The Plum Tree

by Ellen Marie Wiseman

  “All the fires joined together, forming pyres that grew hotter and hotter and roared upward for thousands of feet, sucking in the surrounding air. Suddenly there was an awful howling, and the firestorm sucked everything in, including people trying to run away. The fire liquefied stone, and people’s feet were trapped in the melting streets. I saw burning bodies jumping into the river, only to ignite again when they crawled out. I saw women running with children in their arms, then burning, falling and not getting back up. My friends and I ran inside a building and went down to the cellar. The people inside told us they could usually tell what kind of bombs were being dropped by listening to the different sounds they made—a rustling flock of landing birds was incendiaries, a sudden crack a firebomb, a loud splash was a bomb filled with liquid rubber and benzene—but they’d never heard anything like these.”

  “So they’re using a new kind of bomb?” someone asked.

  “That’s what he said,” Herr Weiler said.

  “I can’t believe it,” a woman said. “You’re making it up.”

  “I assure you,” the soldier said. “I’m not making it up.”

  “Then why haven’t they used them here?”

  “I don’t know,” the soldier said. “Maybe they only use them in the big cities because there are more people. Maybe after they saw how terrible they were, they decided not to use them again. Maybe it was a test. It was only two weeks ago, so maybe they’re making more. I don’t know what their strategies are!”

  “I’ve heard enough,” the woman who had accused him of lying said. She retreated toward the back of the cellar, and several other women followed.

  “Tell them what happened next,” Herr Weiler said, giving the cigarette back to him.

  “After a while the temperature in the cellar started to rise. The air was filling with smoke. We could hear buildings crashing all around us. I decided to get out, even though everyone told me not to go. I pushed open the shelter door, and everything was red, like the inside of a furnace. A dry wind blew in my face, so hot it burned my windpipe. The air was on fire, but I could see a clear path back to the bridge, so I ran. Halfway there, a wall of fire was headed toward me, so I ducked into an underground bunker and pried open the door. The bunker was packed, and injured people were lying all over the floor, screaming for water. Then there was a hit, and the bunker rocked back and forth. One wall started falling in, and liquid phosphorous flowed through the cracks. People became hysterical, and I turned and ran out. I don’t know how, but I made it to the edge of the city, and just stood there, watching it burn. The next day, I went back to see if my family was still alive. The survivors were burning huge piles of dead bodies in the streets.”

  “Why would they do that?” someone asked.

  “What else could they do?” Herr Weiler said. “Bury them one by one?”

  “They had to burn them,” a man said. “To stop the spread of disease.”

  “That’s right,” the soldier said.

  “Finish your story,” Herr Weiler said.

  “The building where I’d hidden was gone. The streets were filled with charred bodies, their hands outstretched, their jaws opened in silent screams. Some were burnt so badly it was hard to tell if they were adults or children. People were walking around with buckets and sacks, picking up body parts. In the cellars they found shriveled, burnt corpses, or nothing but ash. Sometimes they found the victims lined up on benches, leaning against each other as if asleep, suffocated because the fires had pulled the air out of the shelters. When I was looking for my parents’ house, I couldn’t even tell where I was. Nothing looked familiar to me.” He paused and hung his head. After a minute, he cleared his throat and looked up, his eye wet. “Then I saw the charred corner of the library at the end of my block, and I went in the direction of our building. But everything was gone. I never found my parents or my sisters. Yesterday, I heard that over a hundred and twenty miles away, people could see Hamburg burning.”

  “Was there a weapons factory there?” someone asked.

  “Not on that side of the city. There was no air base, no factories, nothing military.”

  “Do you think it was a mistake?” Herr Weiler asked.

  “It wasn’t a mistake. It lasted three hours. Then they came back and did it again two nights later, and again three nights after that. They’re estimating over forty-five thousand dead. Hamburg was home to millions of civilians. Now it’s three-quarters erased from the face of the earth.”

