“English?” he said.
Christine shook her head.
“Namen? Name?” he asked, pointing at the older woman.
“Sarah Weinstein,” Christine said.
“Sarah,” he said to the woman, bending over to look into her eyes. “Bitte, kommen, come.” He was self-assured and muscular, a perfect blue-eyed Aryan for Hitler’s army. Beneath the edge of his helmet, clean, blond hair was trimmed short around his ears. For the first time, Christine noticed that the Americans filled out their uniforms. They looked nothing like her father had when he’d come home, his grimy, ripped pants and jacket hanging off his skin-and-bone frame, his cheeks sunken and pale. The Americans looked well fed, their cheeks rosy, their eyes shiny and clear.
As the blue-eyed soldier led the distraught woman toward the other side of the platform, Christine took the opportunity to sit on a nearby bench. She was light-headed, trembling, and every breath provoked a coughing fit. Gripping the edge of the wooden seat, she suddenly became aware of her child-sized legs. As if seeing them for the first time, she noticed the sharp angles and awkward protrusions of her knees, as though her brittle bones were trying to break through her skin. For some reason, seeing a dead girl’s brown stockings on her skeletal legs made her heart race. The crazy woman had put horrible fears in her head that spread and festered like poison, taking off with her hope like a feather in a windstorm. What about my family? she thought. How do I know if they’re still alive? What if a bomb landed on our house and killed them all?
On the platform in front of her, black army boots appeared. The blue-eyed soldier squatted down to look at her.
“Namen?” he asked.
“Christine,” she said, teeth chattering.
“Home?” he said in English, his voice soft. Home. She understood that word. She tried to answer, but her throat seemed blocked. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. She coughed and tried again.
“Hessental,” she croaked.
To her surprise, the soldier’s face broke into a wide grin, his cheeks ruddy, his teeth white as snow. Somewhere in the back of her mind, it registered that it’d been forever since she’d seen a genuine smile.
“Fräulein,” he said, pointing at the concrete between his boots. “Home. Hessental.”
CHAPTER 28
Christine stared at the blue-eyed soldier for a moment, unable to believe what she’d just heard. Did he mean she was already home? The wide grin on his face remained unchanged. She bolted upright, nearly knocking him off his feet, and pushed past the other prisoners on the platform. Her heart hammered against her weak lungs, and she coughed as she hurried toward the central wall of the railroad station. While inside the boxcar, she’d had no way of knowing which direction they were headed. And when they’d arrived, it hadn’t entered her mind to look for the station sign. She couldn’t have dreamt that home would be her first stop. At first glance, this train depot looked like a hundred other train depots. But there, centered in the middle of the red brick wall, was the sign: HESSENTAL.
She clasped her hands over her mouth, a rolling surge of elation and fear running through her all at once, so strong it caused her to cry out. The blue-eyed soldier appeared at her side. “Home,” she cried, pushing past him.
He hurried to block her way. “Nein, Fräulein,” he said, shaking his head. She stopped, and he made a writing motion, pretending to scribble on his open palm. “Name and address,” he said in German. She ignored him and forged ahead, trying to skirt past him, but he caught her arm with a gentle hand. “Bitte,” he said. He tapped his chest, made a steering motion, and pointed at her.
She groaned and stepped back, wrapping her arms around herself. The soldier trotted over to an officer and saluted, then gestured toward Christine. The officer turned and scrutinized her for several seconds, then gave a stiff nod. The blue-eyed soldier grabbed a clipboard and hurried back to where she waited.
After she wrote down her information, he took the paper over to his superior and waited. She watched, hands gripping her elbows, trying to keep herself from falling apart. When she saw him coming back, she held her breath.
“Kommen,” he said. “Home.”
They hurried to the other side of the station, where he lifted her effortlessly into the passenger seat of a green army truck, then took his rifle from his shoulder, climbed in the driver’s seat, and started the engine. He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, put one in his mouth, lit it, and offered her the pack. She shook her head. He reached into his pocket again and held out a small, yellow rectangle filled with flat strips wrapped in silver paper.
“Nein,” she said, trying not to scream. “Home.” She sat up, straining to look out over the oversized dashboard, black spots floating in front of her eyes.
