The Plum Tree

by Ellen Marie Wiseman

  “It’s only because our families are close. My mother grew up with Luisa’s mother.”

  “Your parents are hoping . . .”

  “My mother knows how I feel. And so does Luisa.”

  “And your father?”

  “My father can’t say anything. His parents protested his engagement to my mother because she wasn’t a practicing Jew. But he ignored them and got married anyway. He’s not going to tell me what to do.”

  “And what are you doing?” she said, shoving her hands deep in the pockets of her coat.

  “I’m enjoying a hike on a beautiful day with a beautiful girl,” he said. “Is there something wrong with that?”

  His words sent a thrill coursing through her. She turned away and strolled downhill, past the last row of twisted apple trees to a wooden bench, its thick supports buried in the sloped earth. She gathered her coat around her legs and sat down, hoping he wouldn’t notice the trembling of her hands and knees. Isaac sat next to her, elbows propped on the short backrest, legs outstretched.

  From here, they could see where the train tracks left the station, then bent along a wide, slow curve before running parallel to the hills. Beyond the tracks, neatly plowed fields rolled out in brown furrows toward the village, huddled on one end of the vast, green-and-brown patchwork valley. Wood smoke curled from chimneys toward hills patterned with trees, their leaves turning to autumn’s red, yellow, and gold. The silver ribbon of the Kocher River meandered through the center of town, its winding curves banked by high stone walls, its length cut into sections by covered bridges. They could see the spherical stone steeple of the Gothic church of St. Michael’s, soaring high above the market square. To the east, the pointed, brownstone steeple of the Lutheran church, across the street from Christine’s house, rose tall and noble above a congregation of clay-tiled rooftops. Each steeple sheltered a trio of massive iron bells that rang each daylight hour and echoed through the Sunday morning streets with the majestic peals of an ancient call to worship. Beneath the sea of orange clay rooftops turned the life of the village.

  Within a crooked maze of cobblestoned streets and stepped alleys, between centuries-old fountains and ivy-covered statues, children laughed and ran, kicking balls and jumping rope. The village bakery filled the cool fall air with the aromas of freshly baked pretzels, rolls, and Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte, Black Forest cherry tarts. Chimney sweeps walked from house to house in top hats and soot-covered clothes, their oversized black brooms carried over their shoulders like bottlebrushes for giants. Inside the Metzgerei, or butcher shop, apron-clad women counted out their coins, inspecting and selecting fresh Wurst and Braten for the midday meal and sharing news and greetings in front of the impeccably clean white counter. Beneath a gathering of striped umbrellas in the spacious market square, farmers’ wives arranged crates of apples and purple turnips in preparation for the open-air market. They organized buckets of pink and violet zinnias beside sunflowers, and stacked wooden cages of clucking brown hens and white ducks beside mounds of pumpkins. At the Krone, on the corner, old men sat in worn, wooden booths and sipped warm, dark beer, elaborating on the stories of their lives. It had always seemed to Christine that there was an urgency to their reminiscing, as if they were afraid of forgetting the important details, or afraid of being forgotten themselves. Behind tall, sandstone houses, compact, fenced-in yards housed flocks of chickens, tidy vegetable gardens, and two or three pear or plum trees. In medieval barns, hard-working farmers piled hay and fed beet scraps and withered potatoes to wallowing pigs. The second-story windows of each Bavarian half-timbered house were pushed wide open, spilling out feather beds to freshen in the sun.

  Christine couldn’t explain why, but this scene filled her with a mixture of resentment and love. She’d never dream of telling anyone, but there were times when she found it boring and predictable. Just as they were certain of night turning to day, everyone knew that at the end of the month, the whole village would gather in the town square to celebrate the Fall Wine Festival. And every spring, on the first of May, the Maypole would signal the start of the Bakery Festival. In the summer, the front of the town hall and the marketplace fountain would be overgrown with grapevines and ivy, and the young girls and boys would put on their red-and-white outfits to celebrate the Salz-Sieder Festival.

