The Plum Tree

by Ellen Marie Wiseman

  Christine fell to her knees and vomited into the dirt. She’d recognized the smell of burning flesh when they had arrived, but hadn’t realized it was part of the procedure, part of the operation, part of what she now knew for certain was a deliberate slaughter. She’d thought the smell was coming from a crematorium for those who had died from starvation or disease, or who had been shot like that poor woman this morning. But the people headed into the buildings were still dressed! They hadn’t even been put through the selection process. They’d just been taken off the trains and sent to their deaths. Her chest constricted as she strained to stop heaving, staring at the crabgrass and dandelions spreading between garden rows.

  “Is there a problem?” the Lagerkommandant said behind her.

  Christine stood and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Nein, Herr Lagerkommandant,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. He glanced past her, toward the waves of rolling smoke in the sky.

  “Oh,” he said. “I see. You saw the crematorium.” She was surprised to hear a trace of pity in his voice. “I told them that the last shipment of Zyklon-B was spoiled, and ordered them to bury it. I thought it would slow them down. But they won’t stop, not even for a day. That’s why they’re using the trucks. That’s how it started, you know, using the exhaust from the trucks.” He scratched his chin with his thumb, looking at her as if he needed her to understand. “The first time I saw the crematorium, I wanted to enter the chambers with them. But then I realized I’m a witness to their murders. If I’m alive when this is over, I’ll be able to tell the world what really happened here.”

  She didn’t know how, or even if, she should respond. He had to be lying; otherwise, how could he stand there and let this happen? She wanted to go back to the barracks, longed to lie down, to be swept away by sleep. She didn’t want to know, didn’t want to think about what was going on here. She’d come out to start working on the garden, but now she couldn’t. She needed to go back in the house, to get as far away as possible from what she’d just seen. She walked past him, hoping he wouldn’t stop her, the acidic tang of bile stinging the back of her throat. The egg she’d eaten earlier tasted chalky and rancid on her tongue.

  She spent the rest of the day straightening, sweeping, and preparing the Lagerkommandant’s meals. She’d have to go into the garden sooner or later, but she wasn’t going to do it today. Instead, she worked like a machine, trying not to think. Every so often, her mind assaulted her with images of the line of people walking into the building. She saw them coming out the other side, naked and lifeless, their bodies thrown on a cart like piles of livestock after the slaughter, arms and legs entwined and dangling in awkward, unnatural positions. She tried not to think about the pain and agony experienced by the thousands of people who were dying here, but she couldn’t help but carry it with her, like a heavy, black chain around her heart.

  The black chain occasionally came loose. Overcome by grief, fear, and homesickness, she reached for her hair, for the comfort she used to find running it through her fingers, but there was nothing there. Several times throughout the day, reality hit, forcing her to stop what she was doing and sit down, with her head between her legs to keep from fainting, until finally, she pulled herself together enough to get back to work.

  By the time she went back to her quarters, night had fallen, and she was thankful for the darkness that hid the crematorium, like a shroud pulled over a decaying corpse. When she stepped inside the barracks, someone grabbed her wrist and tried pulling her down the aisle. She dug in her heels and shouted, fighting back. Then the person drew close.

  “Shush . . . it’s me,” Hanna said in a low voice. “Come on.”

  Hanna pulled her into a bottom bunk, where Christine lay on her side, squinting in the dark. Hanna’s face was inches from hers, a ghost mask in the gloom.

  “We have to whisper,” Hanna said. “Remember that woman who warned you about Selektion? She’s the Blockältester, the lead prisoner of the block. She gets double rations for reporting everything she sees and hears to the Blockführer. The green triangle on her uniform means she was a professional criminal before she came here. In Dachau, the professional criminals will do anything to survive, and the SS know it. Watch out for her. You don’t want to get on her bad side.”

  “Danke,” Christine whispered.

  “That’s not all I want to warn you about. You need to know that most of the other women aren’t going to trust you either.”