He looked at her, a question on his face, asking which direction to go by signaling with his hand. She gestured to go forward, then left.
They drove away from the train station, past the long, wooden barracks previously used to house prisoners working on the air base. The first women to get off the train were milling about, leaning against buildings, or sitting on the ground with their heads in their hands.
The American saw her looking. “Jews,” he said, the cigarette dangling from his lips. He pointed at the barracks, then made walking motions with his fingers. “To Dachau.”
Christine moaned and shook her head. Farther along the street, a wooden gallows had been built, tattered bits of knotted rope still hanging from the scaffold, the German word for cowards, Feiglinge, painted across the main rafter. The soldier pointed at the gallows.
“Boys,” he said, his face solemn.
Christine bit down on the inside of her cheek, barely able to breathe, remembering the night Vater had told Mutti she might need to hide Christine’s brothers in the attic. The SS would hang them for not wanting to fight. Swallowing her growing panic, she motioned for the soldier to drive over the next bridge. On this side of the bridge, the buildings were gone, nothing but pile after pile of rubble. On the other side, a long line of houses stood ripped in half and empty, like giant, black dollhouses with vacant rooms and bare windows. Ragtag groups of women and children gathered around open cooking fires along the littered streets.
“My name is Jake,” the soldier said in German, pronouncing each syllable more slowly and louder than necessary, as if she were hard of hearing.
Christine said nothing, digging her nails into her palms as they pulled up a steep hill, the dull roar of the truck’s engine echoing through the narrow streets. When they entered the cobblestone square, she exhaled, the knot of fear loosening in her chest. St. Michael’s stood untouched, its towering steeple and cascade of stone steps pockmarked and chipped, but intact. If the cathedral was still there, other parts of the village might still be standing.
The soldier wrenched the stick shift side to side, then gunned the engine as they turned up the road next to the cathedral. She clenched her jaw and pointed right. A burning lump in her throat threatened to cut off her breathing, and the farther they went down the road, the harder and hotter the lump grew. Within minutes, she could see what was left of Herr Weiler’s butcher shop, and the half-timbered barn at the bottom of her street, crumbling walls plastered with handwritten posters in red ink, warning against surrender, with threats of being hanged or shot. Christine felt like she was going to faint.
“Home,” she croaked, pointing to take the next left.
Jake turned the steering wheel, one eye squinting behind a swirl of cigarette smoke. The engine stuttered, hesitated, then pulled the truck slowly up the incline of her street. Christine held her breath and sat forward on the edge of the seat, certain her heart was going to burst from her chest. Then, in the lavender sky of early evening, the familiar tile roof came into view. A cry of joy burst from her throat, and she sobbed. When they neared the top of the hill, the scorched branches of the plum trees, one on each side of the front door, appeared. Then, finally, bent over in the front garden, she saw
her mother.
“Halt!” Christine yelled. Jake pumped the brakes, and the engine shuddered and slowed. She yanked open the passenger door before the truck came to a complete stop. In the garden, her mother straightened and turned toward the sound, her brows knitted together. Christine half fell, half jumped from the high seat.
“Mutti!” she sobbed, running toward home with every ounce of strength she had left. Her mother stood motionless in the garden, a long-handled hoe in one soiled hand, limp weeds in the other. At first, she only stared, her pale, thin face crumpled in confusion. Then, understanding transformed her. The hoe and the weeds fell to the ground. Her hands flew over her open mouth.
“Mutti!” Christine shouted again. “I’m home!”
Mutti shrieked and ran out of the garden toward her, hands outstretched. They threw their arms around each other and nearly fell.
“Christine!” Mutti cried, clutching her daughter to her chest. “Mein Liebchen! Oh, danke Gott! Danke Gott!”
Christine collapsed in her mother’s arms, legs weak, the sudden surge of strength that had carried her this far slipping away. She crumpled to the ground, shaking, the muscles in her neck loosening and tightening as she struggled to breathe. Mutti knelt, trying to hold her up.
