The Plum Tree

by Ellen Marie Wiseman

  The Gruppenführer stood erect, his chin raised and his chest puffed out, one hand tugging on the bottom edge of his uniform jacket, as if preparing to make a speech.

  “Come out now!” he screamed.

  Isaac came out slowly, bent double, his hands in the air as he straightened. Mutti drew in a sharp breath and stood protectively in front of her daughter, her hands reaching blindly back for Christine. The Gruppenführer grabbed Isaac’s arm and shoved up his shirtsleeve to expose the tattooed number on his wrist.

  “So what do we have here?” he asked, looking at Christine.

  “They didn’t know I was up here!” Isaac said.

  “Silence!” the Gruppenführer screamed. One of the soldiers hit Isaac in the stomach with the butt of his gun. Isaac doubled over and fell to his knees, holding his middle and gasping. The Gruppenführer walked over to Mutti, pushed her aside, and glared at Christine.

  “I believe someone knew he was here,” he said. “How else would the bookcase get in front of the door?”

  Isaac got up and pushed himself between them, but a soldier pulled him away, and the other held a gun to Isaac’s chest. “They didn’t have anything to do with it!” Isaac shouted. The soldier hit him again, this time in the jaw. Isaac reeled and nearly lost his footing. The soldiers held him up.

  “You’re right!” Christine said, breathing hard. “I did it!” She stepped forward, coming nearly toe-to-toe with the Gruppenführer, his face a blur through her tears. “My family knew nothing about it. I hid him there. I’m the guilty one.”

  “Nein!” her mother cried. “It’s not true!”

  Vater pulled Christine back and placed himself between her and the Gruppenführer.

  “Take me,” he said. “She’s just a young girl.”

  “Nein, Herr Bölz,” the Gruppenführer said. “You’ve served your country well. It is your daughter who is the traitor. She is the Jew lover!” He motioned to the soldiers. “Arrest them both.”

  “I’m sorry,” Christine said to her parents.

  Mutti put her hands over her mouth, shaking her head back and forth. Vater held her back as the soldiers cuffed Christine and Isaac’s wrists together and pushed them toward the trapdoor.

  “Nein! Nein!” Mutti screamed, struggling to get out of Vater’s grip.

  The Gruppenführer went down the ladder first, a grin etched on his face. Isaac and Christine, their hands bound together, tried not to fall as they followed. Isaac stepped down first, his arm above his head to give her some slack, moving slowly for her benefit. When they reached the hallway, the soldiers shoved them forward and down the stairs, as the Gruppenführer and her parents followed.

  “Christine!” Mutti screamed, struggling to push past the Gruppenführer. “Nein! Don’t take her! Bitte, don’t take her!” But the Gruppenführer blocked her way with outstretched arms, saying nothing. Vater grabbed her, holding her back.

  “They will shoot you,” he said, his voice hard.

  Mutti either didn’t hear him or didn’t care. She screamed for Christine, clawing at her husband’s hands like a wild animal. Oma, Maria, and the boys came out of the kitchen, pursuing the soldiers down the stairs, everyone crying and screaming Christine’s name. When they reached the street the soldiers ordered Isaac and Christine into the back of a canvas-covered army truck. The black barrels of their submachine guns followed Christine’s and Isaac’s every move, as if there were an invisible string from their chests to the end of the soldiers’ weapons. The Gruppenführer climbed into the front seat with the waiting driver. Ear-piercing screeches of rusted metal drowned out Mutti’s cries as the gears of the truck ground together. The oversized vehicle lurched and stopped twice, releasing bursts of exhaust before moving down the cobblestone street.

  Through a flap in the back canvas, Christine could see her family in the street. As the truck drove away, they grew smaller and smaller, flickering in and out of her vision like the illustrations in a picture book that one flipped through with one’s thumb, making the images on the pages appear to be in motion. Oma was looking at the sky, her frail arms held up to the heavens, her mouth an open circle of despair. In stiff, erratic movements, her mother wrenched herself from Vater and ran after the truck, her face contorted. She made it halfway to the bottom of the hill before she fell, inch by inch, to her hands and knees in the street. Christine closed her eyes. She couldn’t watch any longer. But the images wouldn’t stop playing over and over, frame by frame, in her mind.

