The Plum Tree (2 page)

“But what would your parents think if they knew you were here?” she asked.

“They wouldn’t think anything,” he said. He hurried ahead, then walked backwards in front of her, acting as if she were going to step on his toes and hopping out of the way just in time. He laughed, and she smiled, mesmerized by his playful grin.

She knew that Isaac spent hours reading and studying and could probably recite the Latin names for the strawberries and hazelnuts that grew wild along the grassy knolls. More than likely, he could identify each species of bird, even in flight, and the different animals that had left paw tracks in the soft earth. But his knowledge came from pictures in books, while hers came from observation and years of folklore. She’d spent her childhood exploring the rolling hills and black forests that surrounded their hometown of Hessental. She was familiar with every winding trail and ancient tree, knew every cave and stream. What had begun as an early morning chore, collecting the edible mushrooms that her father had patiently taught her to identify, soon became her favorite pastime. She loved to escape the village, to walk along the edges of fields, cross the railroad tracks, and follow the rutted wagon trails until they tapered into narrow, wooded paths. It was her time alone, time to let her thoughts roam free.

She couldn’t count the number of times she’d climbed to the thirteenth-century cathedral ruins in the heart of the forest, to daydream in the protected nest of soft grass formed by its three ancient, crumbling walls. The flying buttresses lent no support and the cathedral windows were empty now, serving as nothing more than stone frames for evergreen boughs, milky skies, or twinkling stars cradled in the white sickle of a quarter moon. But she often stood where she estimated the altar would have been, trying to imagine the lives of those who had prayed and married and cried beneath the church’s soaring arches: knights in shining armor and priests with long beards, baronesses roped in jewels, and ladies-in-waiting trailing behind.

Her favorite time to hike to the highest point of the hill was early sunrise in the summer, when the dew extracted earthy scents from the soil, and the air filled with the fragrance of pine. She loved the first hushed day of winter too, when the world had settled into a slumber, and newly fallen snow sugarcoated the sheared yellow wheat fields and the gray, bare branches of trees. She was at home here, deep within the high-skirted evergreens, where the sunlight barely broke through to the musty forest floor, while Isaac was at home in a gabled mansion on the other side of town, where iron gates were flanked by trimmed hedges, and mammoth doors stood beneath ancient archways carved with stone gargoyles and medieval saints.

“Well,” she said. “What would Luisa Freiberg think of you being here?”

“I don’t know what she would think,” he said, falling in beside her. “And I don’t care.”

If she’d known he was going to show up at her family’s house on Schellergasse Strasse that morning, waiting in silence on the stone steps behind her until she closed the oversized wrought iron latch on her front door, she would have worn her Sunday coat, not the tan wool overcoat that hung down to her ankles. It was thick and warm, a Christmas present from her beloved Oma, but its stiff collar and frayed pockets did little to hide the fact that in its former life it had been a carriage blanket.

Now, as she led Isaac through the forest and down the hill toward the apple and pear orchards, she kept touching the coat’s buttons, running her fingers along its overlapped front, to make sure it concealed the old play clothes she had on underneath. The gathered arms of her childhood dress were too short, the stitch-less hem too high, the unbuttoned bust too tight, and the navy gingham too childish. Her leggings, held up by straps buttoned to her undershirt, were gray and nappy, covered by hundreds of pills and snags from catching on bushes and ragged bark. But it was what she always wore to hike, because, before today, she’d always come alone. In this outfit, she didn’t need to worry about ruining her clothes when she knelt in the dirt to pick wild mushrooms from beneath a damp fern or had to crawl on the ground to gather beechnuts for cooking oil.

Like those of everyone else in her family, nearly all her clothes were reconstructed from printed cotton sheets or hand-me-downs. And until she’d started working for the Bauermans, she’d thought nothing of it. The majority of girls and women in her village dressed as she did, in worn dresses and skirts, starched aprons with mended pockets, and high, lace-up shoes. But now, when she went to her afternoon job at Isaac’s house, she always wore one of her two Sunday dresses. They were the best she owned, bartered for with brown eggs and goat’s milk at the local clothing shop.

This upset Mutti—her mother’s name was Rose—who’d been working full-time at the Bauermans’ for the past ten years. The dresses were for church, not for dishes, washing clothes, and polishing silver. But Christine wore them anyway, ignoring Mutti’s hard look when she walked into the Bauermans’ beige-tiled kitchen. Sometimes, Christine borrowed a dress from her best friend, Kate, to wear to work, with promises to return it unsoiled. And when getting ready, she was always careful to brush and re-braid her hair, making sure the blond plaits were straight and even. But this morning, when Isaac had surprised her, her hair was in a haphazard braid down her back.

To her relief, Isaac was wearing his brown work pants, suspenders, and a blue flannel shirt, the clothes he wore for cutting grass or chopping wood, instead of the pressed black trousers, white shirt, and navy vest he wore to
Universität
. Because, even though the Bauermans were one of the last wealthy families in town, Isaac’s father made certain that his children knew the virtues of labor. He gave Isaac and his younger sister, Gabriella, regular chores.

“I know what your parents would think,” Christine said, keeping her eyes on the red dirt path.

They made their way out of the dark interior of the forest, through thinning trees and gangly saplings, and emerged at the grassy edge of the highest apple orchard. Six white sheep were in the clearing, their woolly heads rising in unison at Christine and Isaac’s sudden appearance. Christine stopped and held up her hand, signaling Isaac to stand still. The sheep gazed back at them, then resumed their job of trimming the grass in the orchard. Satisfied that the sheep weren’t going to run off, Christine dropped her hand and moved forward, but Isaac grabbed it and pulled her back.

He was over six-foot, with broad shoulders and muscular arms, a giant compared to her petite frame. And now that they were face-to-face, she felt blood rise in her cheeks as she looked up into his shining, chestnut eyes. She knew each feature by heart, the dark waves of hair that fell across his forehead, the chiseled jaw, the smooth, tanned skin of his brawny neck.

“And how would you know what my parents think?” he said, grinning. “Did you and my mother sit down over coffee and cake, so she could tell you all about it?”

“Nein,”
Christine said, laughing. “Your mother didn’t invite me for coffee.”

Isaac’s mother, Nina, was a fair and generous employer, occasionally sending home gifts for Christine’s family:
Lindzertorte
cookies,
Apfelstrudel,
or
Pflaumenkuchen,
plum cake. At first, Mutti had tried to object to Nina’s gifts, but it was no use. Nina would shake her head and insist, saying it made her feel good to help the less fortunate. At the Bauermans’ they had real coffee, not
Ersatz Kaffee,
or chicory, and every so often, Isaac’s mother sent a pound home with Christine. But it wasn’t Nina Bauerman’s policy to sit down and drink from her best china with the help.

“Mutti said it was understood about you and Luisa,” Christine said, distracted by the strength of his wide, warm hand gripping hers. She pulled her hand away and started walking again, her heart pounding.

“There’s no understanding,” he said, following her. “And I don’t care what anyone thinks. Besides, I thought you knew. Luisa is leaving for the Sorbonne.”

“But she’ll be back. Right? And Mutti told me . . . Frau Bauerman always says: ‘Use the best silverware tonight, Rose. Luisa and her family are coming for dinner.’ And just last week, ‘It’s Luisa’s birthday, so please buy the best herrings to make
Matjesheringe in Rahmsosse;
it’s her favorite. And make sure that Isaac and Luisa are seated next to each other for afternoon coffee and cake.’ ”

“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.