The Plum Tree (11 page)

“That’s because you’re the best brothers in Germany,” Christine said, standing behind him and wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

“Danke,”
he said, turning to look up at her. She hugged him, one hand reaching out to Karl and Maria. Karl did his best to wrap his short arms around them both, and Maria joined in by hugging everyone. As the siblings embraced in front of the tree, Christine’s eyes filled, and she glanced at Maria, who looked back with shining eyes.

“Fröliche Weihnachten,”
Christine said. “Merry Christmas, my loves.”

“Fröliche Weihnachten!!”
the boys and Maria said at the same time, and everyone laughed.

On Christmas Eve, after Christine and Maria used ashes to leave footprints on the floor next to the giant spruce, Mutti and Oma decorated the fragrant boughs with white candles, tinsel, and straw stars. Christine, Maria, Heinrich, and Karl waited outside in the hall until the grown-ups shut off the lights and rang a bell that signaled
“Bescherung”
—that Christkindl had left and the children could enter the glowing room to see their presents. Heinrich hurried toward the tree, then stopped short, pointing at the floor.

“Look, Karl!” he said. “Christkindl left footprints!”

Karl gasped, staring at the oversized, ashy prints.

“That
sorglose
Christkindl!” Mutti said. “I told him to wipe his boots!”

“It’s all right, Mutti,” Heinrich said, winking. “We’ll help you clean them up.”

Christine and Maria looked at each other. Heinrich knew it was a trick. For some reason, the thought that he no longer believed in Christkindl made Christine’s chest constrict. She had been hoping her brothers still believed in magic. Someone had to. It reminded her of the morning she’d spent in the hills with Isaac, how naïve and idealistic she’d been, how, in what felt like a matter of minutes, she’d been forced to face reality. Everything was shifting too fast. There was a war going on; her brothers would be forced to grow up soon enough. Now, no matter how hard she tried to recapture the joy of this special day, this Christmas Eve with her family and the biggest tree they’d ever had, the lighthearted moment was gone. Her heart sank.

Before they could open their presents, the entire family gathered around the flickering tree to pray and sing carols. Oma cried as usual, her wrinkled, watery eyes shining as she stared at the tree and sang
“Stille Nacht”
—“Silent Night”—in her soft, quavering voice. It was almost more than Christine could bear. Now more than ever, she understood why Oma wept when she sang the familiar carols. Christmas was an enduring milestone that came and went, while the world forever changed. She bit down on her lip and closed her eyes, trying not to burst into tears and run out of the room. She pictured Isaac’s family without a menorah or a tree, and she mourned the invitation to the holiday celebration that had long ago been canceled.

When her family opened their gifts, she forced herself to “oh” and “ah” at the mittens knitted by Oma and the pink marzipan pigs Mutti had bought before the war. Karl and Heinrich got tops and yo-yos, carved by Opa and Vater, and they didn’t waste any time before sending the toys spiraling across the floor. Despite herself, Christine smiled as she watched them play, her heartache momentarily eased by their shouts and laughter.

Keeping with tradition, all year long Mutti had set aside sugar, spices, nuts, and seasonings, so they each could have their own plate of gingerbread men, roasted chestnuts, and sugarcoated
Pfef-fernüsse
cookies, a rare holiday treat to eat between meals. On the woodstove, a kettle of
Gluehwein,
spiced red wine, simmered, filling the room with the smells of cinnamon and clove. Mutti ladled the steaming liquid into red, etched glasses, then passed them around, along with a kiss planted in the middle of everyone’s forehead. She always saved Vater for last because she knew he’d grab her, swing her onto his lap, and say “
Fröliche Weihnachten und Prost!
” before giving her a big kiss on the lips.

Everyone sat around the room eating and laughing, and Christine did her best to join in. To her surprise, Mutti left her place beside Vater and sat with her on the couch, putting an arm around her and whispering in her ear.

“I know you miss him,” Mutti said. “But you’ll see him again when this madness is over. I’m sure of it. There’s a time for everything, you know. A time for work, a time for play, a time for worry, and a time for rest. Right now, enjoy this time with your family. We never know what tomorrow brings.”

“
Danke,
Mutti,” Christine said, smiling and wiping her eyes. Maria came over and sat on the other side.