  CHAPTER 22

  Ten minutes later, they arrived at the barracks next to the train station.

  “Get out of the truck!” the Gruppenführer yelled.

  In the truck bed, Isaac grabbed Christine and hugged her. “I’m so sorry I let this happen to you.”

  “Get your hands off her, you filthy Jew!” the Gruppenführer screamed.

  One of the soldiers pried them apart, undid their handcuffs, and shoved them toward the rear of the truck. Christine fell and Isaac helped her up, then held her steady as she climbed over the tailgate.

  When they were both on the ground, the Gruppenführer shouted, “I told you to keep your hands off of her!”

  The butt of the gun collided with Isaac’s head. He struggled to remain upright, but his knees buckled and he fell against the back of the truck. He lifted his hand to his skull, a trickle of blood running behind his ear. Christine wanted to reach out to help him, but she didn’t dare, for fear they would hit him again.

  At gunpoint, they were forced into the long, brick building of the train depot. Inside, they followed the Gruppenführer into a brick-walled office, where an immense SS Hauptsturmführer, Head Storm Leader, dwarfed a desk in the center of the room, as if it were a student’s writing table. To the left of the desk, a second door led out to the train platform. The Hauptsturmführer looked up when they came in, his wide forehead and broad jaw like the face of a bull. A portrait of Hitler hung on the wall above his head. In it, Hitler looked regal, almost handsome. Clouds floated behind him, as if he were a savior from God. On the desk were several stacks of papers, a jar of pens, a black telephone, and a slender, brown-handled Luger lying on a folded red cloth. Isaac and Christine stood in front of the desk, the Gruppenführer to Christine’s right, the soldiers behind them. The Hauptsturmführer stood and eyed them, his wide, muscular body straining the seams of his uniform.

  “I have returned our missing prisoner,” the Gruppenführer said triumphantly.

  “And who is this?” the Hauptsturmführer asked. He came around the desk, went to Christine, and touched her face with the back of his oversized fingers.

  “This is our runaway Jew’s girlfriend. She hid him upstairs in her attic.”

  “Well, Fräulein,” the Hauptsturmführer said to her. “I can certainly see what he saw in a beautiful German girl like you, but tell me, what did you see in this Jewish pig?”

  Christine kept her eyes on Isaac, standing as close to him as possible and trying to pretend it was just the two of them in the orchard on the hill. But she couldn’t remember the apple trees, couldn’t remember the green grass and bright sky. The only pictures in her head were of gray and white uniforms and skeletal prisoners, black boots and dropping bombs, bomb shelters and boxcars full of withered people. Isaac wouldn’t look at her. He kept his head down and his eyes on the floor. She could feel every taut tendon in her neck, every burning vein beneath her skin. The side of her hand, where it touched his, felt on fire. She needed him to look at her. A scream was building in her chest, ready to erupt like a swarm of hornets exploding from their shattered hive.

  One of the soldiers shoved them toward a bench against the wall, instructing them to sit. The Hauptsturmführer lit a cigarette and sat on the corner of his desk, the thick oak groaning beneath his weight. Then he lifted his frame and walked over to Christine, taking a long draw from his cigarette, and ran a hand over her hair, his leg pressing hard against her thigh. Christine stared at Isaac. He was breathing hard, the whites of his eyes
bloodshot, his forehead bulging. The trickle of blood behind his ear was already starting to dry. The Hauptsturmführer dropped his cigarette and stepped on it, then pulled Christine to her feet. He put a plank-thick hand on the small of her back and held her arm out to the side, humming as he began to sway, his massive body pressed against hers. Christine glanced toward the Gruppenführer. His fleshy face was crimson. With disbelief, she realized he was jealous.

  The Gruppenführer cleared his throat and said in a loud voice, “It’s too bad she’s been spoiled by this Jew. We could keep her for ourselves. But who would want something a dirty Jew has touched?”

  The soldiers started to snicker. The Hauptsturmführer snorted and pushed Christine down on the bench. Finally, Isaac looked at her, his face red.