  Wrapping her arms around herself, Christine turned away and made her way toward the back of the shelter, a block of ice forming in her gut. Maria and her little brothers were sleeping in an empty potato bin. The adults had learned that giving the children cloth or cotton to put in their ears helped them relax, sometimes enough so they could sleep. Christine wondered if they were used to the explosions, or if it was easier to deal with the unending grip of fear by just going to sleep. That way, if a bomb burst through the ceiling and killed them all, they’d never know. Sleep was an escape, and she wished she could join them. Then she remembered that once in a while, someone brought homemade schnapps for the children to sip, to calm them down. Right now, Christine wished she had a whole bottle, because she’d drink it all, until she could forget what she’d just heard.

  CHAPTER 14

  In the middle of September, it was announced on the radio that thousands of citizens in southern Germany had been taken into custody in the interest of public security and on suspicion of activities inimical to the state. The destination of these criminals was Dachau. Opa said that with all the criminals the Nazis had arrested, Dachau probably had a bigger population than Stuttgart.

  In the ration line the next morning, Christine’s heart raced when she realized that there was no one in line wearing a yellow star. The Jews were gone.

  “Do you know anything?” she whispered to Frau Unger.

  “Nothing for sure,” Frau Unger whispered. “But I saw the Kleins leaving their house in the middle of the night, with their suitcases. Someone picked them up in a black Mercedes. And this morning, when I passed by the Leibermanns’, little Esther pulled back the curtain to watch me walk by. Normally, she and Frau Leibermann are in the ration line before I get here. Something’s happening.”

  Christine made the decision right then and there that she was going to go to the Bauermans’ after she picked up her family’s rations. If the sirens went off, or the Tiefflieger came, she wouldn’t know where to go, but she didn’t care. If their house was empty, she’d have the small hope that they’d already left and Isaac was safe. On the other hand, if she thought that the Bauermans were still living there, she’d knock on the door. If Isaac was there, she wanted to see him. She couldn’t take it anymore.

  Later that morning, as she walked toward the other side of town, the possibility crossed her mind that Isaac’s house might be nothing but ruins. As she pictured it, her breath grew shallower with every step. Along with the random sections of the village that had been bombed to rubble, she passed undamaged houses that looked vacant and unkempt, their sidewalks littered with dirt and leaves, curtains drawn, window boxes overgrown with weeds. Some people had left on their own, but now she wondered if the rumors were true, that the Gestapo had taken entire families away. She imagined the empty rooms, echoing with the memories of children, mothers, fathers, and grandparents, their lives forever changed or cut short.

  Instead of walking around the block four times as she’d done before, she walked up the stone steps and stood at the front door of Isaac’s house, her heart hammering in her chest, her throat parched. Smeared across part of the front entrance and one window were the remains of yellow paint. She could still make out what had been written. Juden.

  She rapped lightly at first, then harder when no one answered. I’ll leave right after I see him, she thought, running her thumb and finger up and down her braid. Finally, the handle turned, and the door inched open. A wedge of pale cheek became visible, a brown eye peeking
out through a dark crack.

  “Christine?” It was Frau Bauerman. “What are you doing here?”

  “I need to see Isaac!”

  “He’s not here. You’d better leave!”

  “Bitte!” Christine pleaded. “Let me in, for just a minute!” More frightened out on the steps than she would have been inside, she decided to take matters into her own hands and pushed on the handle. All of a sudden, the door flew open. Someone grabbed her by the arm and pulled her in. It was Isaac.

  “What are you doing here?” he said, slamming the door behind her. “If you’re caught they’ll arrest you!”

  “I had to see you!” she said, trying to catch her breath. Then, suddenly, Christine froze in the middle of the foyer and looked around, shocked by changes in the house since the last time she’d been there. Ratty blankets hung over windows and across doorways, making the rooms as dark and murky as the inside of a cave. Oil lanterns cast a dim yellow glow in the foyer and the living area, leaving the end of the hall and the top of the stairs hidden in shadows. Through the wide archway on the left, the marble floors were bare except for two straw mattresses next to an old cook stove and a pile of kindling that consisted of branches, rags, and odd furniture legs. Next to the stove was a tilting table made out of an old door and wooden crates, and four mismatched chairs that had been strengthened and repaired with twine and pieces of wood. Built out of scrap wood, bricks, and rough lumber, a row of crude shelves held candle stubs, chipped dinner plates, and an assortment of dented pots and pans. How was it possible that the Bauermans were living in such conditions?

