The Plum Tree

by Ellen Marie Wiseman

  A barn shared the roof and south wall of their house, which shared a roof with another barn, which shared a roof with their neighbor’s house. The timber and stone façades on this side of her block were bare, devoid of Nazi propaganda, but across the street, the church sat on higher ground, and another poster hung on the stone retaining wall, next to the stairway opening.

  Breathing hard, Christine scanned the windows of the surrounding houses, trying to decide if she should run across the street and tear down the poster. But an elderly gentleman, Herr Eggers, was leaning out his window, smoking his pipe and watching her. Not knowing if he was a member of the Nazi Party or not, she couldn’t take the chance. The last thing she wanted, when things seemed finally to be going her way, was to be turned in for destroying Nazi property.

  Instead, she hurried along the stone walkway between her house and the garden, pushed open the front entrance, and slipped inside, leaning against the heavy door to make sure it was latched and locked. In the first-floor hall, she slipped off her shoes and hurried past her grandparents’ bedroom, then took the stairs two at a time. The smell of fried onions filled the house, and she knew that Oma would be in the second-floor kitchen, frying Bratwurst and Spätzle for Mittag Essen, the midday meal. If Christine was going to change and leave again without being pestered to take time for lunch, she had to get in and out without being noticed, because Oma’s self-appointed mission in life was to get people to eat.

  Christine tiptoed down the narrow corridor of the second floor landing, hurrying past the closed doors of the kitchen and front room with her shoulders hunched. She unbuttoned her coat and crept up the next set of stairs, careful to sidestep the squeaky first and third boards. When the kitchen door opened below her, she froze.

  “Christine?” someone called above the sizzle of onions and the crackle of the wood-fired stove.

  “Mutti?” Christine said, her throat suddenly hard. She went down the steps and stopped on the landing, gripping the banister with one hand. “What are you doing here?”

  “I need to talk to you,” Mutti said. “Bitte, come in here and sit down.”

  Christine moved from the bottom of the stairs, searching her mother’s eyes as she entered the warm kitchen. Mutti closed the door behind her, took the pan from the fire, and set it aside.

  For as long as she lived, the smell of cinnamon and sugar-glazed gingerbread would remind Christine of her mother’s kitchen. The cast iron woodstove dominated one flower-stenciled yellow wall, massive and black next to a pile of split firewood. Kitty-corner to the stove, French doors led out to a balcony on the side of the house, created by using the roof of the woodshed. Opa had built a railing around the balcony, and it was protected between the house and the high wall of the weathered barn next door, the perfect spot for stringing a clothesline and for starting vegetable seeds in the spring. Along the opposite wall of the kitchen, a porcelain sink and high oak cupboards ran beside hinged casement windows covered by eyelet curtains. The push-out windows looked over a stone terrace and fenced backyard, home to brown chickens and a cluster of pear and plum trees. The enclosed area next to the back wall of the house was home to three brown dairy goats and their occasional kids, with an entrance to their indoor shelter, a converted cement-walled room next to Opa and Oma’s sleeping quarters.

  The evening and midday meals, Vesper and Mittag Essen, were eaten in the front room down the hall, but for breakfast, the entire family squeezed around the corner nook in the kitchen, the children on the booth’s cloth-covered seats, the grandparents and parents on the short wooden benches. The scratched, pockmarked table, covered with a green and white oilcloth, had a large drawer in the center that contained mismatched silverware, a glass saltshaker, and a crusty brown loaf of the daily bread. At this cozy corner nook, the morning coffee and warm bread with jam were savored, the dough for noodles and bread kneaded, the garden vegetables cut and sorted, and in the winter, when the kitchen was the warmest room in the house, it was where the family laughed and played games. And today, Christine had the feeling, it would be the place where she learned bad news.

