Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Shirley Russak Wachtel’s The Baker of Lost Memories, which is out June 1st 2025.

Growing up in 1960s Brooklyn, Lena wants to be a baker just like her mother was back in Poland prior to World War II. But questions about those days, and about a sister Lena never even knew, are ignored with solemn silence. It’s as if everything her parents left behind was a subject never to be broached.

The one person in whom Lena can confide is her best friend, Pearl. When she suddenly disappears from Lena’s life, Lena forges ahead: college, love and marriage with a wonderful man, the dream of owning a bakery becoming a reality, and the hope that someday Pearl will return to share in Lena’s happiness―and to be there for her during the unexpected losses to come.

Only when Lena discovers the depth of her parents’ anguish, and a startling truth about her own past, can they rebuild a family and overcome the heart-wrenching memories that have torn them apart.

The following Monday, instead of visiting one of her friends, Lena went straight home. She ran most of the way as she approached the fifth-floor apartment, thrust a hand down her white button-down shirt, and retrieved the single key dangling from a lanyard around her neck. The lock clicked open immediately, and she tiptoed in as if she were entering a stranger’s apartment, not her own.

“Ma?”

The only response was the ticktock of the large Kit-Cat clock on the kitchen wall. Lena breathed a long sigh of relief before entering the bedroom. Her bed was still unmade, pajamas lying on the floor at the side. It wasn’t as if she had expected to find her mother home, as Anya had informed her days earlier that she was needed to cover for someone who was having a dental procedure. She would be at work till seven, the one day the card shop was open for late-night customers. And, Anya had emphasized, dinner was already in the fridge. All Lena had to do was warm up the chicken soup and meatballs once her father walked in the door.

Lena felt a surge of excitement as she pulled off her shirt and pleated skirt, rolled down her socks, and grabbed her large gray sweatshirt with the big green letters Jets across the front. She found a pair of stovepipe jeans in the bottom drawer and, still in bare feet, trotted back into the kitchen. She didn’t stop to think about the first time she had taken matters in hand, the day Anya had scolded her for using the oven without permission, for messing up the kitchen counter with the flour she’d poured for her chocolate chip cookies. She had stayed in bed, crying silently for hours after that. And the cookies hadn’t turned out very good anyway.

She washed her hands vigorously in the kitchen sink, then moved toward the pantry, where the ingredients were waiting for her on a shelf all the way in the back. It was an easy reach for the mixing bowl and metal loaf pan—no need for the step stool her parents kept in the coat closet. When she had arranged the flour, baking powder, salt, raisins, honey, and oil on the counter, she opened the refrigerator door and picked out two white eggs, which she added to the other items. She set the oven to 350 degrees and, with a broad smile on her face, Lena set to work.

After she had placed the cake in the oven, Lena replaced what was left of the dry ingredients in the pantry. Afterward, she scrubbed the large mixing spoon and bowl with a Brillo pad, dried everything with the red terry cloth towel that hung from the stove handle, and returned the utensils back into place. And then she waited.

It wasn’t easy, though. She brought in her math workbook and made a vain attempt to work on the problems for homework. But she simply couldn’t concentrate, listening to the steady hum of the oven as it did its work, imagining the sweet scents that would soon sneak into her nasal passages. She closed the book and began to pace. The linoleum felt cold beneath the soles of her feet, and she found herself finally giving in to her own curiosity. Lena’s heart sank as she felt a blast of hot air when she opened the oven door. The mixture looked like a lump of dough, just as it had when she had placed it there. She peered up at the Kit-Cat clock on the wall, its tail swishing rhythmically back and forth, and was relieved to note that only ten minutes had passed. She continued pacing. It was only after a few minutes that she began to regret what she had done. Mama had never encouraged her baking, told her that she was too young for that, that using the oven was too dangerous, and that she should concentrate on school instead. She didn’t even like it when Lena watched her as she stirred the batter or, worse, asked to taste one of her unbaked chocolate chip cookies. Lena wasn’t sure why her mama was so adamant and guessed that sharing this activity brought back sad memories from the Old Country. Or maybe she just didn’t think Lena was good enough. Nevertheless, she was determined to prove her wrong.

Sometimes Lena thought she heard footsteps, the turning of the lock at the front door, but after holding her breath for a few seconds, she realized it was only her imagination. It would be hours before Mommy returned home.

Finally, like the breath of an angel, a glorious scent began to fill the air. She ran to the oven and peered inside. The mass had begun to swell and had assumed a golden bronze tint. Little black raisins that resembled eyes peeked out at her. It wouldn’t be long before she would have her first delicious honey cake. Just as good as her mommy used to bake before she was born—maybe better.

Anya was late. By the time she returned, both Lena and Josef had finished their dinner of leftover chicken soup and meatballs. Lena had even taken the liberty of opening a new can of purple plums for dessert. But throughout the meal, her eye kept wandering over to the counter where the tin pan filled with the sticky honey cake was left cooling on a kitchen towel. Josef had noticed it as soon as he had walked in the door. He had raised one inquisitive eyebrow.

