The Baker's Tale - Thomas Hauser

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too long.

      When I was a child, my father taught me to be industrious. I appreciate that quality in others. It is, in my opinion, one of the most charming qualities of the human character. Christopher applied himself to his new job with industriousness and effort. He was always active. When not otherwise engaged, he was cleaning. The tile floor and table in back and chairs and walls and oven were as clean as scrubbing could make them. Twice a day, he took a broom and swept up crumbs until there was not a speck on the floor. He showed intelligence by asking how things worked and fixing them when they were broken.

      With his mind at ease and with adequate food, Christopher passed into a new state of being. His body filled out. The colour that had forsaken his face returned. Sometimes a look came into his eyes as though he were remembering the hardships of his past. He wrestled at times with the understanding that he could not give bread to every beggar who came to the door. But he seemed at peace with himself.

      “I have never seen a man more hard working than he,” Marie told me. “He does each thing until it is done right.”

      Reading came slowly. Christopher went to the learning center in the early evening twice each week. Marie and I did the best we could to help with his lessons. There was a wish on our part to teach and a desire on his part to learn. But at age twenty-seven, he found the road difficult to follow.

      Often at night, he would stare at the symbols on a piece of paper that had been given to him:

      A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

      a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z

      The alphabet is the building block for the English language. Christopher struggled with it as though each letter were a bramble-bush that scratched until it drew blood. He could not see the forest through the trees. When he tried to read, his bewildered eyes fixed on each letter rather than connecting the letters to syllables and the syllables to words and the words to sentences.

      “It is hard to learn at this time of my life,” he said.

      “If you learned to talk, you can learn to read,” Octavius Joy assured him. “I know you are struggling, but you must keep at it. If you entertain the notion that any great success was, or ever will be, achieved without effort, leave that wrong idea behind. Perseverance will gain the summit of any hill.”

      It is hard for people without hope to learn. They cannot see accomplishments and success in their future. But Christopher’s new life had given him hope, and he soldiered on. When studying a lesson, he would take up a piece of chalk as though it were a large tool and roll up his sleeves as though wielding a crowbar or hammer. Then he would square his elbows, put his face close to his copy slate, and labour.

      “Well, Christopher,” I said on one occasion while looking over several copies of the letter “O,” which he had represented as a square, a rectangle, and a triangle. “You are improving. If only you can get it to be round, it will be perfect.”

      A man must make the most of every opportunity he has in life. In time, Christopher began to read and write on a small scale. Letters became words. Words became sentences. Sentences fit into the context of passages that were understandable to him. From time to time, I saw him glance at the front page of a journal or the cover of a book with a curiosity that went beneath the binding.

      He also showed a modest aptitude for fractions and decimals, which enabled him to weigh each loaf of bread in the presence of the buyer. Taken together, his newly acquired skills allowed him to master the sign on the bakery wall:

      There are many kinds of pride. Christopher took pride in his labour. He took pride as he learned to read and write. But the greatest pride and joy in his life was Ruby.

      Night after night, he sat with her. No matter how tired he was after a long day’s work, he would take her on his back and carry her round in play. When he spoke to her, his voice was never rough or angry. His hands were large but never heavy when he touched her. Her smile always brightened his face, as if, when she smiled, they were coining gold.

      A man of noble lineage loves the mansion of his inheritance as a trophy of birth and wealth. The root of a poor man’s attachment to his home grows deep into purer soil.

      Christopher saw his new home as a grandly furnished palace. And Ruby was as much at home as if she had lived there for her entire life. She knew nothing in a philosophical way about the inequities of society. But she knew that the world she had once lived in was a very hard place and her new world was very unlike it. Soon, all trace of the deprivation of her early years was gone.

      Marie had lost the love of a husband but now had the love of a child. To see her walk hand in hand with Ruby, to watch them together in the home, warmed the heart. She would sing to Ruby when putting her to sleep. Ruby would smile and close her eyes. At times, I wondered if the child’s mind might not be journeying back to the earliest years of her life when she was sung to by another woman who held her in her arms and called her “my child.”

      If a good fairy had built a home for Ruby with the wave of a magic wand and made her a princess in the bargain, she would not have been happier. Each day began with three eggs on the table. One for Ruby, one for Marie, and one for Christopher. There was bread, milk, and coffee. On Sundays, bacon or sausage hissed in a pan.

      Children move back and forth between being free spirits totally immersed in a doll, a flower, or whatever has captured their fancy in the moment and, when sad, the most heavily burdened souls on earth. But the world was full of happiness for Ruby. She took joy in every tree, in every bird, in the sun by day and the stars at night. Her childish eyes opened wider and wider as she discovered more of the world round her. She was inquisitive and playful. She loved the church bells when they rang.

      Unlike Marie, I lived alone. I have had some ladies on my arm and kissed more than a few in my time. But I never married. Marie and her husband were my family. Now Christopher became my brother and Ruby my child. I was invited often to join them for dinner. Marie made an honest stout soup with potatoes, rice, and barley. There was bread, cheese, greens when in season, and, once a week, meat.

      Ruby frequently visited my bakery. On these occasions, the words “Ruby help,” spoken by her with enthusiasm, inspired both a smile and dread. Invariably, she was soon up to her elbows in flour with more flour in her hair.

      “Young lady,” I told her. “You are not easy, but you are worth the trouble.”

      On one of her visits, I asked if she would like to help make strawberry jam. Not just eat it, but make it from scratch. A cry of joy escaped her lips, and two bright eyes fixed upon me in expectation.

      We washed the strawberries, crushed them, and mixed them with sugar. Then I poured the mixture into a pan and stirred it over a flame until the sugar had fully dissolved.

      The jam boiled for five minutes. As it was cooling, Ruby reached for the pan.

      “Young lady; if you place a matter in the hands of a professional, you must not interfere with the conduct of his business. The pan is hot. Leave it alone, do not burn yourself, and we will get along exceedingly well. But if you try again to touch it, I am going to eat you up like a big piece of bread with jam.”

      “I’m not bread with jam.”

      “No?”

      “No! I’m a girl. I’m Ruby.”

      After the jam cooled, I spooned most of it into jars, sealed them with wax, and put the rest on bread for Ruby.

      Here, I might add that jam has many uses.

      “Ruby, we are going to clean the room together,” Marie said one day.

      “No!”

      Marie’s suggestion was repeated more strongly, this time as a command.

      Ruby’s “no” was repeated with equal conviction.

      “No jam for you today,” Marie warned.

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