  “Why not?” Christine said, a little too loudly. “What did I do?”

  “You’re not Jewish, and you work for the Lagerkommandant. They’ll be afraid you’ll tell him everything you see.”

  “But I’d never . . .”

  “Listen. People are fighting for their lives, and that changes everything. You’d be surprised what people are capable of when it comes to saving their own skin.”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “Ja.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because you just got here and you’re not that desperate yet, or maybe because one of the first things you did was ask about your boyfriend’s mother and sister.”

  “You said you could find out where they are.”

  “Ja. And I’m sorry. There’s no easy way to tell you this. Gabriella was gassed and cremated shortly after she arrived.”

  Christine felt like she’d been punched in the stomach. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. I work in the records department. I type and file prisoner information.”

  Christine turned on her back and pressed the heels of her hands into her flooding eyes. She was just a child, she thought. “And Nina?” she said, her voice catching.

  “Typhus, three months ago.”

  “Ach Gott.”

  Hanna shifted on the bunk. “Welcome to Dachau.” Christine felt Hanna’s hand on her shoulder. “Listen,” Hanna said. “If I get a chance, I’ll try to find out about your boyfriend, but I can’t promise anything. I used to be able to look up the male prisoners’ records, but the new Blockschreiber, barracks clerk, watches over the files like a hawk. He’ll know I’m up to something. Before he came, I found out my twin brother was still alive, working in the munitions factory. But that was over a year ago. Now, well. I don’t know if he’s . . .” She paused. After a moment, she continued. “Anyway, I also found out that the former chancellor of Austria is here, and the former premier of France. The Germans are meticulous about their bookkeeping. They keep records of everyone who enters, including every person they’ve murdered.”

  Christine tried to find her voice. “How long have you been here?”

  “Two years. Give or take a month or two. We were hiding with nine others in a tiny room in an apartment house in Berlin. We were safe for about six months. The neighbor turned us in to the Gestapo, in exchange for two loaves of bread.”

  Christine groaned. “And the rest of your family?”

  “My mother and younger sisters went straight to the gas chambers. The guards hanged my father outside the gates, beside the mayor of the village of Dachau and ten other men. They left their bodies hanging for three weeks.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Christine said.

  “Ja,” Hanna continued, her voice flat. “The only reason they let me live was because I was a secretary and knew how to type. Imagine that. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t told them.” Christine felt Hanna press something hard and dry into her hand. “Here, I saved a piece of bread for you. You missed mealtime.”

  “Nein, danke,” Christine said, putting the crust back in Hanna’s hand. “You need it more than I do. Besides, I’m not hungry.”

  “Are you sure?” Hanna said, already chewing.

  “I’m sure. I’ve lost my appetite.”

  CHAPTER 25

  On her daily walks to the Lagerkommandant’s, Christine realized how lucky she was to be working in his house. Some of the women prisoners were sent to work in armaments factories outside the camp, or to the Bayeri
sche Motoren Werke factory to build engines for planes. Some, like Hanna, had jobs inside the camp, working in the records department, cooking for prisoners and guards, sorting piles of the incoming prisoners’ belongings, or filling the hundreds of other labor positions needed to keep the camp operating. Most of the men worked on construction, outside in any weather, digging, pushing wheelbarrows, moving rocks, building roads and barracks. Guards would beat prisoners for no reason, women and men, and shoot them for even less. It was a normal occurrence for prisoners to drop to the ground, from being shot or succumbing to exhaustion, starvation, or disease. Flies, typhus, cholera, and death were ever-present companions. Every night, fewer women in her sector returned to the barracks. Every day, more women replaced them.

  Night after night, Christine repeated the same prayer on her way back to the barracks, that Hanna would have news of Isaac. But it was always the same. She hadn’t had an opportunity to look at the men’s files without getting caught. Whenever Christine was outside, she looked for him on the other side of the fence. On her way to and from work, she walked as close as possible to the barrier that split the camp in two. There were thousands of men over there, lining up, working, falling, marching. From this distance, they all looked the same: striped uniforms, thin bodies, bald heads, dirty faces.

