The Plum Tree

by Ellen Marie Wiseman

“That’s not it at all. I’m not saying anything. I just wanted to tell you. Vater said the Gestapo know everything.”

  “Did you hear the announcement on the radio?” he asked. “It’s the law now. Everyone has to use the official greeting ‘Heil Hitler.’ ”

  “I heard it,” she said. “Everyone raises their arms and does what they’re told.”

  “And you? Are you doing what you’re told?”

  She looked at him, trying to read his face. Would he be offended if she said yes? “At first, I felt ridiculous and refused. But now, after hearing Vater’s story . . .”

  “You’d better do it,” he said. “You don’t want to draw attention.”

  Within two months, they’d relocated their secret meetings closer to her house, to a wine and root cellar tunneled into the side of a hill. The tree- and shrub-covered mound ran behind a row of shops and cafés on the other side of the road that intersected the bottom of her street, in a rutted, woodsy area cut by a creek used to power the local grain mill. The cellar belonged to Herr Weiler, the butcher, but he shared the storage space with the other restaurants and cafés. A rusty padlock that Isaac opened without struggle, or evidence of their break-in, secured the recessed, moss-covered door. Inside the stone room, oak wine barrels and timber shelves lined with dusty bottles ran the length of one curved wall. The back of the long, narrow space was filled with crates full of turnips and potatoes.

  As tempting as it was to open the spigot of a wine barrel and have their fill, they touched nothing, simply grateful to have a hidden place, protected from the cold winds of the approaching winter, where they could talk and kiss without worrying about being seen. Christine brought a short candle that, when lit, let off a thin trail of gray smoke that drifted up toward the square airhole in the curved ceiling, where it disappeared into the night. Sometimes Isaac brought cheese and fruit, or slices of his mother’s famous Pflaumenkuchen. They tipped over an empty wine barrel, covered it with a red-and-white checkered tablecloth, and turned the root cellar into a romantic, isolated hideaway.

  While the world outside churned in chaos, they talked and laughed, swaying to the music he softly hummed, dry and hidden in the dirt-floored tunnel. They made plans for a time when the world would be sane again, praying it wouldn’t be too long. But as the weeks went by, they began to wonder if it would ever happen.

  “They said it was a spontaneous reaction to the murder of a German Embassy official by a Polish Jew,” Isaac told her in late November, during their discussion of the past few weeks. “But my father and I agree that it was planned and deliberate. It wasn’t civilians angry about what happened. It was the SS dressed in civilian clothing. They’re the ones who looted Jewish-owned businesses and beat Jews in the streets.”

  They were sitting on their coats, leaning against the potato crates, her legs folded beneath her skirt to avoid the chill radiating out of the dirt floor. He had his arm around her shoulders, his chin resting on top of her head.

  “The paper showed pictures of synagogues on fire in Berlin,” she said.

  “They’re calling it Kristallnacht, because of all the broken glass. Ninety-one Jews killed and twenty thousand thrown in jail.”

  She looked up at him in surprise. “For what? Fighting back?”

  “Who knows? The SS don’t need a reason.” He clenched his jaw and scraped the heel of his shoe along the dark, packed earth, as if he wanted to kick or punch someone. “If Hitler had his way, he’d run the Jews out of Europe. My parents had to pull Gabriella from school because now it’s illegal for Jewish children to attend non-Jewish schools. Jews will have nothing,” he said, his voice at once angry and sad. “I’ve had to stop attending Universität. My parents are using their savings just to keep food on the table. I feel like I’m being watched when I go to the grocery store. I can’t fight back. I can’t do anything. I’m not going to have a job, or money, or an education. I’m not going to have anything. I love you, Christine, but how will you ever make a life with me?”

  She put her hand on his cheek. “You’re forgetting something. I don’t have anything now. My parents are poor, but they’re together. And I’ve never been happier in my life. I haven’t changed my mind. The only thing I want is to be your wife.”