  “You’ve timed your arrival just right,” the Hauptsturmführer announced. “The train to Dachau is coming through within the hour.”

  Christine went rigid. Dachau? For some reason, she’d assumed they’d be staying at this camp. Isaac had said there was food. And outhouses. And no gas chambers. And no crematoriums. When she heard the name Dachau, a black dagger of horror plunged deep into her chest, where it lodged and throbbed, causing shockwaves of fire and ice to shoot through her veins. She inched closer to Isaac, sweating and shivering.

  “You’re dismissed!” the Hauptsturmführer said to the Gruppenführer and the soldiers. “I can handle things from here.”

  The Gruppenführer glared at Christine and Isaac as if he wanted to strangle them. Finally, he saluted the Hauptsturmführer and exited with the two soldiers. The Hauptsturmführer lit another cigarette, removed his peaked cap and placed it on the desk, then sat down. For the next few minutes, he went about his business, signing papers, answering the phone, occasionally looking over at them in disgust.

  Christine folded her arms across her middle, touching the side of Isaac’s arm with her fingers. Isaac stared at the floor, his back against the wall, his shoulders slumped, his hands limp in his lap. Once in a while he glanced at her, his eyes hollow with regret. She looked back at him, pleading silently for him not to surrender. All they had now was the will to live. He’d survived Dachau once, and her father had survived a POW camp in Russia. She had to believe it was possible. She had to believe they had a chance. Because if they were going to give up, if they weren’t even going to try, then she might as well walk over to the desk, grab the gun lying on the red cloth, and shoot them all, right here and now.

  “We’ll be all right,” she whispered. “We have to be.”

  “No talking!” the Hauptsturmführer yelled, slamming his huge hand on the desk. The phone and jars of pens rattled.

  “I love you,” she said to Isaac. “And when this is over, we’ll still have our whole lives ahead of us. Bitte, don’t give up.”

  The Hauptsturmführer grabbed the gun and flew around the desk. “I said, no talking!” he yelled, barreling toward them, the gun pointed at Christine.

  Christine straightened and leaned against the wall. The Hauptsturmführer moved closer and shoved his thick knees between hers, forcing her legs apart. He lifted her chin with one hand, squeezing her face in a vise-like grip.

  “Open your mouth!” he shouted, his thumb and fingers digging into her cheeks.

  “I’ll be quiet.”

  “Open your mouth!”

  Christine did as she was told. The cold, hard metal of the Luger scraped against her teeth, the long, round barrel making her gag. Isaac stiffened beside her.

  “One more word out of you,” the Hauptsturmführer said, “and it will be your last. Understand?”

  Christine closed her eyes and nodded. He pulled the gun out of her mouth, leaving the taste of metal on her tongue.

  “You’re a lively little Fräulein, ja?” He traced the Luger down her cheek, along her neck, across her collarbone. She kept her eyes closed. “Now that everyone else is gone, maybe I should give you something to remember me by.” He forced her legs farther apart, pushing her skirt up her thighs, running the end of the gun over her breasts. Isaac panted beside her, his frustration and anger palpable in every breath.

  The hard barrel trailed downward, along her stomach, toward the top of one thigh. Then, she heard a train in the distance. The Hauptsturmführer grunted and stepped away, pressing his hand against the fly of his pants. He holstered the Luger, took his cap from the desk, and shoved it onto his head.

  The rumble of the approaching train quickened the already turbulent beat of Christine’s heart. She had to fight the urge to run. But the Hauptsturmführer had the gun in his hand again, and it was pointing right at them. As the train drew closer, the hiss of steam and the screech of brakes grew louder and louder. The train stopped outside the building, pistons pounding, like the giant, beating heart of a mammoth black creature fighting its way through the very walls of the building, so it could eat them alive.

  “Do everything they say,” Isaac said to her. “They’ll shoot you without a second thought.”

  “Get up!” the Hauptsturmführer shouted. Christine and Isaac stood. The Hauptsturmführer motioned toward the rear of the building with his Luger. “This way!”

