The Plum Tree

by Ellen Marie Wiseman

  “Someday, we’ll come back here, together,” he said. “In the light of day. We won’t worry about anyone seeing us, and we’ll get this tablecloth. And when we get married, we’ll have it on our wedding table, beneath a giant cake and a thousand flowers.”

  Christine nodded, swift tears falling from her swollen eyes. They stood and folded it, corner-to-corner and end-to-end, looking into each other’s faces as if burning each feature to memory. She pressed her lips together to stifle a sob, watching as he took his lucky stone from his pocket and pushed it between the folds of the tablecloth, then shoved the whole thing between the cold cement wall and the farthermost corner of a wooden potato bin.

  CHAPTER 6

  In the middle of November, ration cards were delivered to every household by hand, names taken, papers inspected, and heads counted by two somber young men in camel-colored uniforms and nut-brown hats. The sheets of perforated paper were color-coded: red for meat, yellow for sugar and flour, white for dairy, brown for bread. They couldn’t be saved and used when needed, because they expired monthly, and they couldn’t be traded. Each family member was allowed, if the family could afford it, one pound of meat, nine ounces of sugar, fourteen ounces of coffee substitute, four pounds of bread, ten ounces of butter substitute, three ounces of jam, one and a half ounces of cheese, and one egg per week. Whole milk was reserved for children and expectant mothers, and anyone under fourteen was allowed slightly bigger rations. The somber men warned Christine’s mother that it was illegal to buy and butcher a pig, and that doing so would result in the termination of their meat ration cards.

  They also informed them that to buy shoes and clothing, people had to apply for a permit. When Mutti asked how it was done, the men said that she shouldn’t bother, because permission was seldom granted. They left instructions for every household to gather scrap metal, paper, bones, rags, and empty tubes, then drop them off at the post office. It was crucial that all resources went toward the war effort, and it was every German’s patriotic duty to sacrifice.

  As her family began getting used to the new system, Christine slowly stopped crying herself to sleep every night. But the instant she opened her eyes every morning and remembered that she didn’t know when she’d see Isaac again, misery plowed into her all over again. There were times when it took a good hour before she could crawl out of bed, her legs and arms weighed down with grief. During the day, she shoveled snow, scrubbed floors, washed windows, took over Opa’s job of bringing up firewood, and volunteered to stand in the ration lines for hours on end. It was all an effort to exhaust herself, so she’d be too tired to picture Isaac’s face, or think about what he might be doing, so she could sleep. It didn’t help.

  In December, Christine and Maria got Farmer Klause’s permission to cut a Weihnachts Baum, Christmas tree, from the woods behind his barn. Hoping to surprise their brothers, they woke early on the morning of Christmas Eve to a fresh snowfall, every rooftop and branch fattened by thick, white clumps. They tiptoed downstairs and put Vater’s work shirts and pants on over their dresses and wool stockings, pushed their feet into extra socks, tugged thick hats over their heads, and draped knitted scarves over their noses. They helped each other get ready, the layers of bulky clothes making it nearly impossible to tie their shoes and button their coats. After they pulled on each other’s mittens, Maria waited in the hall while Christine retrieved a small ax from the cellar.

  Outside, the sisters grinned at each other, an unspoken agreement to enjoy the quiet morning in silence. The air was cold and still, the only sounds the snow crunching beneath their feet and the distant chirp of winter birds. The sun sparkled like millions of tiny mirrors on the white expanse of blanketed streets, every post and fence topped by a plump, powdery cap. Without a word, the sisters trudged through the heavy snow to the end of their road, where, all at once, Maria burst out laughing.

  “I don’t think Heinrich and Karl would recognize us even if they did see us leaving!”

  “I know!” Christine said. “You look like a fat old man!”

  “I feel like one!” Maria said. “I can barely move with all these clothes on!”

  Christine laughed too, surprised how good it felt to have a light moment. For a second, she felt guilty; how could she laugh when there was a war going on, when she had no idea if or when she’d see Isaac again? But surely Isaac smiled and laughed occasionally; surely he enjoyed time with his family. If there was one thing she needed to learn, it was to live in the moment. Isaac would want that for her. She made up her mind to try now.

  “I hope the boys have a good Christmas, despite everything,” she said. “I wonder what we can do to make it special.”

  “Let’s look for the biggest tree we can find!” Maria said.

