“Maria can stay and help you. But the boys will want to come with me.”
“Nein!” Christine said, her voice too loud. Her mother turned from the sink to look at her, her eyebrows raised. “I mean . . . Maria will want to go too. You know how close she was to Opa. She might be upset if you don’t include her. You know I don’t mind working alone.”
Mutti sighed. “As you wish. Macht nichts to me.”
Karl and Maria came into the kitchen for breakfast, yawning and rubbing their eyes. Oma and Heinrich wandered in a few minutes later. For the next half hour, the kitchen was a flurry of activity, with everyone talking and eating and reaching across the table for bread and eggs and goat’s milk. Christine did her best to act normal, helping Karl peel his soft-boiled egg, passing the salt with a steady hand, joining the conversations about the weather and the latest war news.
“Did you see what happened with the prisoners yesterday morning?” Maria asked her.
Christine nearly choked on her tea. “Nein,” she said, coughing.
“But I saw you leave right about that time,” Maria said, frowning.
“Nein, I went out to the backyard in the morning.”
“You went out the front door,” Maria insisted. “And you headed toward the street.”
Christine cleared her throat. She’d been certain everyone had been too busy to notice her slipping away. “Oh, I was going to see if I could get flour, but then I remembered we’d already used our ration coupon for this month.”
“What happened with the prisoners?” Heinrich asked.
“That is not breakfast conversation,” Mutti said. She spread jam on her bread, eyeing Maria at the same time.
“I’m not sure,” Maria said. “But I saw women scrubbing blood off the street.”
“That’s enough,” Mutti scolded.
“I heard some of them were shot,” Heinrich said. “But some got away too.”
“Then let’s say a prayer for those poor, unfortunate souls and put an end to this conversation,” Mutti said.
“Ja,” Christine said, her knees shaking beneath the table. “Let’s say a prayer.”
After breakfast, the others left for the long walk to the cemetery. Christine watched until they’d disappeared around the corner, Mutti and Maria carrying buckets of black-eyed Susan transplants, Oma’s long skirt swaying back and forth as she shuffled along. Karl and Heinrich ran ahead, kicking a rock back and forth, happy to be loose in the streets. The minute they were out of sight, Christine ran up to the attic.
“How was your breakfast?” she asked Isaac, putting the empty tea tin in the basket.
“The most delicious meal I’ve ever had, danke.”
“Everyone left. Do you want to go downstairs for a bath? I’ve got the fire going for hot water, the tub is set up in the kitchen, and I’ll get some of my father’s clothes.”
“That would be wonderful. Are you sure?”
“You’ll have to be quick.”
They hurried downstairs, Christine peering over the banisters and down the hallways before motioning for him to follow. In the kitchen, she drew the curtains and put a fresh towel over a chair. Isaac helped her lift the steaming kettles from the stove to fill the tub with boiling water.
“Lock the door,” she said, handing him the key as she backed out into the hall. “Just in case.”
Leaving him alone to bathe, she went to her parents’ bedroom to search through her father’s old clothes, looking out the window a hundred times. She didn’t expect her family back for at least an hour and a half, but she couldn’t stop checking, just in case. It made her think of Herr Eggers, leaning out his window on the day she’d first seen the Nazi poster on the weathered barn. She’d been so worried that he might turn her in if she destroyed Nazi property that she’d stopped herself from ripping the poster down. Now, that, along with the fact that today she was breaking the law by burning extra firewood, seemed like child’s play compared to hiding an escaped Jewish prisoner. She could almost laugh about the irony of it all if she weren’t vibrating with anxiety. She laid out her father’s shirts and trousers, picked out what she was looking for, then put the rest back exactly as they had been. When she came back downstairs, she stood outside the kitchen door.
“Did you find the razor?”
“Ja,” Isaac said. “I’m nearly finished.”
She heard splashing and imagined his thin body in the steaming tub, how it must feel to be able to use soap and hot water after so long, the dirt and grime washed from his skin, the sores on his feet scrubbed clean. She longed to go in and wash his back and the stubbled hair on his head, to shave the dirty whiskers from his chin. Her heart started to pound as she remembered the heat of their passion in the wine cellar, the hard muscles in his arms and chest, the hunger of open-mouthed kisses.
