The Plum Tree

by Ellen Marie Wiseman

  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.

  Had it been just a year ago, every table would have been filled with couples and families having lunch or afternoon coffee and Kuchen. But today, there were only five other people in the cozy establishment: the officers; the owner and chef, Herr Schmidt; his wife and the only waitress, Frau Schmidt; and a wrinkled old gentleman in a gray shirt and worn Lederhosen.

  Christine followed Kate to the back of the room, toward a round, glass table in a corner decorated with blue-and-white Delft windmill plates and Hummel pictures of cherubic children holding geese and baby lambs. They passed the old man reading a newspaper, his walking cane leaning against the other empty chair, his coffee and a half-eaten Bratwurst on the table in front of him. Christine watched him lift his ersatz coffee to his thin lips, his hand shaking so badly she was sure he would spill it. Somehow he managed to get it up to his mouth and down again, without losing so much as a drop. She made her way to the back table, her insides quivering like the old man’s hands.

  She slid into her chair, stealing a glance toward the officers at the front of the café. To her relief, they were getting up to leave, adjusting their hats and pushing their arms into the sleeves of their long greatcoats. Against the gray backdrop of rain in the front window, their black uniforms looked like the dark silhouettes of jumbo marionettes.

  “I don’t want anything,” Kate said, slumping in her chair.

  “Come on,” Christine said. “It’ll do you good to have a little treat.”

  “But I miss him so much already!” Kate said. “What if he never comes back?” Her face contorted again, and Christine feared she was going to wail out loud.

  “I know you feel helpless,” Christine said. “But you need to think positive. I have to keep telling myself over and over that I’ll see Isaac again. The only way I can keep going is by telling myself we’ll be together someday.”

  Kate blew her nose into a saturated handkerchief and frowned at Christine, her face soaked with tears. “Isaac?” she said. “But he’s a Jew!”

  Christine went rigid. She looked at the officers, her stomach in knots. They were paying their bill at the counter, oblivious to what Kate had said. In the center of the glass tabletop, a yellow menu leaned against a vase of blue coneflowers and red poppies. Christine picked it up, trying to find her voice. It was all she could do not to get up and walk out.

  She cleared her throat. “What should we order?”
she said finally, wondering if Kate had been reading Der Stürmer in the time they’d spent apart.

  “Since Stefan left, I haven’t had much of an appetite.”

  “I’m sorry about Stefan,” she said. “But you just have to trust he’ll be all right.”

  Christine didn’t believe her own words. For all she knew, a hundred men had died since the two of them had entered the café. Stefan could have very well been one of them. Every day the list of names in the paper grew.

  “It’s hard to be optimistic,” Kate said. “Everyone’s saying it’s going to be a long war.”

  “I don’t think anyone can predict what’s going to happen.”

  “Stefan says the war is their fault.”

  “Whose fault?”

  “You know,” Kate said. “The Jews.” She lowered her voice and leaned forward. “I thought Isaac was a schoolgirl crush. You know, the rich, handsome boy you knew you could never have. And now, with the new laws . . . Well, anyway, it’s not like he ever knew you existed. I mean, nothing ever came of it, right?”

  Christine felt her eyes flooding. The temptation to tell Kate that she and Isaac were in love, that they’d been meeting secretly, was so intense she almost blurted the words out. Instead, she stared at the menu, biting down on the inside of her cheek. “I’ve known him longer than you’ve known Stefan,” she said.

  “You had a crush on him. It’s not the same thing.”

  Christine swallowed, fighting the urge to tell Kate everything just so she’d shut up. “I still miss him.”

  Kate rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry. I know you miss working at his house and seeing him. But you’ve got to forget about him.”

  Just then, Frau Schmidt appeared at their table, ready to take their order. They stopped talking and sat up straight. Christine couldn’t take her eyes off Kate. Who is this person? she wondered.

  “A cherry Italian ice, bitte,” Kate said.

  “I’ll have the same, bitte,” Christine said. Her head reeled, as she wondered what had possessed her to ask Kate to come in here. She should have made an excuse and kept walking.

  Kate drummed her fingers on the table, waiting as Frau Schmidt wrote down the order. When she was gone, Kate leaned forward again.

  “She got the telegram last week,” she said, nodding in Frau Schmidt’s direction as she ambled away. “Her son died in battle outside of Paris.”

  Christine felt her heart constrict. “The poor woman,” she said. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the officers moving toward the back of the café. Pretending not to notice, she forced herself to smile at Kate.

  The officers stopped at the old man’s table, waiting in silence until he realized they were standing over him. Finally, he looked up from his lunch.

  “Hauptscharführer Kruger and I are from De Rasse und Sied-lungshauptamt, Race and Settlement Department of the SS,” one of the officers said. He was tall and thin, his pointed nose like the beak of a bird on his angular face. “Your papers, bitte.”

  The other officer, Hauptscharführer Kruger, snatched the newspaper out of the old man’s hand, checked the front page, then threw it on the table. “Mach schnell!” he shouted.

  The old man turned in his chair and fumbled for his coat. He searched his pockets with shaking hands. Finally, he pulled his Ausweis out of his coat pocket, but then he dropped it on the floor. A frustrated grunt escaped his lips, and he bent over to pick it up, his thin arms and legs shuddering. The identity booklet had fallen between his boots, and he couldn’t see it. Christine got up and started across the room.

  “Halt!” Hauptscharführer Kruger said, holding up a gloved hand in her direction.