  “They would love that!” Christine said. “Remember the time Heinrich picked out that gigantic tree, then stood there crying because Mutti said it would never fit in the living room?”

  “It was twelve feet tall!” Maria said.

  “I know, and Heinrich howled until we let him pick out another one.”

  “Then he picked out a tiny one because he insisted on dragging it home by himself. Wasn’t he only about four years old at the time?”

  “Ja, but he was already a little man, trying so hard to be big and strong like Vater. Remember the Christmas we all piled in Farmer Klause’s horse-drawn sleigh and drove through the countryside?”

  Maria smiled. “I’ll never forget it. It was magical. I can still hear the bells jingling!”

  “You’d been begging for a horse, and it was the closest thing Vater could get to surprise you.”

  “It was the best Christmas ever. Maybe we can do that for Heinrich and Karl. They’d love to go for a sleigh ride! The weather is perfect and the snow is deep enough!”

  “I’m afraid Farmer Klause sold his sleigh a long time ago. He needed the money.”

  “Oh,” Maria said, her shoulders dropping. “It was the most beautiful sleigh I’d ever seen. Remember it was shiny and black, with gold trim and red cushions?”

  “Ja, it was beautiful,” Christine said. “My best Christmas memory was when I was eight. I was going to the dressmaker’s with Mutti on Christmas Eve. It was just the two of us, and we were picking up some new material. You’re probably too young to remember, but Oma made us matching dresses that year. I was so excited about Christmas, and about picking out the material with Mutti. On the way to the shop it started snowing—these huge, slow flakes drifted down from the sky—and I just remember feeling so happy.”

  Maria took Christine’s mittened hand in her own. “Don’t worry, you’ll feel that way again someday. I promise.”

  Christine forced herself to smile, blinking against the moisture in her eyes. She didn’t want to ruin the moment. It felt good to bring up happy memories, almost giving her hope that somehow, everything would work out in the end. “Remember the time Mutti dressed up as Christkindl?” she said. “She was giggling so hard her nose was running. We all knew it was her!”

  Maria laughed. “Ja! She borrowed Herr Weiler’s long, red nightcap and used rags to make a beard. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her laugh so hard. She wasn’t very good at fooling us, but it was a wonderful time. Oh! That gives me an idea! Let’s use ashes from the woodstove to leave footprints next to the tree. We’ll tell the boys Christkindl left them when he brought their presents!”

  Christine nodded, and the sisters walked faster, hurried on by their growing excitement. At the edge of town, they crossed a snow-covered field toward Farmer Klause’s woods. Inside the forest, loose flakes drifted down from the towering spruce, encircling the girls in a quiet, soft snowfall. Christine and Maria examined every evergreen, scrutinizing the shape of the branches from every angle, looking them up and down to find the perfect specimen. Following rabbit and fox trails, they found a clearing, and, right in the center, a wide, young spruce.

  “This is the one!” Maria said. “It will fill the entire corner of the living roo
m!”

  “Heinrich and Karl will love it!” Christine said, kneeling to examine the trunk.

  Maria held the lower branches out of Christine’s way and, after several practiced blows, the tree was down in minutes. Each sister grabbed a low limb, and they dragged the spruce across the field, the stiff branches scratching a wide path through the drifts. Trying to synchronize their strides as they hauled the heavy tree up a hill, they had to stop every few minutes to catch their breath. Every now and then, one of them would lose her balance and fall to her knees, while the other laughed and helped her up out of the snow. Eventually, they took off their scarves and stuffed them in their coat pockets, sweating from the exertion.

  After dragging the Christmas tree home through the snowy streets, the sisters set it up in the corner of the front room, wrapping a white sheet around its base to look like snow. Normally, they would have had a short evergreen, one that would sit on the end table and, even with the star on top, still fall short of touching the ceiling. This spruce went from the ceiling to the floor, its branches nearly reaching the dining table.

  When the boys came into the room, Heinrich’s eyes went wide.

  “It’s the biggest Christmas tree ever!” he shouted.

  Karl put his hands over his open mouth and edged closer to the evergreen, moving in slow motion, as if he wanted to make the moment last.

  Maria knelt beside him. “Do you like it?” she asked, putting her arm around his small shoulders.

  Karl smiled and nodded. “Can I touch it?” he said.

  Maria kissed him on the cheek. “Of course you can! It’s your tree!”

  “I’ll bet we’ve got the biggest Christmas tree in Germany!” Heinrich said, his voice filled with pride.

  “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.