  Cooking and cleaning inside the Lagerkommandant’s house, she tried to pretend that she was leading a normal life. It was the only way she could survive each hour. But the reverie disappeared when she had to go out to the garden, where the crematorium was in full horrifying view.

  When the Lagerkommandant left scraps on his plate, she ate them. She helped herself to small portions of the food she served him, but he’d warned her not to take food out of the house. Once every evening, the prisoners were fed a watery soup made from rotting vegetables and gristly tendons of meat, along with a few ounces of stale bread. Sometimes Christine was back in time for dinner; sometimes she wasn’t. When she was, she always gave her portion to Hanna. And nearly every day, when she thought she could get away with it, she stole slices of bread, a rind of cheese, or a scrap of meat to give to Hanna or one of the other women when the Blockältester wasn’t looking. The only places she had to hide anything were her shoes or her mouth. There were no pockets in her uniform, and she was naked beneath it.

  One day, when she had a crust of bread hidden in each cheek, a guard stopped her on her way back to the barracks.

  “What are you doing out here?” he demanded. Christine pointed toward the barracks and started walking again. He blocked her way, lifting his rifle. “Halt! What do you have in your mouth?” She tried to chew and swallow, but the bread was too dry. “Spit it out!” he shouted. She did as she was told, nearly choking in the process. He pointed his firearm at her head, taking aim, and she felt her bowels turn to water.

  “I’m not Jewish!” she said. “Ask the Lagerkommandant! He will tell you!”

  He lowered his rifle, eyeing her. “You’re coming from the Lagerkommandant ’s house?”

  She nodded.

  “So you’re the sweet little Fräulein he tells us about.” He put a hand on her thigh, lifting the hem of her uniform. “Does he know you’re stealing food?”

  “Herr Lagerkommandant says I’m to tell him if anyone touches what’s his. And I’m an expert at remembering faces.”

  With that, the guard stepped back, motioning for her to be on her way. Christine hurried on, her arms over her middle, trying to keep her heart and lungs from exploding, ripping through the thin skin of her abdomen, and spilling out into a bloody pile at her feet.

  So far, Dachau had not been bombed. The thump of bombs could be heard nearly every night, but they sounded far away. Christine wondered how long it would be until the Allies bombed the nearby armaments factory, or the factory used for building parts for planes. Because when they did, the camp could be next.

  She’d been imprisoned in Dachau five weeks when she found the Lagerkommandant drunk at the dinner table. She’d come into the dining room carrying a platter of Ente mit Sauerkraut auf Nürn-berger Art, duck with sauerkraut, apples, and grapes, and found him sitting there, a bottle of cognac in one hand, a snifter in the other. He’d brought the grapes, the duck, and the cognac back from Berlin, and she’d worried that the duck was a test, to see if she knew how to prepare it. Now, he was too intoxicated to notice that she’d spent hours getting it just right. When he saw her, he raised his glass in the air.

  “To Hitler!” he said. “May he outlive us all!” His eyes were heavy and bloodshot, his lips wet. He threw back his head and drained the glass, setting it on the table with a bang. Then he picked up the cognac with an unsteady hand and refilled the snifter. Christine set the serving platter on the table and reached for his plate.

  “Let me fix your plate for you, Herr Lagerkommandant,” she said. “You should eat something.” Using silver serving tongs, she dished a perfectly browned duck breast over the SS insignia in the center of the china, spooning the apple and grape mixture over top. When she reached for the sauerkraut, he touched her wrist and she jumped.

  “Have a drink with me, Chriztine,” he said, his words slurring. To her relief, he took his hand off her arm and reached for his empty wineglass. He knocked it over. “Shit.”

  Christine set the wineglass upright and placed his dinner in front of him, her heart pounding. She took a step back from the table and waited. The Lagerkommandant pushed the plate away and picked up his water tumbler. He drank the water, letting it run down his chin, then refilled the glass with cognac. “Here,” he said, offering it to her. “Sit down.”

