The Plum Tree

by Ellen Marie Wiseman

  “How are you?” Kate asked.

  “As well as can be expected,” Christine said.

  Kate stood in the middle of the room, fingers fidgeting with the side seam of her skirt. She’s afraid of me, Christine thought in amazement. She acts like I have a disease.

  “I’m glad you’re home,” Kate said.

  “Danke,” Christine said. “Me too.”

  “What happened to your hair?” Kate said, pointing.

  Self-consciously, Christine ran her fingers over the short locks above her ear. “They cut it off.”

  “Why?”

  “They did it to all the prisoners.” Christine dropped her hands to her lap, her thumb rubbing the tattooed skin beneath her sleeve.

  “Oh,” Kate said, looking away. “I’m glad you’re home,” she repeated. “My mother said your mother thought she’d never see you again.”

  “I thought I’d never see anyone again either,” Christine said, rearranging the couch pillows so Kate could sit down. Kate lingered awkwardly in the middle of the room, eyes darting toward the windows as if she were planning an escape. Finally, reluctantly, she moved toward the couch.

  “You didn’t think they’d do anything to you, did you?” she said, sitting down. “You’re German, after all.”

  Christine pulled her legs up under herself and turned to face Kate. Has her hair always been such a scorching shade of red? she wondered. In the shafts of sunlight coming through the window, it looked iridescent, as if tiny flames flickered within each strand. Again, Christine ran her fingers over her own sparse hair, fine and soft, like the yellow down of a baby chick. When Kate glanced in her direction, Christine put her hands in her lap, her thumb over her wrist.

  “Every minute I was in that camp,” she said, “I thought I was going to die. They were murdering thousands of people every day.”

  “Thousands?” Kate said, looking directly at her for the first time. “Why would they murder thousands of people? And how could they even kill that many at a time?”

  “They gassed them, then burned them in a giant crematorium. Sometimes they just shot them.” Images of Isaac made Christine’s chest constrict. Beneath her thumb, she could feel her heartbeat pick up speed below the number on her wrist.

  “Why would they do that?” Kate asked again, her face filled with disbelief. “They were going to relocate them!”

  “They lied. They didn’t want to relocate the Jews. They wanted to slaughter them.”

  “I have a hard time believing that. It’s physically impossible.”

  Christine felt a hot twist of anger at the bottom of her rib cage. “I saw thousands of people murdered. I saw it with my own eyes. They shot Isaac.”

  “I heard,” Kate said, glancing at Christine with pity and false understanding. “And I’m sorry. You were brave to risk your life for him, and I know you’ve been through a lot. But you’re home now. You’ll be better off if you just forget it.” Then she patted Christine’s knee, as if she were a foolish child afraid of monsters under her bed.

  “I’ll never forget it,” Christine said, her face burning. A ringing in her ears made her voice sound as if it were coming from someone else.

  Kate ignored her and got up to stand by the window. She leaned against the sill and looked out toward the street. “Remember the three-story house with the fancy balcony on Hallerstrasse that I always admired? Stefan’s mother lives there and she’s giving the house to Stefan and me as soon as we’re married!”

  All of a sudden, the ringing in Christine’s ears disappeared and she could hear perfectly. She sat up straight. “Stefan came back?”

  “Ja! And he looks so handsome in his black uniform!” Then Kate straightened, and her eyes grew wide. “Oh mein Gott! I’m not supposed to tell anyone he has it! It just slipped out. Bitte, don’t tell him I told you. He’d be so mad. He just tried it on so I could see him in it, then he was putting it away.”

  Christine felt light-headed. “Kate,” she said. “I saw Stefan! He was a guard in Dachau!”

  “He said what he did for Germany was important. It was a secret.”

  Christine took a deep breath, trying to keep her voice steady. “Does Stefan’s uniform have a skull and crossbones on the hat and lapel?”

  “Ja,” Kate said, shrugging. “So what?”

  “Listen. If Stefan’s uniform is black, he was a member of the SS. If it has a skull and crossbones on it, he was a member of the SS Totenkopfverbände, the Death’s Head Units.”

  “Promise you won’t tell anyone he has it! His own mother doesn’t even know!”