  Trying to slow her hammering heart, she slid into the booth, one hand in the pocket of her coat, fingers gripping Isaac’s stone. Oma had done laundry that morning; the smell of lye soap lingered in the air, and the windows were still moist with condensation. Mutti sat down across from her, her blue eyes and the soft lines of her face unnaturally hard, her lips pressed together. She was wearing her house apron over a nut-brown dress, a dress normally reserved for work at the Bauermans’. Christine watched her mother fold her calloused, oven-scarred hands on the table in front of her, and felt beads of perspiration spring out on her forehead.

  “We will no longer be working for the Bauermans,” Mutti said, an uncharacteristic tremor in her voice.

  Christine stiffened. “What? Why?”

  “There are new laws,” Mutti continued. “One of the laws forbids German women to work for Jewish families.”

  For a fraction of a second, Christine relaxed, realizing that the news had nothing to do with her and Isaac. Then she remembered the posters outside.

  “Is that what those ridiculous posters say?” she said. “I’m not going to let some stupid law tell me where I can or can’t work!” She stood, ready to bolt, but Mutti caught her wrist and held it.

  “Christine, listen to me. We can’t go to the Bauermans’. It’s against the law. It’s dangerous.”

  “I need to talk to Isaac,” Christine said, pulling away and heading toward the door.

  “Nein!” her mother shouted. “I forbid it.”

  Christine wasn’t sure if it was the odd trace of fear or the determination in her mother’s voice, but something made her stop.

  “Herr Bauerman has been forced to abandon his office in town,” her mother continued, her tone softer now. “He’s no longer allowed to practice law. If you’re caught going over there, you’ll be arrested. The Gestapo knows we work there.”

  Christine said nothing. She just stood there, willing it not to be true. Her mother got up and put her hands on Christine’s shoulders.

  “Christine, look at me,” she said, her eyes watery but stern. “One of the new laws also forbids any relationships between Germans and Jews. I know you care for Isaac, but you have to stay away from him.”

  “But he’s not really Jewish!”

  “It wouldn’t matter to me even if he was. But it matters to the Nazis, and they’re the ones making the laws. We have to do as we’re told. I have permission to go there now, one last time, to pick up our pay. We’ll need the money. But you’re not going with me, do you understand?”

  Christine lowered her head, covering her flooding eyes with her hands. How could this be happening? Everything had been so perfect. She thought of Kate and Stefan, happy and oblivious to all that had changed, their only concern Kate’s overprotective mother. And then she had an idea. She wiped her eyes and looked at her mother.

  “Will you take a note to Isaac for me?”

  Mutti pressed her lips together, her forehead constricting further. After a long moment, she reached up to brush Christine’s hair from her forehead.

  “I suppose that won’t hurt,” she said. “Write the note quickly now, I don’t have much time. But until things are back as they should be, you’re not to see him.” Christine started to turn, but her mother held her arm. “You’re not to see him. Do you understand?”

  “Ja, Mutti,” Christine said.

  “Hurry now.”

  Christine ran upstairs to her bedroom and closed the door. A few days earlier, she’d decorated the multipaned window in her room with fall leaves, a different species glued to each thick square of swirled glass: gold beechnut, yellow oak, red maple, and orange hickory. It all seemed so childish now. Now, the sparse room reflected the way she felt, bone-cold and empty as a cave, the cool drafts of the coming winter already making their way through the invisible crevices in the fieldstone and mortar walls and the undetectable
cracks in the thick, dry timber. A pine armoire, her narrow bed, and a wooden desk and chair were the only furniture, and the threadbare rug on the tiled floor did little to ward off the chill.

  She took Isaac’s stone out of her pocket and held it in a fist over her heart while she searched her desk. Two sheets of leftover school paper were folded near the back of the drawer, and she found a stubby pencil between a stack of old books and her aged Steiff teddy bear, which used to growl when she squeezed his stomach but no longer uttered so much as a moan. She tucked the stone into the front right-hand corner of the drawer, took a book off the shelf, and held it beneath the paper. Then she sat on her bed and stared at the blank sheet, blinking through her tears. Finally, she wiped her eyes and began to write.