“What’s this, Mommy baking again?”

“No, Daddy. That was me. I did that all myself,” she said, trying not to puff out her chest too much.

“That so?” he said, hanging up his dry raincoat, the one he forgot to bring on that rainy day a week earlier.

Josef winked at his daughter, then hesitated before sitting down at the table.

“And what’s Mommy going to say to that?”

Lena felt her heart skip a beat. What if her mother didn’t like the fact that Lena had presumptuously used the ingredients, taken out the pots and pans, turned on the oven? But before she could respond, her father’s voice invaded her thoughts.

“Look at you,” he gushed. “You’re getting to be quite the big girl. Setting dinner for your father. And, well, I cannot wait to taste that delicious-looking honey cake.”

But it was already too late for Lena to absorb her father’s words. He had planted the seed of doubt, and there was no way to redeem it.

By the time Anya walked in the door, Josef was already nestled in the familiar leather recliner, mouthing the words of an article, practicing his English as he read about the building of the Berlin Wall. But Lena remained fixed in the metal chair in the kitchen, her barely eaten meatballs still on the plate as she stared at the evil loaf of honey cake. She was trying to decide whether she should hide it in one of the drawers in her dresser or even wrap it up tightly in aluminum foil and quickly push it into the back of the small freezer when Anya, sniffing the air, set her eyes on the pan.

“I thought I smelled my honey cake,” she said, walking over to the loaf and giving it a poke with her finger, then suddenly turning toward her daughter.

“Lena, was this you? You did this?”

Lena felt a heat rise throughout her face. Unable to speak, all she could do was nod. She watched as her mother poked the loaf with her index finger and picked off one of the raisin eyes before looking over at Lena again.

“You make this?” she repeated.

“Yes, Ma, I made the honey cake.”

“How you know to make?”

Lena felt as if she were being grilled like one of those criminals she had seen on a police show she watched on TV.

“How you know to make such a cake?”

Lena shrugged, her gaze unwavering.

“From you. I learned how to bake by watching you.”

An air of confusion floated across Anya’s face, and it seemed as if she had removed a mask as she gave a little shudder, as if she were remembering something. She took off her trench coat and went into the living room to join Josef. Before long, Lena heard the two speaking their mixture of Yiddish and Polish in hushed tones. She remained immobile in her seat, ignoring the unwashed dishes, even the honey cake she had worked so hard on, which had looked so festive only a couple of hours earlier, and now appeared somewhat sad and pathetic. She thought of going into the living room, interrupting their conversation. But, instead, she got up, brushed off the thin coating of flour dust that still clung to her hands, and walked over to the counter where the cake sagged in the pan, eyes still looking up at her. No longer needing the towel, she picked up the metal pan with her bare hand. Then, standing over the garbage pail in the corner of the kitchen, Lena shook the tin and watched as the sides of the cake slowly separated from the metal and broke into pieces as it descended to the bottom.

Excerpt from THE BAKER OF LOST MEMORIES by Shirley Russak Wachtel. Text copyright © 2025 by Shirley Russak Wachtel, Published by Little

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Growing up, I never lived in a house.  Oh, there were plenty of apartments in Brownsville, Flatbush, or Kings Highway, as my father went from one promising business to another.  We were always looking at lots of small split-levels and two-family homes where I would imagine what it would feel like to sit on a bed surrounded by pink floral wallpaper or to plant my feet on grass, as my younger brother and I had a game of catch in the backyard.

But after a few years of dashed hopes, I soon realized that the home I dreamed of would never materialize.  My father had every intention of owning a home, but whenever he came close to the decision, he would inevitably back out.  It is only now when I am well past the age my father was then, with children and grandchildren of my own, that I fully understand the reason for his reluctance.

He simply couldn’t take the risk.  As a Holocaust survivor whose hometown was suddenly transformed from a thriving city to a ghetto, a prison where each action, the work you did, the number of slices of bread you ate each day, was dictated by Hitler’s Nazis.  Even as he became a runner for the black market, my father saw his beloved mother, his brother, sisters, nephews, and nieces marched off to their deaths in Auschwitz.  He alone survived, but only because he made a split-second decision to run for the line of workers rather than remain with the group to which he, a skinny, sickly young man, was assigned.  After the war ended, he met my mother, and the two, under the sponsorship of my great-aunt, came to America to begin a family, establish a business, secure a home.  It was only the last dream which never came to fruition.  As a survivor, my father knew all too well how quickly life could be upended, how everything you once thought was inviolable, secure, could change at a moment’s notice.  And that meant never placing your money into stocks or using credit cards when banks were more stable.  It also meant forgoing a risky mortgage.

So, we never did own that home, and our family remained content in spite of it.  Still, I wondered what life would be like for a survivor who did take that chance to build the home of his dreams, no matter the emotional and financial cost.  And so, the idea of Jacob and his castle was born.