“I’ve got clothes,” she said.
“Ja, I’m coming.” The door opened a crack, and a damp hand reached out.
After a few minutes, he let her in. He stood next to the sink, folding up the sleeves of Vater’s blue button-down shirt, an old pair of work pants hanging from his bony frame. His face was red and shiny, the dirt and stubble gone. Even with his cheekbones and jaw more pronounced, he was still handsome. She wanted to go back upstairs with him, lie down in the attic hiding place, and let him make love to her, so she could forget about everything. Then she noticed something on his arm.
“What’s that?”
He turned his wrist to look at the mark on the inside of his forearm, then dismissed it and started to empty the tub. “It’s a number.”
“Let me see.”
He turned his arm. “They numbered the workers at the camp.” Christine ran a finger over the digits: 1071504.
“Why didn’t it come off in the bath?”
“It’s inked into the skin. It’s permanent.”
She looked up at him, eyes filling.
“It means nichts,” he said. “It’s not important. It changes nothing about me.”
She took his hand and wrapped his arm around her waist, feeling heat radiate from his skin, the tight, hard muscles of his stomach pressed against hers. He pulled her closer and touched her face, tracing her hair, her cheekbones, her lips. Then he kissed her, and she kissed him back, pressing her body against his so hard she could barely breathe. A groan came from deep inside his chest. He put a hand on her breast, fingers probing through her blouse. She gasped and started to tremble, the years of fear and separation dissolving into passion and longing. Tears sprang behind her closed lids, and an odd reawakening, like the return of her soul, filled her parched, empty body. Finally he drew his mouth away and looked at her, his eyes wet.
“I’ve missed you so much,” he said.
“I’ve missed you too.”
“I love you. I always have and always will.” Then he kissed her again, his mouth open and wet, his hand kneading her breast so hard it was almost painful. She put her hands on the back of his neck and pushed her mouth into his, a sudden warmth stirring deep in her pelvis. Finally, she forced herself to pull away.
“We can’t,” she said, shaking her head. “We have to get you upstairs before everyone comes back.”
“You’re right,” he said, chest heaving. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t say you’re sorry. Just promise you’ll never leave me again.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“I know.” She put her head on his chest. “But just promise me, no matter what happens, we won’t let anything keep us apart again.”
“I’d better get back upstairs.”
“Promise me,” she said, looking up at him.
“Don’t ask me to do that. You know I can’t. Nothing is up to us anymore.”
After getting Isaac back to the attic, Christine returned to the kitchen and tidied up, mopping the drips and puddles of bathwater from the tile floor. She burned Isaac’s uniform in the woodstove, trying not to singe her hands as she wadded the filthy, striped material into
the fire, a greasy, black stench stinging her nostrils, making her think of death. She gagged and held a hand over her mouth, opening the windows, hoping the neighbors wouldn’t notice the smell. After drying the kettles and tub, she made certain that every scrap of the wretched uniform had been destroyed, then went outside to plant peas and radishes.
After the last of the seeds had been spaced, covered with dirt, and tamped down, first with the hoe and then by Christine taking baby step after baby step over each row, she stuck a stick in the dirt at the end of each line and went to get the watering can. The tin sprinkling can was hidden by the woodshed, behind a stack of firewood next to a rain barrel beneath a gutter that ran from the roof. Christine ladled brackish water from the rain barrel into the watering can, then returned to the garden to soak each row of packed soil.
On her third trip back to the garden with the sprinkling can, just as she was about to open the gate, she heard something and froze. Unfamiliar male voices drifted up the street, and they were getting closer. When she saw the peaked caps and black uniforms of the SS appear at the crest of the hill, she wheeled around and hurried back to the woodshed, where she set down the watering can and picked up some logs, ignoring the scrape of bark on her bare arms. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the blue-eyed Hauptscharführer and the fleshy Gruppenführer she’d run into on her way home from Isaac’s. They were striding up the street, their eyes raised toward windows and rooflines. After four or five steps, they stopped and pointed with black-gloved fingers. Each time they came to a halt, the Gruppenführer wrote something down in a notebook. Then they continued.