  “Did you hear what I said?” Christine said. “I saw him! The Death’s Head Units were the ones running the camps, the ones murdering Jews!”

  Kate rolled her eyes. “The war is over, Christine,” she said. “Besides, whatever Stefan did, he was only following orders.” Kate moved toward the living room door, then stopped. “I should go, so you can rest. You’re still not well. I don’t think you remember exactly what happened. You were homesick and scared. You could have imagined all sorts of things.”

  “I didn’t imagine any of it!” Christine said. She got off the couch and took a step toward Kate, her vision pulsating in time with her hammering heart. “I saw it all! And for the rest of my life I’ll never forget the bodies, the blood, the lines of people being led into the gas chambers!”

  “I’m not going to stay here and listen to this!” Kate said. “I came as your friend, to see how you are, and this is the thanks I get?” She marched across the room.

  “Kate!” Christine said, following her. “Wait!”

  At the door, Kate spun around to face her. “And if that’s the way you feel, don’t bother coming to the wedding!” She slammed the door in Christine’s face.

  With her hands clenched in fists, Christine stared at the stippled grain of the wooden door, the timber knots and tree rings like frightened faces being consumed by swirls and licks of fire. She listened to Kate run down the stairs; searing fury coiled inside her stomach. The front door opened and closed. For a second, she thought about going to the window and calling out to Kate, but changed her mind. What could I ever say to make her believe me? she thought. I have no proof. As far as I know, I’m the only one from the village who survived the camps. But that should prove I’m telling the truth, shouldn’t it? I’m the only one who came home. Sooner or later, they’ll all know the truth, won’t they? She felt herself going somewhere else, like a dropped coin spiraling toward the bottom of a lake.

  She yanked open the door and hurried to the kitchen. Oma was at the sink, and Mutti was hunched over the table, kneading a mound of dough with floured hands. Mutti stopped working and looked at her, wiping her forehead with the back of her wrist.

  “Are you all right?” she said.

  “I think so.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh . . . Kate left because I . . .”

  “She didn’t stay long,” Oma said, turning toward Christine. Sunlight streamed in through the window behind her, backlighting the loose wisps of gray hair surrounding her head like a downy halo. All at once, Christine felt enveloped in stillness, as if the smell of wood-fired bread had seeped into her pores and slowed her galloping heart, the yeasty aroma so strong she could almost taste the spongy bread melting in her mouth. She wrapped her arms around her waist.

  “She’s mad at me.”

  “Why on earth would she be mad at you?” Mutti asked. She folded the dough over and over on top of itself, pushing it against the floured cutting board with strong, work-worn hands, the table below creaking in protest.

  “She thinks I’m making up stories about Dachau.” Christine slid into the corner nook, one elbow on the table, one hand behind her ear, rolling downy hair between her fingers.

  “Maybe it was too much all at once,” Oma said.

  “But I never imagined someone wouldn’t believe me,” Christine said. “Especially someone who used to be my best friend.” She put her hands
in her lap and hunched forward, trying to ward off the chill despite the fire-warm room. Before her thumb found the numbered skin on her wrist, she felt something soft between her fingers, like pieces of thread. She looked down and saw delicate strands of blond hair in her hand, then reached up and felt the sore, tender spot behind her ear.

  “Don’t worry,” Mutti said. “She’ll be back. She just needs time to let it sink in. People aren’t going to be ready to hear what happened. They’ve got their own tragedies and hardships.”

  A stab of guilt twisted in Christine’s chest. For the hundredth time, she wondered if news of Maria’s pregnancy would fracture or reinforce Mutti’s regained vigor. For an instant, she considered not saying anything more, but she couldn’t keep quiet. “Kate won’t be back,” she said. “She’s going to tell everyone I’m crazy.” Maybe I am crazy, she thought. I just pulled my own hair out of my head.

  “Why would she do that?” Mutti asked.

  “Because I told her I saw her fiancé working as a guard in Dachau.” Beneath the table, Christine let go of the hair, imagining the fine, wispy filaments floating toward the kitchen floor like plucked chicken feathers. She pressed her thumb into the number on her wrist.

