dark and smelled strangely.   

“Why are we here Abba? I want to go back upstairs.” Sokol’s chin started to wobble as his first sob escaped. Abner took Sokol’s hands in his and looked at son with sad eyes. “Soky, my boy, there are bad things happening. So we have to be clever but also strong. Look, you have everything here you need…” Abner showed Sokol around the cellar with a large lump in his throat, he swallowed hard and said, “Your Mama and I have arranged this safe place for you, with your toys and clothes to keep you warm. I know it’s not your room and it’s a bit dark but you will have to stay here for a while.”

At this, Sokol burst into tears. Mischa knelt behind Sokol, buried her face in his hair and hugged her son. “I love you Soky,” she whispered into his hair. “You have to be a good boy and stay here. We promise that you will be safe.”

“Where are you going?” Sokol wailed. “Don’t leave me here. I promise I will be good. I don’t want any more chocolate torte, I won't ask anymore!” 

Abner used his shirt to wipe his son’s tears and spoke in his most authoritative voice. “Sokol, listen to your Abba. It is a very dangerous time. So you must stay here. Your Mama and I will be upstairs to make sure no one comes into the house to hurt you. But I need you to be a good boy and stay down here, OK?” Sokol stared wide-eyed at his Abba, never having heard him use that particular tone before. He nodded silently and threw his arms around his Abba. “Now, here is the light and some candles if you need them. There is a bed for you right next to the ladder. You will hear Mama and I walking in the kitchen but if you hear anything else, any other strange noise, be very quiet, switch off your light and stay here. There is water in the corner and a can for the toilet. I have asked Magdeleine to come to get you if I cannot.  But I need you to do a very important job; can you count to six for me?” 

Sokol counted shakily, “Eh'ad, shnyim, shlosha, arba'a, h'amisha, shisha.” 

Abba clapped his hands and Mama smiled broadly at him for the first time in a long time. Sokol instantly smiled back. He was pleased they were pleased.

“Maggie will knock six times before she comes to get you, then do not be afraid, go with her. Be brave for us. I love you, my son.” His parents both held him and kissed him several times. His Mama kissed his whole face which tickled and Sokol giggled. Then they left.

Sokol watched as his parents hesitantly went back up the ladder, they blew him more kisses and their sad faces creased into weary smiles as the kitchen floor was put back into place. Suddenly, Sokol was alone. He sat quietly for a long time breathing in the stale air of the cellar. He wanted to cry but knew he had to be good and be quiet. He listened to his parents’ footsteps in the house above and eventually he fell asleep on the makeshift bed near the ladder. Hours later he again heard the shrill sirens but this time they were distant.  Within minutes there was much shuffling and banging upstairs. Sokol heard screams and the chairs in the kitchen being scrapped against the floor; he covered his ears as his heart beat wildly and buried himself in the blankets.  The noise went on for little while and then there was silence. Sokol could not hear his parent’s footsteps on the floor above, he listened quietly hour after hour, then finally he cried as quietly as he could.

He had been too scared to move but now he needed the toilet and he was also thirsty. He switched on the light and relieved himself in the can. Then, as he reached for the water, his eye caught a colourful tin lying in the dust. Curious, he carefully lifted it up to the dim light. On it was written “Miklas Chocolate Torte”. Sokol could easily have spotted the curly letters anywhere, he had seen it many, many times. He hungrily opened the tin but instead of the chocolate treasure he hoped to find, he instead found a piece of neatly folded old paper. Dismayed but still curious Sokol opened it to find unfamiliar handwriting and all he could read from what was written was “eggs, butter and chocolate”. Sokol turned the paper around and found his Abba’s handwriting. He could tell that his name was on it but he could not yet read the words. Little did Sokol know that in years to come he would find those words a great comfort.

After a few days, which seemed like months, Sokol heard some noise upstairs and then finally:  Eh'ad, shnyim, shlosha, arba'a, h'amisha, shisha. His heart raced as Maggie’s face appeared above the ladder. She eventually read the words on the piece of paper that Sokol was yet unable to read and fully understand, “For Soky, my son whom I love, some thing’s are meant to live on, dream sweet dreams.

© Nikita Reddy 2012