  Isaac and his mother stood side-by-side, their pale, thin faces floating above their dark coats, the yellow Star of David sewn to their lapels. Nina looked like she’d aged twenty years, with dark circles under her eyes, her graying hair pulled back in a matted braid. Isaac’s hair was inches longer than the last time she’d seen him, slicked back beneath his gray fedora, the length of it curling behind his ears. But even though he’d lost weight and his eyes were dark with anxiety, the sight of his handsome face was almost too much to bear. When she saw him, it was as if the dead weight of all the emotions she’d been carrying over the past few years—grief, anger, helplessness, fear—passed through her chest all at once, exiting through her rib cage and ripping her breath from her lungs, trying to yank out the beating chambers of her heart. She stepped toward him, fighting the urge to run into his arms. It was then that she noticed the four suitcases, packed and waiting, beside the front door.

  “Are you leaving?” she asked.

  Just then, Herr Bauerman and Gabriella appeared at the end of the hall, their tense faces and the yellow stars on their coats illuminated by the light of the single candle Gabriella carried. When she saw Christine, she gave the candle to her father, ran across the room, and threw her arms around Christine’s waist. Herr Bauerman blew out the flame and sat on the stairs, his head down. Christine rubbed Gabriella’s shoulders and stroked the top of her head. The young girl was shaking.

  “We’re being transported,” Frau Bauerman said.

  “Transported?” Christine said, a swell of panic rising in her throat. “Where?”

  “We don’t know,” Isaac said. “They’re coming for us today. You’d better leave.”

  Christine felt her eyes well up. “Come with me!” she begged him. “We’ll take off the star. We’ll tell everyone you’re my cousin.”

  “Nein,” he said, stepping toward her. “They have our names. It won’t work. You shouldn’t have come.” He untangled Gabriella’s arms from around Christine’s waist, then gently pushed Christine toward the door, his face hard. She grabbed at his hands, trying to hold them, trying to make him stop pushing her away. But he pulled his hands out of hers, as if she were stricken with disease, each of his evasive movements ripping a giant hole in her heart.

  “Bitte, let me help,” she said in a trembling voice. “Come to my house and hide. Don’t let them just take you away.”

  “We’ll be all right,” he said, herding her backwards. “It’s only for a little while. They’re putting us to work in a munitions factory. You and I will see each other when this is over, remember? Right now, your family needs you, and my family needs me. If we don’t do as we’re told, our chances of surviving will only be worse. Go home, and stay safe.” They’d reached the door, and she was leaning against it, shaking her head, tears running down her face. He looked at his shoes, at his mother, at the wall, everywhere but in her eyes. Then, all of a sudden, he took her in his arms, his strong muscles squeezing her shoulders, his face buried in her neck. He took in a deep shuddering breath, letting it out slowly and holding her for a long time.

  “I still love you,” he whispered in her ear. “I always will.” Then, he let go and stepped away. Christine felt herself go weak, as if he’d stolen the strength from her body. She moved toward him, reaching out, longing for him to hold her again. Instead, he grabbed her by the arm, yanked open the front entrance, and pushed her out on the steps. He closed the door.

  She turned and pounded on the door with her fists, but it was no use, he wouldn’t let her back in. Just then, the screech and growl of an engine turning the corner at the end of the street made her spin around. The canvas-backed army truck was coming toward her, its running boards filled with SS soldiers toting submachine guns. She ran down the steps and along the sidewalk, tears blurring her vision. Two blocks away, she slowed to a walk, unable to catch her breath.

  Then she saw another army truck full of soldiers, making its way along the cobblestone street in her direction. She wiped her face and kept walking, afraid they’d slow down or stop if they saw her crying. Keeping her eyes on the sidewalk, she took the next left, hurried around the corner of a stone house, and bumped into a Hauptscharführer, a sergeant major of the SS. He was like a black wall, the silver skull and crossbones and SS runes on his black collar reflecting in the sun. She stumbled backwards, and he grabbed her wrist, ready to come to blows. When he realized it was a female who’d run into him, he loosened his grip and smiled. She looked up at him, her head heavy, her heartbeat throbbing in her temples.