“Maria! Heinrich!” Mutti shouted. “Come help! Our Christine is home! She’s alive!” She caressed Christine’s face, running her fingers over her short hair. “Oh, mein Liebchen, what did they do to you? Don’t worry, you’re safe now. I’ll take care of you.”
Then Christine felt arms scooping her up, lifting her from the ground, her mother’s hands still cradling her head. She opened her eyes and tried to focus. A net-covered helmet, the American’s face, then blackness.
At first, Christine was vaguely aware of the soft material next to her cheek and the clean, acidic smell of lye soap. Then she realized she was shivering, despite the fact that she was wrapped in a blanket and fully dressed, except for her coat and shoes. She wasn’t on a wooden bunk; she was sure of that. Her head was on a pillow, and whatever she was lying on was wide and cushioned. Then she heard the soft whispers of familiar voices, and warm fingers stroked her temple. It all came back to her now. She was home. She blinked and opened her eyes. Mutti and Oma were kneeling next to the couch, staring at her with worried faces.
“Are you all right?” Mutti said.
“Ja,” Christine whispered.
Oma put a hand on Christine’s cheek and kissed her forehead. “Welcome home, Kleinkind,” she said.
Behind them, Karl and Heinrich were at the table, frowning and watching with anxious eyes. Dressed in patched clothing, they looked as gaunt and pale as Mutti and Oma, a quiet sadness etched into their faces by the misery of six years of war. From the other end of the couch, a stranger looked down on her. The girl’s hair was dreadfully short, only about an inch longer than Christine’s. At first, she thought it was Hanna, but the coloring was wrong. This survivor’s hair was fair, not auburn, her eyes blue, not brown. And although this stranger was thin, she wasn’t skeletal, as Hanna had been. Then the person came forward and knelt beside her. Christine gasped. It was Maria. Confused, she touched her sister’s head with grimy fingers. Maria took Christine’s hand in her own and pressed it against her cheek, her eyes soft and wet.
“What happened to you?” Christine whispered.
“I was sent east with a group of girls from the village,” Maria said. “We helped the women and old people dig antitank trenches. But then the Russians came through and . . .” Maria stopped and swallowed, as if trying not to be sick. Her chin trembled, and she lowered her voice, the words coming high and tight. “Only a handful of us survived the first few days. We had to disguise ourselves as boys, so the Russians would leave us alone.”
“Ach Gott,” Christine said.
“I shouldn’t have let her go,” Mutti said, her face crumpling in on itself. “I should have hid her in the attic with her brothers. I should have done more to protect her. To protect both of you.”
“It’s not your fault, Mutti,” Maria said, her bloodshot eyes locked on Christine. “I made it back. Some of the other girls weren’t so lucky.”
Christine wrapped an arm around Maria and drew her close. Maria hugged her back, shoulders shuddering as she swallowed her sobs. After a moment she pulled away and stood, wiping her face on her sleeve.
“I can’t believe you’re all here,” Christine said, struggling to sit up. Her arms were weak, her head heavy. “I didn’t know if I’d find any of you alive.” She looked at her mother, bracing herself. “What about Vater? Is he all right?”
“Your Vater is alive,” Mutti said, trying to smile. “We received word just a few days ago. Now lie back down. We’ll get you whatever you need. Are you hungry and thirsty? What would you like?”
Christine pushed herself to a sitting position. “I’m starving,” she said, pulling back the blanket. “But more than anything, I need a hot bath.” Maria and Mutti tried to help her up, but she was determined to stand on her own. “Is the fire going in the kitchen?”
“Ja,” Mutti said. “But you have a fever, that’s why you’re shivering.”
Christine straightened and wrapped her arms around herself. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “Karl and Heinrich, I’m so happy to see you.” The boys came over to give her a quick hug, then moved away, staring up at her with furrowed brows. Christine smiled at them to show that she was all right, then headed toward the hall. Mutti and Maria stayed right on her heels, as if she were going to topple over at any moment. Everyone followed.