  At the same time, Christine was aware of the simple beauty of her homeland—the hills, the vineyards, the castles—and understood that there would never be another place where she felt so loved and secure. This centuries-old Schwäbisch village, known for Hohenlohe wines and salt springs, symbolized home and family, and would always be part of who she was. Here, she knew where her place was. Like her younger sister, Maria, and two little brothers, Heinrich and Karl, she knew where she belonged in the order of things.

  Until today.

  Isaac’s sudden appearance on her doorstep felt like a previously hidden clue on a treasure map, or a newly discovered fork in a familiar road. Something was about to change. She could feel it in the cool fall breeze.

  Restless, she jumped to her feet and plucked two gleaming apples from the branches of the nearest tree. Isaac stood, and she tossed one in his direction. He snatched it from the air and dropped it into his pocket. Then he started toward her, and she ran, from one row of trees to the next, her long coat gathered up in her hands.

  Isaac shouted and caught up to her, then grabbed her around the waist and spun her off the ground, twirling her around and around, as if she weighed no more than a child. The startled sheep scattered in all directions, then gathered, panting and staring, beneath an oak on the edge of the orchard. Finally, Isaac stopped spinning. Christine laughed and struggled to get away, but he wouldn’t let go. Then she gave in, and he let her down, holding her close until her feet touched the ground. She looked into his eyes, her chest flushing with heat, her knees trembling. He wrapped her arms behind her back and drew her closer. Inhaling the intoxicating fragrance that was uniquely his—fresh-cut wood, spice soap, and clean pine—she swallowed, feeling his warm breath on her lips.

  “I don’t want to be with Luisa,” he said. “She’s nothing more than another little sister to me. Besides, she loves herring too much. She’s starting to smell like a fish.” He smiled down at Christine, and she lowered her eyes.

  “But we’re from two different worlds,” she said in a quiet voice. “My mother says . . .”

  He lifted her chin, put his fingers over her lips, and said, “It doesn’t matter.”

  But Christine knew it mattered. Maybe not to her, and maybe not to him, but somewhere along the way, it would matter. According to her mother, she was wasting her time looking for affection from someone like him. He was the son of a wealthy lawyer, and she was the daughter of a poor mason. His mother grew roses and raised money for charity, while her mother scrubbed his family’s floors and washed their clothes. He had attended school for twelve years and was now in Universität, studying to be a doctor or a lawyer; he hadn’t decided which. She’d loved school and had received good grades, as long as she and her fellow students weren’t being pulled out of class to gather a late harvest or pluck potato bugs from the farmers’ fields.

  Looking back, she found it ironic how hard she’d studied. Her foolish hope had been to be a teacher or a nurse. It wasn’t until she was eleven, when she found out that it cost money to go to school for more than eight years, that she gave up on her dreams of being anything more than a good mother and a hard-working wife. Her parents, like the majority of the people in her village, didn’t have the extra ten marks per month for middle school, or twenty per month, plus the cost of books, for high school. Bloom where you’re planted, Oma always said. But Christine’s roots were restless, wondering what it would be like in more fertile soil.

  Isaac talked to her of classical music, culture, and politics as she stood at the ironing board starching his father’s shirts. He talked to her while she worked in the garden, telling her he’d been to Berlin, to see operas and theater. H
e described the world—Africa, China, America—as if he’d seen it himself, using colorful descriptions of landscapes and people. He was fluent in English and had taught her a few words, and had read every book in the family library, some of them twice.

  And then, there was the fact that the Bauermans were Jewish.

  Isaac’s father, Abraham, was fully Jewish. Nina was half-Jewish, half-Lutheran. It didn’t matter that the Bauermans were nonpracticing. Most of the people in the village saw them as Jewish. And anyone who was a member of the Nazi Party—although it was sometimes hard to tell who was and who wasn’t—considered them Jews. Isaac had explained that, while his father would have liked his children to embrace his religion, his mother wasn’t the type of woman who had the time or inclination to follow anyone else’s rules. She didn’t feel any more Jewish than she did Lutheran, so she wasn’t about to force Isaac and his sister into making choices before they were old enough to make up their own minds. But in the Nazis’ eyes, they were all Jews, and Christine knew that some of the people in her village would look down on the fact that he was a Jew and she was a Christian.