“I love you,” Maria said, taking her hand in hers.

“I love you too,” Christine said. She took her mother’s hand, holding it on her lap with Maria’s. “Both of you. So much.”

On New Year’s Eve, the traditional midnight church bells were ordered silent, and pubs and restaurants were to be closed by 1 a.m. Christine snuck out of the house at twelve-fifteen and walked to the wine cellar, hoping, by some miracle, that Isaac would be there.

A full moon cast a luminescent glow over a drift of snow that stretched away from the far edge of the cellar door, like the high, white tail of an ethereal dragon. The expanse of white ground leading up to the entrance was untouched, and she could tell no one had been there. Her heart sank, and she turned to leave, then changed her mind and pulled open the rusty lock. Inside, she sat on the cold floor, rocking back and forth, praying he’d read her mind and show up. Two hours later, so cold she couldn’t stop shaking, she put the heavy padlock in the latch and left. On her way home, the cavernous sky made every star look crystal clear, and she felt like she could see the entire universe. She wrapped her arms around herself and tried to imagine other places in the world, where people were allowed to say and do as they pleased. Did they have any idea what was happening here? Would they even care?

Near the end of the long winter of 1940, the rationing of cigarettes and coal was put into effect, and the punishment for any German citizen caught listening to foreign radio transmissions was increased to six years in a maximum-security prison, or death. On the radio, Hitler warned there could be total war because France and England wouldn’t accept his offer of peace. Christine’s father just shook his head and said that Hitler wanted to blame everyone but himself for the war.

Throughout the rest of winter and into spring, Nazi reports of Wehrmacht victories and the sinking of enemy ships interrupted radio broadcasts on a regular basis. Every account was followed by the soaring melodies of Richard Wagner, and Christine got tired of hearing the same music over and over. In bold, black headlines, the newspaper announced that the Luftwaffe, under the head of Hermann Goering, had bombed France, Belgium, and the Netherlands, and in retaliation, the RAF bombed the German cities of Essen, Cologne, Düsseldorf, Kiel, Hamburg, and Bremen.

The radio was always on, trumpeting every detail, but to Christine and her family, the actual conflict seemed worlds away. Whether intentionally or not she wasn’t sure, but they rarely talked about what was happening. In the ration lines, people talked about the weather, their relatives, upcoming weddings and birthdays, everything but war. It seemed to Christine that the only people excited about what was happening were the announcers on the radio. She started to wonder if people avoided the subject because they didn’t want to think about hiding in their cellars while bombs and anti-aircraft fire blasted above their heads.

In April, she made the decision to go to the other side of town, to walk by Isaac’s house to see if he and his family were still there. When she reached his residence, she walked fast and stayed on the opposite side of the road, looking straight ahead, as if she belonged in the neighborhood and had someplace important to go. She went around the block three times, staring at the windows of his house out of the corner of her eyes until her head hurt.

The once splendid home looked empty and sad, curtains drawn above flower boxes that held nothing but dirt and a few straggling vines. In the garden, the purple lilacs were starting to bloom and the forsythia was thick with yellow leaves, but the yard had a wild quality to it, with scraggly bushes, fruit trees in need of pruning, and a vegetable plot choked with pricker bushes and dried thistles. When she saw the unkempt garden, a gnawing, hollow cavity swelled inside her stomach. The Bauermans were gone.

On her fourth turn around the block, her heartbeat finally slowed and her knees stopped quivering. She crossed to the other side of the street, wondering if she should check the garden access door on Brimbach Strasse. And then she saw him. Through the twisting, brown trunks of a close stand of fruit trees, the dark figure of a man was bent over the vegetable garden. Her heart leapt in her chest. She stopped and looked up and down the street, then moved closer to the retaining wall surrounding the Bauermans’ property. The figure straightened and turned, one hand held over the small of his back, the other lifting a burlap sack over his shoulder. It was Herr Bauerman, looking as shriveled and gray as the potatoes he was searching for in the hard, dry earth. His clothes were wrinkled and dirty, as if they hadn’t been changed in weeks. Christine remembered that Jews weren’t allowed to send their laundry out, and imagined poor Frau Bauerman trying to wash clothes by hand, something she’d never done in her life.