  Dearest Isaac,

  This morning, I was so happy. But now, I’m frightened and sad. You were right about everything you tried to tell me about Hitler and the Nazi discrimination against the Jewish people. I apologize for not taking you more seriously. My mother just told me that we can no longer work for your family because of another new law. She says we can’t see each other. I don’t understand what’s happening. Please tell me that we’ll find a way to be together. I miss you already.

  Love,

  Christine

  She folded the letter into a wrinkled envelope she found in one of her books, sealed it, and took it to her mother.

  “Bitte, set the table,” Mutti said. She hung her apron on the back of the kitchen door and shoved her arms into her black wool coat. “The Wurst and onions are finished. Cover the pan and leave it on the edge of the stove to stay warm.” She opened her handbag and slid the letter between her change purse and a pair of gray gloves. “If I’m not back within the hour, start without me.”

  Christine stood in the hall and watched her mother hurry down the steps, fear and anger pressing into her stomach like a slab of cold granite. It wasn’t like her mother to fidget with her scarf and the collar of her coat, and the hard heels of her shoes clacked down the front hall even faster than usual. After Christine heard the front door close with a heavy thud, she made her way into the front room.

  The front room doubled as the family and dining room, with an antique maple sideboard that held books, dishes, and tablecloths, an oak dining table and eight mismatched chairs, a horsehair couch, an end table for the radio, and a wood- and coal-burning stove. On the wall between the two front windows overlooking the garden and the cobblestone street was her mother’s treasured tapestry, an embroidered landscape of snow-covered Alps, dark forests, and running elk. The wall hanging came from Austria, a souvenir from her parents’ honeymoon. The only other decoration in the room was a cherry regulator with a gold pendulum that once belonged to Christine’s Ur-Ur Grossmutti, great-great grandmother.

  Oma was sitting on the couch, darning a sock from a tangled pile of leggings and undergarments that sat in her aproned lap like a multicolored cat. Her silver hair was braided and pinned in a neat circle around her head, her veined hands working in a steady rhythm. Beside her, the radio crackled and squawked, a man’s commanding voice announcing more rules and regulations from the Führer. When Oma saw Christine, she turned off the radio, put down her needle and thread, and patted the couch cushion.

  “Come sit by me, good girl,” she said. “Du bist ein gutes Mäd-chen. Did you see your mother?”

  “Ja,” Christine said, falling into the couch beside her.

  “It’s another sad day in Germany,” Oma said.

  Christine leaned against her, searching for comfort in her soft shoulder and familiar smell of lavender soap and rye bread. It was Oma who had taught her and Maria how to knit and sew, and Christine had fond memories of sitting next to her on the couch, working the yarn and cloth into doll clothes and miniature blankets while Oma hummed church hymns. Growing up, Christine had always looked to Oma for solace, whether to dry tears from a skinned knee, or to soothe a bruised ego from the rare parental scolding. It wasn’t that her mother was cold or insensitive, but she was too busy, cleaning, cooking, and trying to keep food on the table for a family of eight. Oma would sit with Christine for hours, her soft, papery fingers caressing Christine’s flushed cheeks and brushing stray hair from her furrowed brow.

  But today it was impossible to find relief. Christine stood and looked out the window.

  “Where is everyone?”

  “Maria and the boys went to the railroad tracks to look for coal. And I sent Opa to the fields to find dandelion greens for one last salad before winter.”

  Christine pictured Opa in the countryside wearing his green Tyrolean hat, his hands shaking as he leaned on his hiking pole to pull edible weeds from the cold fall ground. He was probably talking to himself, or singing like he did in the kitchen whenever he fixed a chair or loose cupboard door just so he could be near Oma while she cooked and baked. By the time he finished his repair, there’d be flour on his shirt and nose and cheeks, left there by Oma shooing him out of her way.

  “Should I go look for him?” Christine asked.

  “Maria and the boys will bring him back in time for Mittag Essen,” Oma said, dropping the wooden darning egg into a tattered sock.