  “Why are you looking so sad?” he said.

  “I’m not,” she said, trying to smile. Then he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her, and she couldn’t remember how to breathe.

  After a few blissful moments, he drew away, breathing hard. “I told you,” he said. “Luisa knows how I feel. We laugh about our parents trying so hard to make us a couple. She knows how I feel about you, and she wants me to be happy. And I have a confession to make. The real reason I came to see you today is because my father has given me permission to bring a date to our holiday celebration. And I’ll feel a fool if you don’t say yes.”

  Christine stared at him, wide-eyed, her heart leaping in her chest, making her think of the startled sheep bounding across the grass.

  The Bauermans’ December celebration was an important occasion, the one social gathering where all village officials, dignitaries, and lawyers, along with other influential people from nearby cities, always made an appearance. Christine didn’t personally know anyone who had attended the party as a guest, because the people she knew were factory workers, farmers, butchers, and masons.

  But last year, Mutti had allowed her to help in the kitchen with the caterers, arranging expensive cheese and teaspoons of black caviar on crudités and scalloped crackers. Delivering the food to the servers at the end of the hall, she’d been mesmerized by what she’d seen and heard, the colorful scene reminding her of picture pages from a fairy tale. The sound of violins filled the air, and sparkling champagne overflowed in crystal glasses. Men in their finest tuxedos and women in long, shimmering gowns seemed to float as they waltzed across marble floors, like flowers that had pulled up their roots from the cold winter garden and glided into the light and warmth of the grand house. A million tiny lights twinkled on every banister and molding, and a shining menorah lit every decorated room. A huge evergreen tree, covered in silver and gold, towered to the ceiling in the foyer. Mutti kept reminding Christine she was there to work, not to stand there, eyes wide and mouth open, bewitched like a silly schoolgirl.

  Now Isaac was asking her to be his date at the biggest celebration in the village, not to arrange sandwiches and drinks on a silver tray, but to attend as one of those women wearing an elegant, flowing gown. His question hung in the air between them, and she had no idea what to say. As if to punctuate her hesitation, the rhythmic chop of a wood ax echoed from the valley below. Finally, the shrill whistle of a train declaring its arrival at the village station broke her trance.

  “Aren’t you going to say anything?” he asked.

  “We used to watch from across the street,” she said, smiling.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We used to watch you. Me and my sister, Maria, and my best friend, Kate. We used to watch the rich people stepping out of their automobiles in their fancy clothes to come to your parents’ party. We saw you and your little sister greeting people at the door.”

  “Ugh,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I hated that. All the ladies wanted a hug. And all the men patted me on the head like a dog. Even now, I’m taller than most of them, but they still insist on whacking me on the shoulder, saying things like . . . good boy, good boy, or your father’s a good man, a good man.”

  “But you were so handsome in your black tuxedo. Kate and Maria thought so too. And little Gabriella is the spitting image of your mother, with her auburn hair and dark brown eyes.”

  “Well, I don’t have to do that this year. Besides, Gabriella loves the job. She’ll be happy to have it to herself. She loves the attention.” Then, to Christine’s surprise, his face went dark. “But I’m afraid there won’t be as many people as usual.”

  “Why not?” she asked, suddenly afraid it had something to do with the reason he’d invited her.

  “A lot of my parents’ Jewish friends have left the country,” he said. “Their invitations came back marked: ‘Return to sender. Adresse Unbekannt.’ ”

  The sudden change in his mood surprised her, and she tried to change the subject. She didn’t want this glorious moment to be ruined. “I don’t see how I can say yes,” she said. “I don’t have a nice enough dress.”

  “We’ll find a dress,” he said, reaching for her. “My mother has a closet full of them. And if you can’t find one you like, I’ll take you shopping. Either way, you’ll be the most beautiful girl at the party.” Then he kissed her again, and the rest of the world, along with its cares and worries, disappeared.

  A half hour later, they walked hand-in-hand out of the hills. In the fields, local farmers spread manure from horse-drawn wagons and tilled the remnants of summer wheat into the ground, using giant gray oxen to pull their plows.