  At that, he smiled and pulled her close, kissing her and guiding her backwards until they lay on their coats side-by-side. She started to shiver, despite not being cold. He pulled the edges of his coat over her upper arms, hovering above her on his elbows. His chestnut eyes were soft, filled with love, and she was overcome by the warmth and depth of his affection. She wrapped her arms around him, and he kissed her, open-mouthed and breathing hard, his heart pounding against her breasts. Then she was pulling at his shirt, fumbling for the buttons, her own breath coming heavy and fast. His warm hand moved from her waist to the back of her thigh, squeezing and groping on the outside of her skirt. He kissed her neck, the pale, deep hollow above her collarbone, the warm, soft mound of her cleavage. And then, without warning, he stopped and shook his head.

  “We can’t do this,” he said, panting. “If you were to get pregnant. . .”

  Her stomach tightened, then she wilted, the suppression of desire making her entire body ache. “I know,” she breathed.

  He laid his head on her chest, and she could feel his body trembling. “If they found out you were carrying a Jewish child, they’d send us to prison. You, me, and our baby.”

  “I know. I know. I know. Just hold me.”

  She gritted her teeth, trying to calm her thundering heart. Isaac’s breathing slowed, and she felt his body loosen and relax. Then, all of a sudden, the weight of his head on her chest made her think of a baby lying there: Isaac’s child, his infant son or newborn daughter, nuzzling her breasts, looking for comfort and nourishment. Will it ever be? she wondered. Will we ever be allowed to be together, to live like everyone else, happily married, with a house and children, to enjoy the most basic human rights? Tears sprang to her eyes, and she wrapped her arms tighter around him, clutching his shirt in her hands, wishing she could spend the rest of her life in his embrace, suddenly afraid that somehow, somewhere, he was going to be taken away from her. How did it come to this? How did I find myself living in a world where a person can be thrown in jail for loving someone? Where an innocent baby, a new life created by two people willing to work and sacrifice to give that child whatever it needs, can be locked away or worse, just because one or both of its parents are Jewish? This is a nightmare, she thought. It must be. Any minute now I’m going to wake up and find out none of this is real.

  She pinched her hand, but nothing happened. She was still hiding in a root cellar, lying on a dirt floor, the love of her life in her arms, both of them considered criminals. She stared at the amber glow of the candle flickering across the curved ceiling, suddenly aware of the icy cold seeping up through the earth, through her coat and into her skin, seeking her muscle and bones, searching for her heart, a heart that suddenly felt hollow with sorrow and fear. What’s going to happen to us? she thought, tears soaking her hair.

  That winter was the worst in recent memory, with furious snowstorms every few weeks and howling winds that blew flurries sideways, creating towering drifts in the streets. It was days before the horse-pulled plows were able to clear the network of narrow avenues and winding boulevards, just in time for the next big storm to fill them up again.

  Christine’s mother pulled the shutters closed, lined them with old newspapers, and hung tablecloths and sheets over the inside of the front windows. But the dry, powdery snow still found its way inside, to form tiny drifts, like miniature sand dunes, on the wooden floor. As soon as the sun went down, Mutti stopped feeding coal to the stove and gave them each a blanket to wrap around their shoulders during dinner. Once the coal burned down to nothing but a pulsing mound of black and orange embers, they went to bed wearing hats, mittens, and extra layers of clothes.

  As 1938 turned into 1939, Christine found herself cursing the weather. There w
ere times when the snow was so high that she and Isaac could only stand outside the root cellar, shivering and hugging until he told her to go home. To add to her misery, he decided they should only meet once a month, because even though they did their best to stir up the snow and wipe out the evidence, they were leaving tracks and footprints on private property. It wouldn’t be long before someone got suspicious.

  Even when the snow started to melt, Isaac insisted they keep to the once a month schedule, because the secret police were making regular sweeps of the village now, going door-to-door to see that everyone had the proper papers. When people were this afraid, seeing someone on the street at night might cause panic. And what if someone recognized them?