  Mutti and Oma stared at her in silence. Christine looked back at them, a rigid thickness growing in her chest. She thought she’d scream before one of them said anything.

  “You might want to keep that to yourself,” Mutti said finally. “This family has had enough trouble. Kate will have to decide for herself about him.”

  Christine bit down on her tongue, and when she spoke she tasted blood. “I won’t sit back and do nothing.”

  Mutti frowned and turned toward the stove. She pulled browned loaves from the oven, using the edges of a dishcloth to protect her hands. Christine knew Mutti didn’t dare let the precious bread burn, but she wanted her to say something, anything to let her know she understood. Mutti set the loaves on the counter to cool, her face unreadable. Oma sat down beside Christine.

  “The truth has a way of coming out,” Oma said. “If Kate’s fiancé did anything wrong, then someday, he’ll pay for it. Maybe not soon enough to suit us, but God makes the final judgment on us all.”

  By evening, Christine realized the heaviness in her chest wasn’t just frustration and anger. The black pull detaining every heartbeat came from the reminder that she would never be with Isaac. Kate and Stefan were together again, while her own chance at true love had been destroyed. Isaac was gone. She wanted him alive, smelling lilacs and tasting bread with jam. She needed to show him the shimmering feathers of the rooster’s tail, the purple and white blossoms of the plum trees.

  Sometime after midnight, Christine woke up feeling as if someone were sitting on her chest. A picture formed in her mind of her and Isaac, a bouquet of white freesia in her hands, her mother’s old wedding dress flowing behind her in a soft fan of lace. In a black suit and tie, Isaac linked his arm through hers, his brown eyes and dark hair as clear as if he were standing right in front of her. Then he smiled at her.

  In bed, Christine turned on her side, her shoulders heavy and rigid, as if her body were turning to stone. Tears slid down her cheeks and fell on the white pillow, tiny dots that bloomed gray. In the dim light coming from the beech oil lantern, she ran a finger over the brown, crinkled number on her wrist. I’m still back there with you, she thought.

  CHAPTER 32

  The day after Kate’s visit, on her way home from taking lunch to her father, Christine took the regular shortcut through a cobblestone alley that ran between rows of gabled, five-storied houses. It was unusually hot for June and she walked slowly, grateful for the quiet coolness of the narrow, shaded corridor. Above her, fresh laundry hung damp and unmoving in the still air.

  Near the middle of the long passageway, the high giggles and excited exclamations of conversation floated down from an open window. She couldn’t make out every word, but could tell it was two young women, laughing about an “Ami” asking one of them to go to America. It made Christine think of Jake. Maybe she should try to find him. If she could figure out a way to tell him about Stefan, he could tell his superiors, and they could arrest him.

  Deep down, she envied the laughing girls, excited about going to America. She wished Maria could be one of them, instead of hating the Russian baby growing inside her. She wished it for herself too, because there were still days when she woke from nightmares filled with dirty barracks and dying prisoners, when she scrubbed the ink on her wrist until it was raw. On days like that, when Germany felt like a country filled with nothing but the remains of war-ruined people, bombed-out houses, lines of hungry, fatherless children, and empty houses once filled with Jewish families, she thought about finding Jake and begging him to take her away.

  And now, with the knowledge that evil men like Stefan still roamed free, it felt as though the events she was trying so hard to put behind her would never end.

  Leaving her family and going to America was out of the question, but now, as she walked, she let her mind wander, imagining herself as she boarded a ship. Would she already feel homesick? Or would the sense of adventure and excitement of a new journey overshadow any immediate regrets? Seeing America sounded wonderful, and it might be an opportunity to help her family by sending money, but she knew that missing them, and marrying someone she barely knew, was a sacrifice she wasn’t willing to make. When she pictured herself saying good-bye to her mother, a painful knot formed in her stomach. But it was the thought of spending her life with someone other than Isaac that burrowed its way into her chest and settled there, like a secret wound inside her heart.

  Just then, quick, hollow footsteps echoed in the corridor behind her. She turned to look, but it was too late. Someone grabbed her from behind, knocking her against the alley wall with a bone-jarring thud. A hand seized her wrist, twisting her arm against her back.