  Christine stopped in her tracks.

  “Are you a Jewish sympathizer, Fräulein?” he asked her. “Or are you a Jew?”

  “He dropped his identification,” she said, pointing at the floor. “I was just going to help him.”

  “Mind your business!” Kruger said. “Or we’ll arrest you for interfering with matters of the Reich!”

  Christine dropped her eyes, but she didn’t go back to her chair. She had no idea what she would do if they mistreated the old man further, but she knew she couldn’t just stand by and do nothing. The bird-beaked officer bent over to pull the green identity booklet out from between the old man’s feet, then straightened, nodding once in Christine’s direction, and opened the Ausweis.

  “He’s all right,” he said to Kruger. He dropped the booklet on the table, tipped his hat toward the old man, and headed toward the door. But Hauptscharführer Kruger stayed put, frowning at Christine, as if trying to decide if she was worth his time. Christine looked at him and held her breath. The bird-beaked officer stopped at the door and turned around.

  “We have more important business to attend to, Hauptscharführer Kruger,” he said.

  Kruger stared at her for a few more seconds, then spun around and left. Christine exhaled and went back to her table, holding the glass edge for support and lowering herself into her chair. Kate stared at her, eyes as wide as the blue-and-white plates on the wall behind her head. Without a word, Frau Schmidt delivered the red Italian ices in crystal dishes, her face blank and staring.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Kate hissed. “Do you want to go to jail?”

  “Are they going to put me in jail for picking something up off the floor for an old man?”

  “If he was a Jew they would have,” Kate said. Then, whispering, “Do you remember the Goldsteins who lived next door to us? The ones with the two dachshunds I used to take care of when they went to Poland to visit Frau Goldstein’s parents?”

  “Ja,” Christine said, feeling nauseous.

  “A few months ago they disappeared. Someone found the dogs loose in the street. A week later, Mr. Goldstein came back, but he wouldn’t tell anyone where he’d been, or what had happened. He just held on to those little dogs and cried. A month later he was gone too.”

  Christine swallowed. “What do you think happened?”

  “I’ve heard they’re rounding up Jews.”

  Something twisted in Christine’s chest. “And doing what with them?”

  “I don’t know. But Stefan said Hitler won’t be happy until they’re all gone.” As if suddenly ravenous, Kate took a big, dripping spoonful of cherry ice and shoved it in her mouth. She grimaced at the sudden cold against her teeth, then held her lips open, as if it were hot, her tongue and the inside of her cheeks bloodred.

  CHAPTER 7

  In June, the radio newscaster proclaimed in a frenzied voice that France had surrendered. When the “Horst-Wessel-Lied,” the Nazi anthem, played afterward, Christine pictured a giant Nazi flag draped over the Eiffel Tower, and long lines of German soldiers goose-stepping past the Paris cafés. As spring turned to summer, the Luftwaffe began the first air raids on London, and the RAF started bombing Berlin.

  The nightly attacks on the German capital lasted for weeks, and never-ending news of destroyed apartment houses and civilian casualties gave Christine nightmares about women and children being buried alive. She could barely stand it when she heard people talking about pulverized buildings and the speed at which fires had burned through attic after attic of attached houses, like flaming matches dropped on piles of dried hay.

  As summer came and went, more and more of the men in the village were called away. Even without asking, Christine could tell, by the dark shroud of fear and the heavy pull of worry on the women’s faces, whose husbands and sons had been called off to war.

  A few weeks into fall, Heinrich and Karl announced that they were expected to bring scrap metal and chunks of coal to school, and that their teachers were keeping track of who brought what. Christine and Maria took them for walks through the village, looking for pieces of wire, thrown horseshoes, dropped nails, broken chain links, anything to help the boys meet their quota. But the streets were picked clean, and when they couldn’t find any metal, Heinrich and Karl picked up cigarette stubs to glean tobacco for Opa’s pipe inste
ad.

  On a brilliant Saturday afternoon near the end of September, the sisters walked behind their brothers, holding their scarves closed at their chins with gloved hands. Despite the sun, the breeze was raw, the sky filled with low, scudding clouds.

  “Get that out of your mouth!” Christine shouted at Karl, who was half a block ahead of her and Maria, pretending to smoke a broken cigarette he’d found between the sidewalk and an old barn. Maria ran ahead and swatted the muddy filter from Karl’s lips.

  “It’s just broken!” Karl whined. “It hasn’t been smoked!”

  Maria picked the cigarette up off the ground, holding it out at arm’s length as if it were a rotten potato, and dropped it in Heinrich’s bag. “Someone probably had it in his mouth!” she scolded.

  “And that might not have been mud on the filter!” Heinrich teased, laughing and sticking out his tongue, like he was going to throw up. Maria shushed him.

  Karl scuffed his shoe on the sidewalk and put his hands in the pockets of his Lederhosen. “I was just pretending.”

  “We know,” Christine said, catching up to them. She wiped his mouth with the edge of her scarf and pulled his hat over his ears. “But you don’t want to get sick, do you?”

  “Nein,” Karl said. He looked up at his sisters, his eyes filling. Maria cupped his chin in her hand.

  “It’s all right. We’re not mad. Just don’t put things like that in your mouth! Now run along. We’re right behind you.” Karl wiped his cheeks and followed Heinrich up the street. The girls resumed walking.

  “I’ve never seen a little boy get upset so easily,” Christine said.