  “Nein danke, Herr Lagerkommandant. If you don’t need anything else right now, I’ve got work to do in the kitchen.”

  “Bitte,” he said. “Sit with me, just for a little while.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea, Herr Lagerkommandant.”

  “I think you should do as I say, Chriztine. I hold the power of life and death in my hands, remember?”

  Christine pulled a chair away from the table and did as she was told, her hands folded in her lap.

  “Danke,” he said. “That’s not so bad, is it?” He blinked several times, as if falling asleep, then took another swallow of brandy. “I’m sorry. I just want to talk.”

  “Ja, Herr Lagerkommandant.” Despite herself, her mouth watered as she stared at the crispy duck covered with brown sauce and shiny purple grape halves.

  “Ja, essen,” he said, motioning toward the food. “Don’t be afraid.”

  He picked up the plate of food, set it in front of her, and pushed his knife and fork in her direction, his thick fingers fumbling across the tablecloth. Christine kept her hands in her lap, unwilling to eat at the table with her captor. The Lagerkommandant didn’t seem to notice. Instead he slouched back in his chair, the cognac sloshing inside his glass and spilling out over his fingers. “They failed,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, Herr Lagerkommandant,” she said. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Stauffenburg, Haeften, Olbricht, and Mertz!” he shouted, his face growing red. “Senior officers, all of them! And still they botched the plan! They should have made the bomb big enough to blow up a house! That would have killed the bastard!”

  “Killed who, Herr Lagerkommandant?”

  “Hitler! And it’s not the first time someone tried!”

  Christine’s breath caught in her throat. Hitler’s own men were trying to kill him? she thought, confused and elated at the same time. Could this nightmare finally be coming to an end?

  “Will they try again?” she asked.

  “Nein,” he said, shaking his head. “Hitler had them executed. Lined up and shot.” Christine’s shoulders dropped. The Lagerkommandant took another swig. “You see? That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. No one is safe. The involved officers’ entire families, including pregnant wives and small children, have all been arrested.” He fell back in his chair, as if exhausted. After brooding in silence for a moment,
he sighed and said, “Did I ever tell you how I came to be here?”

  “Nein, Herr Lagerkommandant.”

  He looked at her with watery eyes. “I joined the Nazi Party in 1933, but I was expelled for being critical of their methods. Five years later, I was arrested by the Gestapo and sent to a labor camp.” Christine’s eyes went wide, and he shook his head in agreement, as if he was just as surprised. “Ja! I was arrested! Can you believe it? And now I’m in charge!”

  Christine reached for the water jug. “May I?” she asked, her throat suddenly dry.

  “Ja, ja. But if you’re not going to drink this . . .” He finished the last mouthful of liquor in the brandy snifter, squeezing his eyes shut as he swallowed, then reached for the cognac he’d poured for her. “In 1940, I reapplied to the SS in order to infiltrate the Third Reich and gather information. Do you know why I did that?”

  “Nein, Herr Lagerkommandant.”

  “I did it because the Bishop of Stuttgart told me that mentally ill patients were being killed at Hadamar and Grafeneck. In 1941, my own sister died mysteriously at Hadamar. After that, I was determined to find out the truth.” He slammed a hand on the table. “They didn’t even ask questions about my past! In 1941, I was admitted to the Waffen-SS. After that, I was sent on a mission to introduce Zyklon-B into the camps in Poland.”

  She set down her glass and looked at him. “There are other camps? Camps like this one?”

  “Ja! Ja!” he said, nodding vigorously. “Auschwitz! Treblinka! Buchenwald! Ravensbrück! Mauthausen! I could go on and on. Auschwitz is the worst. But not all of them are extermination camps. Not all of them use gas. The Nazis said the Jews were getting Sonderbehandlung, or “special treatment,” which is Nazi code for murder. I was shocked and disgusted, but I forced myself to watch, so I could tell the world.”