  To the east, a train was approaching, having passed through the village, its black length growing short and squat as it rounded the wide curve. Christine and Isaac stood near the crossing, his arms around her waist, to watch it pass. The locomotive picked up speed as it turned into the straightaway, then thundered past, hot currents of air pulling on their clothes and hair. Great swells of gray smoke billowed out from the hot stack, and the smell of burning coal filled the air. The giant cast-iron wheels clacked along the tracks, insistent and loud, consuming all other noise in the train’s frantic, mighty rush toward its next destination. Christine laughed and waved to the passengers behind the glass windows, trying to imagine what distant and exciting places they were headed to. After the last car passed, she and Isaac ran all the way back to the village.

  CHAPTER 2

  Christine rubbed her thumb over the smooth surface of the stone inside her coat pocket as she walked, trying to remember every word Isaac had said. She wanted to memorize the strength of his arms around her waist, and the warmth of his kiss, so she could tell Kate every detail. If she hadn’t been in such a hurry to get to her best friend’s house, she would have stopped on the edge of the cobblestone street to take the stone out and look at it more closely. Instead, she smiled, pleased that he trusted her with something that meant so much to him. He’d kissed her again before they’d parted ways at the end of Haller Bridge, making her promise to find him when she came to work that afternoon, because he wanted to be with her when she told her mother that she wouldn’t be able to work at the holiday party this year.

  “I’ll be in the garden,” he’d said. “Trimming the blackberry bush and repairing the limestone fence.”

  “But how am I supposed to get out there? I have to pass through the house, and my mother will be waiting. . . .”

  She could picture Mutti now—her spotless white apron, her red hair in a French twist—working at the massive oak island in the Bauermans’ tiled kitchen, the wood-fired stove behind her, turbulent and hissing with sputtering copper pots and steaming kettles. She imagined her mother’s face when she looked up from kneading dough to see Isaac standing beside Christine, possibly holding her hand. Mutti would either smile and ask what was
going on, or turn, her face blank, pretending to tend to a pot on the woodstove. If she turned away, it would be her way of showing disapproval, and Christine wasn’t ready for anyone to ruin her day. Maybe they should wait. After all, the party was months away.

  “There’s an old access door in the stone wall on the west side, along Brimbach Strasse,” he’d said. “I’ll unlock it from the inside.”

  “But what if someone sees me and wonders what I’m doing?”

  “Just open the door and slip inside,” he’d said. “No one will notice.” Then he reached in his pocket and folded something cool and hard into the palm of her hand. “Here,” he said. “I want you to bring this to me this afternoon. It’s a lucky stone my father gave me when I was eight. I was a big collector when I was little, dead insects, snail shells, pebbles, acorns, that kind of thing. But this is special. My father said it’s from the Triassic period. See, it’s got a snail fossil on one side. Maybe it’s foolish, but I keep it in my pocket all the time, because that’s when I first realized that there’s a whole world out there, waiting for me to learn about and explore it.”

  She turned the stone over in her hand, smooth as silk on one side and indented with an intricate spherical pattern on the other, and said, “I don’t think it’s foolish.”

  “Well, you’d better bring it back to me, first thing, or my luck might run out. You wouldn’t want to be responsible for me cutting my hand with the hacksaw or dropping a rock on my foot, would you?” Then he started across the bridge, sprinting in the other direction. “I’ll be waiting for it,” he called over his shoulder.

  Now, she walked faster, bursting at the seams to share her news with Kate before going home to change. She and her best friend, Katya Hirsch, were only two weeks apart in age. Their mothers had been friends before they were born, and as newborns, they’d slept together in prams, bouncing along cobblestone streets on the way to market. As toddlers, they’d played together on a blanket in the sunny yard while their mothers picked plums. And as adolescents, they jumped rope for hours on end, dared each other to wade beneath Hangman’s Bridge, cut each other’s hair, and scared themselves silly with tales of the “Black Monk of Orlach,” who haunted the woods, or the “Water Girls,” who tricked people into falling into the river. Christine couldn’t wait to tell Kate that she was in love.