  He pushed them out the second door onto the concrete platform, the gun pointed at their backs. Beside the platform, the train waited, exhaling great walls of steam. Eight cattle cars trembled behind the living, breathing engine. Christine saw the small openings, the barbed wire, the reaching hands, the haunted faces. She could hear moans, cries, pleading voices. Soldiers forced her and Isaac toward the last car. She felt a thousand eyes watching as they walked along the platform.

  At the last boxcar, two soldiers slid open the heavy door, then motioned Christine and Isaac forward with their guns. Inside, a multitude of pale faces with dark eyes floated above indistinct bodies. The soldiers shoved Christine and Isaac inside, thrust together and stumbling, into the mass of bodies. Christine felt hands, arms, elbows, feet. She barely had a chance to get her footing before the door was pulled closed. In slow motion, the slice of sunlight narrowed, getting thinner and thinner, until it was swallowed by shadow. On the outside of the door, a bar was shoved into place, locking them in with a final, iron thud.

  Christine and Isaac stood facing each other, compressed together and wedged between a hundred other bodies. Countless people were crushed into the boxcar like kindling, filling every square inch. It was dark and stifling hot, the stench of urine and feces permeating the air. Christine tried to breathe through her mouth, pressing her face into Isaac’s chest, trying to inhale the scent of his body. He buried his face in her hair. The whistle shrieked. The locomotive strained, and the entire train shuddered. With a jolt, the boxcars lurched forward. There was no need to hang on because there was nowhere to fall. Bodies jostled against bodies as the cars rattled slowly along the tracks. After the train rounded the bend out of the village, it picked up speed near the edge of the valley. Christine knew they were passing below hills covered with orchards and tall pines.

  As their eyes adjusted, they saw the faces of the condemned all around them. To her right, a boy clung to his mother, his freckled nose just inches from Christine’s, his dark eyes watching from beneath tousled brown hair. Her own fear and uncertainty were reflected in his eyes, her own vulnerability in his desperate grip on his mother’s shawl.

  Isaac wrapped his arms around her shoulders. “I love you. And I’m sorry.”

  “We can survive this,” she said. “We have to. My father survived camps as bad as this, and so did you.”

  “We can try.” His words lacked conviction, and his face was slack. But he held her tighter, and she could hear the heartbeat in his chest growing fast and strong.

  During the first few hours, the people in the boxcar wept and spoke quietly. Somewhere, a woman moaned. Christine wanted her to stop. After what felt like a thousand hours, there was only silence, with the occasional soft words, or the sound of the woman singing softly to the young boy. Christine offered to take him from his mother to give her
a rest, but they refused to let go of each other.

  Eventually, Christine’s legs started to cramp, and her feet ached from standing in one position. Along with that discomfort, and the fact that her stomach was growling and her throat felt parched, the pressure in her bladder was almost too much to bear. She inhaled through her nose and blew out through her mouth, trying to take her mind off the pain in her pelvis.

  “What’s wrong?” Isaac whispered.

  “Nothing,” she said. “I’m all right.”

  “Nein, you’re not. I can tell.”

  She looked up at him. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  “So go.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t.”

  “Listen to me,” he said. “Let it go. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “Nein.”

  He stroked the back of her head. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing like that matters. It’s all right.”

  She closed her eyes and buried her face in his shirt, her tortured bladder making the decision for her. The warm liquid ran down the inside of her legs into her leather shoes, where it puddled beneath her stocking heels. Tears of shame ran down her face.

  “It’s not your fault,” Isaac said. “It’s not your fault.”

  Outside it had grown dark, casting the interior into blackness. Christine could barely see Isaac’s face. She closed her eyes and put her head against his chest, trying to drift off, to escape into the ignorance of sleep, but it was impossible. The images of where they were going, which Isaac had unintentionally painted in her mind, played like a slideshow behind her closed eyelids. Now, the cramps in her legs and the ache in her feet felt like knives. She’d never thought of herself as claustrophobic, but if the train didn’t stop soon, she wasn’t sure how much longer she’d be able to control the feeling of being crushed, the heavy weight that made her arm muscles tighten and her breath shallow. She had to fight the urge to bend her arm and throw her elbow into the bodies next to hers. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t move, and she might go crazy if she wasn’t let loose soon.