Although Jacob is not modeled after my father, he is representative of so many immigrants who, having endured a life of oppression and sometimes unspeakable horror, come to America in search of a new start, a better life than the one they left behind.  In my novel, A Castle in Brooklyn, Jacob, who is haunted by the sad memories of his life back in Poland, manages to fulfill his American dream with a wife, a family, and, yes, a home he can call his own.  But, when unexpected tragedy intrudes on his happiness, its consequences threatening the relationship he has with his best friend, and even his marriage, his American dream begins to crumble. The home Jacob builds, though, still stands, reflecting the lives of those who continue to live within its walls and hope for those who will occupy its rooms in years to come.

While my father never did live in a home of his own, I have.  For the past thirty-five years, our home in New Jersey has been the hub of numerous family gatherings and celebrations, while offering a sense of stability and solace when the world gets too crazy.  And, so far, the good times have outnumbered the bad.    I hope that readers will see themselves, their fears, their dreams, in A Castle in Brooklyn.  And, just as I have, come to understand the true meaning of home.

EXCERPT FROM A CASTLE IN BROOKLYN

One needs to plan well before building a house. Once you have the land allocated, then you must prepare and grade the site. That being accomplished, the foundation, a secure foundation, can be begun. Then comes the framing of the house, when you can stand back and gaze up at something for the first time, even if it looks like nothing more than a box with a few oddly shaped holes. Next is the installation of the windows and doors, and the roughing and siding, and even a two-year-old can tell that it’s becoming a house. Then the professional electricians come in and do their work. Sometime after, there is another need, something important, especially if you are living on the East Coast, when each year the summers get only hotter, the winters more freezing. So heating and air-conditioning systems—fans—are essential to make sure the building is insulated and there’s drywall, underlayment, and trim. Without a doubt, now it appears to be a home, but it isn’t, not yet. No one would risk living in a space with walls yet to be painted, incomplete wiring, empty walls without counters or cabinets, unusable toilets, and sinks. No one would dare unless you were in hiding, unless you were running for your life and had no choices.

So you finish the heating and air-conditioning work, hook everything up to the water main. Now it’s a house, but it does not feel like one. Well then, you add sturdy wood floors, so toddlers can run without tripping over gaps or nails, and plush carpet or maybe a shag in a bright green or blue, and pretty Dacron curtains that flutter when you open the windows in the springtime. And voilà, you finally have a house! But you still don’t have a home. Not yet.

Jacob’s mind began to race with these thoughts the moment he had signed the deed to the property where he would erect his home, no longer a dream, a whim of the imagination, but a home framed with bricks and wood. Where he could stay warm and secure while drifts of snow piled in the streets or tempestuous winds shook the trees, and while the rain formed puddles on the road or danced on the rooftop of a home for all seasons.

It took little convincing for Zalman to agree to become the architect, once again Jacob’s right-hand man. This time the new role was not in an escape, but a step toward a thing, moving toward hope. At first, Zalman balked, feeling unsure in his abilities in the trade, but Jacob had enough confidence for them both. After all, hadn’t Zalman studied the meticulously planned drawings at his father’s knee, visited the museums, office buildings, the homes of bankers and art dealers that had sprung from the brain of one of the finest architects in all of Poland? Hadn’t he salvaged the massive books on the art and techniques of this vocation, and Zalman’s own rudimentary drawings that, though amateurish, possessed a spark that demonstrated that Zalman was indeed his father’s son? All he needed was time to review it all again, to acquaint himself with the codes at the municipal offices in Brooklyn, and he could set to work.

After only three months, just as the street began to crackle with a mid-July heat, and the birds hid beneath the dry leaves, Jacob, holding the blueprint of his future home, felt that spring had begun. As he shook Zalman’s hand, threw his arms around his stooped shoulders, kissed his cheek, he realized his dream was now Zalman’s as well.

Jacob’s responsibilities at work had kept him from visiting the site very often, over half an acre in Brooklyn’s Mill Basin community, so Zalman, design in hand, supervised much of the construction. Often Esther accompanied him, the two carefully surveying a massive blueprint. As the house began to take form, she became emboldened, offering advice on trim and window size, then colors on the walls, the exact shade of marigold for the appliances. Sometimes she would ask Zalman to explain the measurements of a closet or why a bedroom radiator was placed so near to the entry.  Zalman, who had lived among the Polish farmers, learned how to speak like an Americana, no longer such a greenhorn. The two discovered that they shared an interest in cooking, Esther explaining how to boil the bigos, a meat, potato, and sauerkraut stew he had loved as a child, while Zalman introduced her to sour cream with potatoes simmered in borscht. They also both loved music, especially the tunes each played on Esther’s beloved baby grand, bringing echoes of home to the young immigrants. Almost immediately, the two friends came to realize they had something else in common as well. Their love for Jacob, the man with the big dreams.

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