  Christine recognized the sock as her own, one of a thick wool pair she wore to bed in the winter, when she had to wear layers to bed because there was never enough coal to burn through the night. Her Deckbed, bedcover, was getting thin, and would stay that way until they had enough money to buy another bag of goose feathers from Farmer Klause. And if she had to run down the hall in the middle of the night to use the toilet, the frigid floorboards seeped through her socks like ice, making her shiver until she was tucked back beneath her covers. Food was scarcer in the winter too, with no fresh vegetables from the garden, milk from the goats, or eggs from the chickens. Now, without the extra income from their jobs, not only would she be waking up cold, she’d be waking up hungry too.

  She bit her lip and turned away from the window, then went to the sideboard and pulled out eight dinner plates, wondering how long it would be before Isaac read her note. Today at least there was food.

  CHAPTER 3

  Christine took a deep breath and backed up to the dining room door, the oval serving platter full of browned onions and sizzling Bratwurst balanced in her hands. She pressed the handle down with her elbow and entered the noisy room, hoping her mother would be there, home from the Bauermans’ and waiting at the table with the rest of the family.

  In the back of her mind, she knew that Mutti would have come into the kitchen first, to put on her apron and help with the food. But today, she couldn’t be sure of anything. Her thoughts were scattered, and the simplest tasks—setting out silverware, washing the field dandelions Opa had picked, mixing oil and vinegar for the dressing, reheating the meat on the stove—had taken all her concentration. Mutti had been gone twice as long as Christine had expected. What if her mother had changed her mind about giving Isaac the note? What if he wasn’t home? What if he didn’t write back? What if the Gestapo had arrested Mutti for going to his house? What if they found the note, arrested Isaac, and were on their way to arrest her?

  On shaky legs, she carried the serving platter to the dining table. The jumbled clamor of Opa’s deep laugh, Oma and Maria’s banter, Heinrich and Karl’s teasing, and her father’s monotone droned like the chaos of a hundred kindergartners stuck inside on a rainy day. She tripped over Opa’s hiking pole, which he’d propped against the corner of the table, sending it to the wooden floor in a clatter. Clenching her jaw, she set the platter on the table, the din from her family going on and on, as if she were invisible, then she set the hiking pole in the corner and went to the window to check for her mother. Heinrich and Karl were laughing and poking each other, and it was all she could do not to pound on the table and yell at them to be quiet.

  “Come sit down, Christine,” her father said. “Your mother will be home soon enough.”

  Christine did as she was told. She glanced at Vater, searching his black hair
for the gray tint of cement dust, the telltale sign that he’d found a job. But his strong, tanned face and calloused hands were clean, his brown eyes hard with anxiety.

  Unlike Mutti’s family, who could trace their German roots back for centuries, Vater was originally from Italy, which explained his and Heinrich’s dark features. The freckle-faced baby of the family, Karl, like Christine, had blond hair and blue eyes, as Oma and Opa used to, before age and hardship had turned them gray. It was a mystery to everyone where Mutti had inherited her red mane, but she had passed the reddish tint to Maria, whose waist-length hair was a shiny strawberry blond.

  “Heinrich, Karl, it’s time to be still,” her father said. “Oma needs to say Danksagung.”

  The boys stopped wiggling and turned to face the table, obediently folding their palms on their laps. Maria had spent a good half hour scrubbing their hands and faces, but their fingernails were still black around the edges, with only six jagged pieces of coal to show for their efforts. Vater waited in silence, watching until they settled, then gave Oma a nod. Christine lowered her head. She dug a thumbnail into the hollow space between her knuckles, listening for the sound of her mother’s footsteps on the stairs.

  “Der Herr,” Oma began.

  A heavy thud-thud on the front door made Christine jump and Oma stop mid-prayer. Everyone had the same wide-eyed look of surprise, because even though they were late having lunch, it was unusual for anyone to come to the door at this hour. All across Germany, the hours between noon and two were set aside for the most important meal of the day, Mittag Essen. Shops and businesses wouldn’t reopen even one minute before two o’clock. Christine and her father stood at the same time.