She thought about climbing over the low wall and hurrying through the fruit trees to ask Herr Bauerman if she could see Isaac, knowing full well she’d be putting herself and his family at risk. But the urge to see him was so strong it clouded her reason, and it didn’t take long for her to convince herself it would be all right. It would only be for a minute, she reasoned, and besides, who would know? Was there a law against saying hello? She clenched her teeth and bent down, pretending to tie her shoe. She didn’t know what to do. What if Herr Bauerman told her to go away? What if Isaac refused to see her? But she had to try. Her mind made up, she straightened, ready to make a move. Just then, as she put her hands on the retaining wall to hoist herself up, a smiling couple came around the corner arm in arm, a blond woman wearing a long fur coat, and a man in a black SS uniform. Christine drew in a sharp breath and hurried to the other side of the road, content for now, at least, with the knowledge that Isaac was still there.

On May 11, the newspaper headlines read: “Chief Warmonger Churchill Becomes Prime Minister.” There were two papers for sale in Christine’s village now, the
Völkischer Beobachter
and the newspaper used to promote anti-Semitism:
Der Stürmer,
“The Stormer.” Christine’s father bought the
Völkischer Beobachter
because it was the only one available, but he wouldn’t read the other one, even if it’d been handed out for free. Christine didn’t want to read it either, but she couldn’t help noticing
Der Stürmer
’s disturbing headlines, splashed across the displays in store windows.

On a rainy afternoon near the end of May, too miserable to be trapped inside, Christine went for a walk without an umbrella. The air smelled clean, with a hint of fragrance from the white and pink petals of blossoming fruit trees. Just as her mood started to lift, she went by the greengrocer’s and spotted a quote written in bold type by
Der Stürmer
’s editor:
“The time is near when a machine will go into motion which is going to prepare a grave for the world’s criminal—Judah—from which there will be no resurrection.”

In place of hope, a greasy fear stirred in her stomach. She stared through the glass and reread the quote four times, blinking against the raindrops on her lashes.
What does it mean?
she thought.

“Christine!” someone shouted. She jumped and turned to see Kate hurrying toward her, shoulders hunched to avoid the curtain of rain falling from the edge of her black umbrella. “What are you doing?” she yelled above the thrumming downpour.

“Um,” Christine said, looking down at her wet, empty hands. “I came to the store to get salt. There isn’t any.”

Kate moved closer and held the umbrella over Christine’s head. “Oh,” she said. Her red hair was snarled, her eyes bloodshot and swollen. She looked as bad as Christine felt.

Christine searched for something to say. “Where’s Stefan?” she asked finally.

Kate’s face crumpled in on itself, and tears welled in her eyes. “He’s been drafted,” she cried. “He left six days ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Christine said. “I didn’t know.”

“But my mother told your mother.”

“I don’t think so. Maybe your mother forgot. I’m sure she’s busy.”

“Maybe your mother didn’t tell you. I was wondering why you didn’t come see me.”

Christine shook her head, trying to clear it.
What does any of this matter?

“Why don’t we go inside and have a cup of tea or an Italian ice?” she said, pointing at the café next door.

Kate drew the back of her hand under her nose like a three-year-old. “I didn’t bring any money,” she said. “I was just out walking.. . .” She trailed off, her voice hitching as if she might break down again.

“I’ve saved a few coins for a rainy day,” Christine said. Then, trying to muster a smile, she held a cupped hand outside the umbrella. Within seconds her palm was full of water. “I’d say this is a rainy day. Come on. Let’s treat ourselves. We deserve it.”

“All right,” Kate said, sniffing.

A sign on the door said
“Jude Verboten!”
and, at first, Christine hesitated. Then she noticed two SS seated inside, next to the wide front window. The skin on her neck grew hot. The two soldiers were leaning back in their chairs, watching her and Kate through the glass. Their black uniforms had the
Siegrunen,
or double
S
runes—like twin lightning bolts—on their lapels, the Iron Cross at their collars, the silver skull and crossbones on the black bands of their peaked hats. If she turned around and left now, it would be too obvious. She followed Kate through the glass door, keeping her eyes straight ahead, then stood by the entrance, waiting while Kate closed her dripping umbrella. Even with her back to them, she could feel the SS watching.