Christine hurried toward the front door of her house, two logs slipping from the woodpile in her arms. She ignored the fallen wood and kept going, gripping the remaining kindling to her chest until she was safely inside. On the other side of the door, she leaned against the wall and waited, her heart racing in her chest. Then, she went upstairs, dropped the firewood next to the woodstove, and peered through the living room curtains. To her relief, the street was empty.
CHAPTER 19
For the next two days, as soon as everyone else was preoccupied with their daily activities on the first and second floors, or even better, if they had gone outside to the garden, Christine hurried upstairs to deliver things to Isaac: a slice of bread, a boiled potato, the first yellow strawflower of summer’s end. She’d gone to see him a few times at night, but thought it best to sneak up to the attic only while no one was on the third floor. Throughout the day, she waited for opportunities to escape unnoticed. Washing dishes or sweeping the hallways, she kept one eye on her family, certain that they could sense her impatience. She forced herself to act and move normally, while her breathing felt rapid and shallow, her nerves jittery, like a small bird tiptoeing past a hungry, sleeping cat.
On the third day, she stepped out of the kitchen after breakfast, a hard-boiled egg hidden in her apron pocket, and started up the hall to see him. Three insistent knocks on the front door made her stop. She bent over the railing, peering down the stairs toward the first floor.
“Open up, Frau Bölz!” a man’s muffled voice demanded.
Christine went rigid, fingernails digging into the wood railing. The man knocked again, louder and firmer with every blow. Time slowed to a crawl as the echo of each thud boomed in the quiet hallway. Mutti came out of the kitchen, wiping her wet hands on a dishcloth. Christine pried her fingers from the railing and walked toward the living room, hiding her face from her mother.
“Did I hear someone at the door?” Mutti asked.
“I . . . I didn’t hear anything,” Christine said, trying to hide the tremor in her voice.
The pattern of three steady knocks, followed by increasingly louder demands to open up, continued as Mutti untied her apron and hurried down the stairs. Christine went back to the railing and leaned over to watch her mother open the door. Out on the stoop, the fleshy-lipped Gruppenführer and two armed soldiers positioned themselves in the entrance like a blockade, as if expecting someone to flee at any moment. Christine clamped a hand over her mouth and took a step back, her armpits and forehead instantly drenched in cold sweat.
“May I help you?” her mother said in the steady voice of a person certain she has nothing to hide.
“We’re missing a prisoner from the work camp,” the Gruppenführer bellowed. “We’re searching all houses and barns in the village.”
Acid rose to the back of Christine’s throat. She edged over to the railing to watch.
“I can assure you, Herr Gruppenführer,” Mutti said. “We haven’t seen any prisoners.”
“Nevertheless,” the Gruppenführer said. “We’re here to search your house.”
“But we would have called you right away, Herr Gruppenführer,” Mutti said.
“I will warn you one time and one time only, Frau Bölz,” the Gruppenführer said. “You are not to interfere with matters of the state. One refusal to let me enter your house will result in your arrest, and you will be sent to prison. Is that clear?”
“Ja, Herr Gruppenführer.” Mutti stepped to one side.
The Gruppenführer brushed past her and stopped at the bottom of the stairs, glaring up the steps as if he could measure the family’s guilt just by examining the color of their walls. With a wave of his hand, he motioned the armed soldiers forward. The young men obeyed, their smooth faces devoid of emotion, their bulky submachine guns pointed forward. They stormed up the stairway, their jackboots striking each step in perfect, deafening unison. Christine wanted to hide, but her legs had turned to stone. At the top of the staircase, the soldiers pointed their guns at her before deciding she wasn’t a threat and moving on. As they advanced into the empty kitchen, she gripped the banister with one hand, for fear her legs would crumple.
The Gruppenführer appeared at the top of the landing, one hand on the Luger holstered at his hip. When he saw Christine, he stopped.