  Two days before the official start of spring, the radio announced that Hitler had sent troops into Bohemia and Moravia, and the Führer had personally arrived in Prague eight hours later. By the time the tulips and crocuses were up, detained Communists, Socialists, labor leaders, and enemies of the state were being sent to a new work camp in southern Germany called Dachau. In May, there was an announcement that any child below the age of three who was suspected of suffering from a serious hereditary disease was required to be registered with the state.

  Christine moved through the weeks in a trance, counting the long hours until she could see Isaac again. During the day, she walked to the mill and the store with her head down, certain that people would read the secret in her eyes. Once, a military truck drove through the open-air farmer’s market, and it was all she could do to keep her hands from shaking as she counted out coins for a tin of cheese.

  According to Christine’s mother, Kate was officially dating Stefan. To everyone’s surprise, Kate’s mother was thrilled, and she’d asked Mutti to tell Christine that her daughter was too busy to get together. In truth, Christine was relieved. She wouldn’t have been able to listen to Kate’s swooning, giggle-filled stories without bursting into tears. When Christine saw Kate and Stefan walking in the streets hand in hand, she spun around and went the other way, or ducked into the nearest alley and ran out the other side.

  Through it all, Christine was grateful to have Maria, a sister who would always be there for her, no matter what. While they worked side by side, preparing the garden for planting, beating the feather beds in the backyard, hanging sausage to dry on broomsticks balanced across open shutters, it was comforting to know someone understood why her eyes sometimes filled for no reason. Christine purposely avoided talking about Isaac because she was afraid she’d accidentally reveal their secret, and, thankfully, Maria never pushed the subject.

  Still, Maria knew her sister’s heart. On more than one occasion, she squeezed Christine’s hand under the dinner table, seeing that she was close to tears while the rest of the family talked and laughed. For now, it was enough to know that someone understood she loved and missed Isaac with every fiber of her being. To relieve her guilt for not telling Maria the truth, Christine told herself that someday she’d tell her everything, hopefully someday soon.

  During the first week of hot weather, the Führer boasted of his demand for Danzig to be returned to Germany, despite the fact that France and Britain were ready to defend Poland. At the same time, Poland and Russia amassed troops on German borders, and Christine overheard people whispering at the butcher shop and in the bakery that war was not far off. Everyone she knew hoped there was still a chance for peace, despite the distressing news. As the crisis escalated, rumors circulated about the rationing of food and supplies. Christine tried not to think about the stories Opa had told her about women and children starving during the last war.

  On September first, Hitler made the announcement that Poland had fired on German territory, and, in self-defense, German troops had returned fire. Bombs would be met with bombs. On the same day, an eight o’clock curfew was put into effect for all German Jews.

  Christine felt like a noose was tightening around her neck.

  For the next few nights, she tossed and turned until dawn, worrying that Isaac might put an end to their meetings because of the new curfew, and trying not to think about war. But she couldn’t stop the images of flying bullets and bombs dropping on her village, at the same time trying to convince herself that it couldn’t possibly happen in such a small, unimportant place. Worst of all, she wouldn’t know if the curfew had changed Isaac’s mind for another three weeks and four days, because their last meeting had been only two days earlier, the night before France and Britain declared war.

  During the three long weeks before she saw Isaac, the radio announced that the Royal Air Force had bombed the German cities of Cuxhaven and Wilhelmshaven, and that German troops were making their way into Warsaw. The first casualties of war appeared in the paper, a list of those who had died for their fatherland, along with a new decree that threatened the death penalty for anyone endangering the defensive power of the German people.

  When she finally met Isaac in the wine cellar, Christine tried to remember all the news, because the SS had taken the Bauermans’ radio. According to the daily list of new rules and restrictions for Jews in the newspaper—no shaving soap was to be sold to a Jew, no tobacco, no fish, no tortes, no flowers—it was now illegal for them to own a radio.

  “There were eight of them, and they went through everything,” Isaac told her. “They pushed my father around and swatted me on the ears, then stole what they wanted, candles, soap, meat, butter, bread, books, suitcases, my mother’s jewelry and furs, my sister’s dolls. The next day they came with a truck and took our paintings, our good furniture, our china, our silver. Even our menorah. They made us carry it all out and load it up, then my father had to sign a paper saying he had voluntarily handed everything over to the German Red Cross.”