  “Remember me, Jew lover?” a man breathed in her ear. He shoved his body against hers. She thrashed beneath him, using every ounce of strength to push him off. It was no use. His full weight, nearly twice hers, pinned her to the wall like a moth beneath a rock. She could barely breathe.

  “What do you want?” she asked, panting.

  “I want you to keep your mouth shut,” the man growled. “That’s what I want.”

  It was Stefan.

  Christine twisted her shoulders and kicked at his shins with her heels. “Why should I?”

  He wrenched her arm higher. Pain shot through her wrist and elbow as muscle and bone were pulled in opposite directions. “Because I’m not the only one,” Stefan hissed. “There are more of us. And if you don’t keep your mouth shut, we’ll make sure you pay. I know where your father and your brothers work. Ruins can be dangerous. Anything could happen.”

  She grimaced, squeezing her eyes shut.

  “And stay away from Kate,” he said. “We know how to find you. You’re marked, remember?” He dug his thumbnail deep into the number on her wrist, pressing harder and harder until she was certain the skin would break. Then, grunting, he shoved his pelvis into her buttocks and grabbed her breast.

  “What a waste to have a fine German girl like you spoiled by a Jew,” he whispered. Then he gave her one final shove and let go. She felt him move away, the weight and heat of his body leaving her. She waited, forehead against the painted plaster, until she heard him running down the alley before daring to look up. She put a hand to the side of her face. There was no blood, but her cheek was scraped and sore. On her wrist, the red imprint of his nail divided the tattooed numbers in half.

  She looked up to see if anyone had witnessed what had happened. The windows of the surrounding houses were open, but there were no shocked faces peering down, no children looking on with curious eyes. The cobblestone alley was as silent as a cemetery.

  She checked behind her, to make sure Stefan wasn’t coming back, then started toward the slice of sunlight on the opposite end of the alley. After a few steps, her breath caught in her ches
t. She stopped and raked her hands down the sides of her head, tears of rage building up in her eyes. Then, refusing to let him win, she clenched her teeth and threw her fists down to her sides, taking long, even strides until she was out of the alley, into the bright, open street.

  On her way home, awareness swirled like a snarled knot of chaos in her mind, making every man suspect, every narrow alleyway a trap. Hanna’s brother had seen SS guards running into the woods at Dachau. Her own father had seen SS stealing uniforms from regular Wehrmacht soldiers. How was she supposed to know who was who?

  CHAPTER 33

  The next day, a Sunday, the sky had a smooth, shiny quality to it, as if a sheet of glass hung above, spreading from one end of the horizon to the other, like a vast, translucent glacier. Lilacs perfumed the air, and the occasional breeze carried the aroma of freshly turned soil.

  During the war, the pastor of Christine’s church had been arrested, the congregation had been afraid to assemble for fear of being labeled traitors, and the church itself had suffered a hit that weakened the front wall and destroyed the steeple. Mutti said that the bomb had missed destroying the entire building by mere inches, exploding in a colossal brown shower of earth and grass that created a deep crater in the lawn. After the initial blast, the front wall had collapsed, spraying primeval fieldstone and mortar into the street. But through it all, the ceiling and back three-quarters of the church had remained unharmed.

  From the market square, in honor of the first day in five years that service would be held in the partially restored church, the ancient carillon of St. Michael’s rang high in the cathedral’s towering sandstone steeple. For a full hour, the town’s only remaining church bells’ melody looped over and over, echoing through the sun-drenched streets with the soaring peals of celebration.

  Christine wanted the bells to stop ringing. How could anyone celebrate, when it felt like nothing had changed? Her cheek had turned purple and crimson while she slept. It felt hot and swollen, fluid jiggling beneath the skin when she moved her head too fast. Knowing her parents couldn’t do anything, and deciding not to worry them until she had a plan, she’d forced herself to laugh when she told everyone how she’d tripped and fallen in the middle of the street, her skirt up over her legs for everyone to see. Oma prescribed vinegar and honey, followed by plenty of sunshine, then checked Christine’s elbows and knees for further injuries that might require her medical expertise.