“Guten Tag, Fräulein,” he said, tilting his head and smiling at her with gray teeth, as if he were approaching her at a party or lakeside picnic. “Christine, isn’t it? I see your mother has made a full recovery.” He took his hand off the Luger and put it on her shoulder. She could feel his warm, sweaty palm through her dress. “I’m sure a good German girl like you has nothing to hide.” Christine held one hand over the cool egg in her apron pocket and tried to smile. It felt more like a twitch; her lips seemed to spasm and quiver.
He gave her shoulder a squeeze, then went into the kitchen, his uniform jacket bunched over his ample buttocks. Christine swallowed and closed her eyes, trying not to throw up. When she opened her eyes, her mother was looking at her, brows knitted together, a silent question on her face.
Before Christine could say anything, the Gruppenführer came out of the kitchen, the soldiers on his heels.
“Where is your husband?” he asked Mutti.
“He . . . we don’t know for sure,” Mutti said. “He was with the Sixth Army and . . .”
“Did he do the honorable thing and die for his country, or was he captured by the Russians?”
“I . . . I don’t know,” Mutti said. “I . . .”
“Macht nichts!” he shouted, pulling his truncheon from his belt. “Search the house!” he said to the soldiers. He motioned for Christine and Mutti to follow them, then trailed behind, watching and prodding them forward with the end of his club.
In the living room, Oma, Maria, and the boys must have heard the heavy boots on the stairs, because when the soldiers burst through the door, they were huddled together on the couch. Oma gasped, instinctively putting her arms around the children. Karl buried his face in her side and cried out, his eyes squeezed shut. Maria and Heinrich stared with pale faces at the submachine guns pointed in their direction. The Gruppenführer sauntered over to them, his lips curled in a sneer. He lifted Oma’s sewing basket and turned it upside down, the contents falling in a tangle of spools and thread and pincushions on her lap.
“Get off the couch!” the Gruppenfü
hrer yelled.
Oma struggled to get up, then followed Maria and the boys as they scrambled to the other side of the room. The soldiers turned the couch over, crushing the wicker sewing basket beneath its arms. Satisfied that there was no one hiding there, the Gruppenführer rummaged through the pile of uniforms in the basket next to it, throwing the pants and shirts and jackets into a heap on the floor. He picked up books and read each title before letting them fall from his hands, then opened the sideboard and peered between the plates and dishes.
“Stay here and keep an eye on them!” he ordered one of the soldiers. “You two come with us,” he said to Christine and Mutti. Christine’s body felt like liquid. The edges of her vision darkened and blurred, as if she were peering out from behind a slowly closing curtain. Mutti looked at her daughter and linked her arm through hers, her forehead furrowed with concern. Christine was certain her mother could feel her trembling.
With the two women in tow, the remaining soldier and the Gruppenführer went down to the first floor and into the goats’ indoor enclosure, where the soldier stabbed the piles of straw with his bayonet and overturned buckets of water. In the backyard, the Gruppenführer ripped open the chicken coop door and entered the dusty interior with his Luger drawn. Back in the house, they dumped potatoes and apples from bins in the cellar and upended Oma’s bedroom, ripping dresses and skirts and undergarments from her trunks and dressers.
Christine held on to the walls and railings as she followed, certain she would faint with every step. The only thing she could feel was the weight of the egg in her apron pocket, bouncing on her leg as she went up and down the stairs.
The soldier and the Gruppenführer went through every bedroom, tossing covers from the beds, ripping open pillows, throwing nightgowns and shirts from dressers and armoires. Christine’s mother stiffened when one of the solders pulled the storage box with the radio hidden inside from beneath her bed. The soldier pushed the box aside so he could explore underneath the bed frame, causing the folded blanket on top to slide slightly to one side, exposing one of the radio’s dials. Mutti’s face went white. Then, by some miracle, the soldier and the Gruppenführer left the box in the corner, forgotten as they made their way out into the hall. Christine heard her mother let out a low, shuddering breath. The radio is the least of our worries, she thought, guilt twisting with fear in her stomach.
The Plum Tree Page 21