When Christine stepped into the kitchen, she was bombarded with the unforgettable smell of cinnamon and glazed gingerbread. She had never dreamt anything could smell so heavenly. With tears in her eyes, she looked around at the stove, the sink, the cupboards, the table. It all seemed so familiar and yet strange at the same time, as if she’d only visited it in a dream until now, or in another lifetime. She had thought she’d never see this kitchen again. Now, it seemed bigger and brighter than she remembered, every color luminous and vibrant. The red canisters, yellow curtains, blue-tiled floor, green-checked tablecloth, everything looked supple and wet, as if she could dip a brush in them and paint the sky. Compared with the monotone colors of Dachau, even her mother’s worn, mended apron looked dazzling white.
Mutti hovered nearby until Christine was firmly seated at the kitchen table, then rolled up her sleeves and put more logs into the woodstove. Oma, Maria, Karl, and Heinrich filed in and sat on the benches, their eyes glued on Christine as if she’d sprouted two heads. In their troubled faces, she could tell she looked worse than her father had the first time he came home. Trying to ignore their stares, she watched her mother move around the kitchen.
Christine kept her arms under the table, her left hand wrapped around her right wrist, her thumb over the tattoo, as if she had to cover the numbered skin, like a surgery patient protecting a tender new scar. When Mutti filled a big mug with warm goat’s milk and honey and handed it to her, Christine pulled the sleeves of the blue sweater over her wrists and took the steaming cup with her left hand, keeping her tattooed arm in her lap.
Closing her eyes, she inhaled the warm vapors, surprised that she could smell the goat’s diet of sweet grass, and the flower pollen used by the honeybees. She took a long sip and held it in her mouth before swallowing, every sweet, buttery nuance of milk and honeycombed sugar like silk on her tongue. The creamy liquid soothed her raw, irritated throat.
“Now that the war is over,” Mutti said, “when your father comes home, I’ll use the last can of plums for a Pflaumenkuchen to celebrate your safe return.”
Thinking about how close Isaac had come to surviving, Christine felt the tug and chafe of shackles in her chest. She took another sip of the goat’s milk, warning herself to keep a watch on the thoughts of her heart. For right now, she needed to keep her mind on the present. She was home in her mother’s kitchen, sitting at the table with Maria, Karl, Heinrich, and Oma. She was ali
ve.
Mutti positioned the metal tub in the center of the kitchen and filled it with boiling water from the woodstove, curls of steam rising into the air. While Mutti readied the bath, Oma cut two slices of rye bread, spread each with plum jam, and set them in front of Christine.
When Christine took a small bite of the homemade bread and jam, she immediately had to stop chewing. Her eyes watered, and she pushed the bread to the inside of her cheek, certain she couldn’t swallow over the growing lump in her throat. The combined flavor of earthy bread and sweet jam seemed amplified by a thousand times, the taste buds on her tongue exploding. It surprised her, and she had to catch her breath before she choked on the joy of something so simple and delicious. She sat back and put her fingers over her closed lips, a tear spilling over her cheek.
“What’s wrong, mein Liebchen?” Oma whispered.
Christine shook her head. “Nothing,” she said. “I’m just happy to be here, that’s all.” Then, taking her time, she finished chewing and swallowing before taking another bite.
After retrieving towels, a bar of homemade soap, and a fresh nightgown, Mutti sent everyone but Christine out of the kitchen. She locked the door and helped Christine out of the blue sweater and cranberry dress, her eyes filling when she saw her daughter’s pallid, skeletal body. Christine slipped her legs out of the dead girl’s brown stockings and put one leg in the tub, teeth chattering. Mutti opened the door to the woodstove, ready to shove the borrowed clothes into the roaring fire.
“Don’t,” Christine said.
“Why not?” her mother said.
“Because that’s what the Nazis were doing to the Jews.”
Without a word, Mutti folded the clothes and placed them on the floor, her lips pressed together in a thin line.
Christine climbed into the tub, slowly lowering her shivering body into the nearly scalding bath. The soapy water felt silky smooth on her grimy, arid skin, the powdery smell of lavender filling her nostrils as her mother gently scrubbed the ring of dirt from her neck and ran the washcloth over her shoulders. Christine closed her eyes, taking in every blissful sensation, the moist heat penetrating deep into her muscles, reheating and thawing her frigid bones, like the sun melting icicles in the spring.
The Plum Tree Page 32