  “How can they do that?” she said. “How can they just steal people’s possessions in broad daylight?”

  “Who’s going to stop them?”

  Christine shrugged and shook her head, tears welling up in her eyes. “I don’t know.”

  “They told us we should just turn on the gas, or go hang ourselves.”

  “Ach Gott.” She took his hand. “I’m so sorry. Do you have anything left?”

  “My father hid some money beneath the floorboards behind the toilet in the upstairs bathroom. They didn’t find it.”

  “Is there anything you need? Something I can get for you and your family?”

  “A one-way ticket out of the country?”

  Christine stiffened. She knew Isaac and his family would be safer someplace else, but she needed him here. She needed to see his face, to hear his voice, to feel his strong arms around her. The minute the thought crossed her mind, she hated herself for being so selfish. “Have you heard from any of your relatives?” she asked.

  “My father’s sister sent a letter from Lodz three weeks ago, but we didn’t receive it until yesterday. She said at first, Polish Jews were ordered to wear armbands with the Star of David, but then they were forced into ghettos. Men who tried to resist were shot, and her husband was one of them. She and her three children were sharing a bedroom with eight others. She wanted to know if there was anything we could do to get them out of there. She said it would be her last letter, because they were no longer allowed to receive or send mail. My father sat down and cried, and my mother wouldn’t even look at him. She still thinks things are going back to normal. She thinks Hitler will be too busy with his war to bother with us, and we’ll be all right as long as we do what we’re told.”

  “And what do you think?”

  He lowered his eyes. “I think we have to stop this.”

  His words fell over her like an icy veil. “Stop what?”

  “We have to stop meeting. If we get caught, it’ll be over. For both of us. With the curfew, it’s just too dangerous. Someone might follow me. We can’t do this. I won’t come anymore.”

  Christine covered her face with her hands. She had known this day would come. Still, she felt nauseous when he said it out loud, like she’d been punched in
the stomach. His voice sounded cold and harsh, but when she looked up, his eyes were glistening.

  “We’ll be together again soon,” he said, taking her in his arms. “And nothing will keep us apart. I’ll get in touch with you somehow. When it’s safe. I promise.”

  She drew away and went to the overturned wine barrel, where she pulled off the red-and-white tablecloth and spread it out over the dirt-packed floor. Then, she stepped into the center of it, tears filling her eyes, and unbuttoned the blouse of her dress. He stood watching her, his lips pressed together, his head tilted to one side. She slid the top of her dress from her shoulders, pulled her arms from the sleeves, and let it fall to her waist. When she started to undo the thin belt of her gathered skirt, a low, tortured groan escaped Isaac’s lips. He rushed forward and buried his face in her neck, his strong arms crushing her arms to her sides.

  “We can’t,” he mumbled, his breath warm against her skin. “As much as I want to, we can’t.”

  “If I can’t see you,” she whispered in his ear, “I want this moment. I need something to remember you by, something to get me through this.”

  He pulled the blouse of her dress over her shoulders and backed away. “I won’t,” he said. “I won’t put you in jeopardy. Someday we’ll be together, but not now. Not here. Not like this.”

  Christine wrapped her arms around herself and sank to the ground, head hanging and shoulders convulsing. He went to her and pulled her to her feet, then held her and rocked her back and forth, as if she were a child. After a few minutes, he helped her put her arms back in her sleeves, buttoned the front of her dress, and wiped her wet cheeks with his thumbs. Then he picked up the tablecloth, turned it over on the ground, and got down on his knees.

  “What are you doing?” she said, wiping her eyes.

  He pulled a box of matches out of his pocket and lit one, waiting until it almost burned his fingers before blowing out the flame. Then, in the right-hand corner of the tablecloth, he used the burnt stick to write an oversized C, going over it again and again until the charred, black wood of the match was used up. She knelt beside him, her hand resting on his broad back, feeling his muscles tense and relax as he worked. He lit another match and added “& I,” then used six more to finish “C & I.” Beneath that: “1939.”