  “Little Fräulein,” he said. “What’s your hurry?”

  “Um . . . excuse me, Herr Hauptscharführer,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. “I’m sorry for running into you.” She automatically raised her arm and started to say the mandatory greeting, but he stopped her, touching her elbow with a gloved palm. He looked down on her with steel blue eyes, his angular jaw working as he gave her the once-over. Beside him, an overweight SS Gruppenführer, group leader, smiled at her with fleshy lips and gray, crooked teeth.

  “Is something wrong?” the Hauptscharführer asked. “Anything I can help you with?”

  “Nichts, Herr Hauptscharführer, sir,” she said. “Danke. I’m fine.”

  “A pretty German girl like you shouldn’t be crying.”

  “I’m sorry, but I have to go home,” she said, stepping around them. “My mother is waiting.” For a split second, she thought one of them reached out to catch her arm, but then she was moving forward, escaping down the sidewalk.

  “Fräulein?” the overweight Gruppenführer called in a singsong voice. She slowed, but kept moving.

  Then he yelled. “Fräulein!” This time, she stopped.

  “Come here, bitte,” he said.

  She clasped her hands in front of her and turned, slowly making her way back to where they stood, her heart hammering in her chest. “Herr Gruppenführer?” she said.

  “Tell me, Fräulein,” he said, his arms behind his back. “What’s your name?”

  “Christine.”

  He looked at the tall officer and smiled, as if this were a private joke they shared, then touched the buttons of her coat. “And do you have a boyfriend, Christine?” he asked.

  “Ja.”

  “Well, I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but the SS need strong, beautiful German women like you to have our babies. Haven’t you heard? It’s
your sacred obligation to increase the Aryan race.”

  “Ja,” Christine said, forcing the words from her tight throat. “The Führer already told me.”

  The overweight Gruppenführer threw back his head and laughed. “The Führer already told you!” he roared, his stomach bouncing up and down. He elbowed the other officer. “The Führer already told her! And what else did our Führer tell you, Fräulein? Did he tell you his next strategy for winning the war?”

  “Nein,” Christine said. “He told me that I should make our fatherland proud. That’s why my boyfriend and I plan to be married as soon as possible.”

  “But your boyfriend, he’s regular Wehrmacht, ja?”

  She nodded.

  The overweight officer lifted his double chin and touched the twin lightning bolts on his lapel. “But do you see this?” he said. “I’m SS. Did you know that to be in the SS you have to prove your German ancestry back to the 1800s? The women who are with SS are taken care of! Hitler even gives them medals for having children, bronze for three, silver for five, and gold for six or more. After we win this war, we will be the elite!” He leaned forward and sniffed her neck, pulling her scent into his nostrils like a hungry bear smelling a rabbit inside a hollow tree. Christine stood motionless, her knees shaking up and down, her legs trembling. “You could have everything you’ve ever wanted,” he said, reaching out to touch her hair.

  “I’m sorry, Herr Gruppenführer,” she said. “But I must go home right away. My mother’s not well and needs me to take care of my little brothers and sister. I’m afraid she might have typhus.”

  When he heard the word typhus, the officer stepped backwards and wiped his hand on the leg of his jodhpurs.

  “On your way then,” he said. Christine turned and ran without looking back.

  She hurried the rest of the way home, her mind racing, trying to figure out what she could do to help Isaac and his family. Frau Unger had told her that the Kleins had left in the middle of the night. Maybe they were going into hiding. Maybe she could find out where the Kleins had gone, and the Bauermans could go there too. If it wasn’t already too late. If the trucks she’d heard rumbling up the street hadn’t already taken the Bauermans away. Whatever she was going to do, she couldn’t do it alone. Even though she knew her mother would be angry with her for going to the Bauermans’, she had to tell her what was happening.