The Plum Tree (8 page)

That afternoon and early evening had been the longest of her life, even though she’d tried to keep herself busy by cleaning out the chicken coop and pulling the dead plants and fall weeds from the garden. Now, peering out into the dark hall, she realized that someone could come out of the living room and catch her sneaking down the stairs. Her heart thumped against her ribs as she waited for her eyes to adjust. Then, holding her breath, she gripped the banister and crept down the flight of steps. Every creak echoed like a gunshot through the empty halls, and she froze with each squeak, ready to run if the living room door opened. Forever passed before she reached the first floor. Behind the bottom staircase, she stood on her tiptoes and reached for the extra key hidden above the cellar door, her fingers blindly searching the narrow lip of the wooden doorframe. Once she found it, she slipped on her shoes, unlocked the front door, and slid outside into the cool hours of darkness.

At last, she was free in the moonlit night, hurrying down the street on her tiptoes, stealing glances over her shoulder to make sure she’d escaped undiscovered. Her breath plumed out into the cold night air, misty vapors swirling past her as she ran, like the vanishing remnants of lost spirits. Avoiding the pools of yellow light cast on the glistening cobblestones by street lamps, she turned left at the bottom of the hill, then slowed, a safe distance from her house. Here and there, light burned in the windows of half-timbered houses, and she could see hunched silhouettes gathered around radios, smoking and drinking and gesturing, like animated storybook characters drawn on living room walls. She hurried from one tall, gabled house to the next, keeping close to the edges of deep doorways and granite balustrades.

For the next six blocks, her lone footsteps echoed along the stone avenues. Suddenly, she felt the presence of someone behind her. She slowed and held her breath, ready to turn and run. Then a cat yowled, and she let out a sigh of relief, turning to see the marmalade-colored feline behind her, tail up, back arched, legs stretched, as if padding along the sidewalk on its tiptoes. She shooed it away. It took off across the street and disappeared down a dark alley.

At the end of the last block, she moved to the other side of the village square, entered the narrow street beside the Market Café, then turned into the shadows behind it. Scattered puddles from the evening’s earlier rainfall gathered in the uneven cobblestone alley, where they shimmered like pools of black oil. Isaac was sitting on the steps leading into the back of the café, the full moon reflected in a puddle at his feet. He stood when he saw her.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She ran into his arms. “I am now,” she said, breathing hard. The anxiety-filled hours leading up to this moment melted away as he kissed her on the cheek, the forehead, and finally, the mouth. When he released her, she could barely see his face, his familiar features obscured by the deep gloom. Behind him, a blue shaft of moonlight angled across the alley wall. She pulled him toward it.

“What are you doing?” he said, resisting.

“Come into the light. I want to see your face.”

“
Nein.
Someone might see us.”

“Oh,” she said, moving toward him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think of that.”

“Did anyone see you?”

“
Nein.
The streets are empty.”

“And you didn’t tell anyone about this.”

“Of course not. Don’t you trust me?”

“It’s not that,” he said, pulling her close again. “Right after your mother left, the Gestapo came to our house. They asked the remaining help for their identity cards to make sure only Jews were left under my parents’ employment. They took my father’s papers, legal files, letters, addresses, everything.”

“But it won’t stay this way,” she said. “People won’t put up with it. Things will be back to normal soon.”

“
Nein,
Christine, they won’t. My father is trying to talk my mother into leaving for America. My uncle is there, and my grandparents, aunts, and cousins went back to Poland. But she won’t go. Her parents and sisters are still in Berlin, and her brother is in Hamburg. She thinks because we’re half-Christian and German, they won’t do anything to us.”

“See, she’s right. Why would Hitler do anything to German citizens?”

“It’s dangerous just for you to be here with me!” he said too loudly. Then, catching himself, he lowered his voice. “There are laws against relationships between Germans and Jews.”

“I know,” she said, laying her head against his chest. “My mother told me. But it doesn’t make any sense. Like your mother said, you’re half-Christian, and you’re still German. Your grandparents’ religious beliefs can’t change that.”

“The Nazis don’t see it that way.”

“What are we going to do?” she said. “I have to see you.”

“I don’t know,” he said, the unmistakable chafe of frustration in his voice.

She looked up, trying to read his eyes hidden in his shadow-covered face. Before she knew what was happening, his lips were on hers again, and she trembled with a confusing mixture of fear and ecstasy. When they parted, she spoke first, breathless.

“We’ll meet right here, every night.”

“
Nein,
it’s too risky.” She didn’t want to let go, but he pulled away and leaned against the stucco wall of the café. She held her breath, dreading what he was going to say next. Finally, he sighed and said, “Once a week will have to be enough. Even then, we’re taking a big risk. But first, you have to tell me that you realize how much danger you’re putting yourself in. I have to know that you understand. You can’t tell anyone, not your best friend, not even your sister.”

“I won’t tell anyone. And I won’t get caught.”

He reached for her, and she leaned into him, her hands gripping his muscular shoulders. “When we’re together,” he whispered, “we’ll only see each other, not the ugliness around us.” Then he kissed her again, with a hungry, open mouth. She wanted to disappear into his arms, carried away to another time and place, back to this morning when she’d thought that everything was right with the world. But then he pulled away and said, “You’d better go.”

“Wait,” she said, reaching into her pocket. “Your stone.”

“Keep it. So you don’t forget me.”

“I could never forget you.” She folded the stone into his hand. “You said it was your lucky stone. Right now, you need it more than I do.”

He kissed her again, then put the stone in his pocket. “Hopefully, all of this will be nothing but a memory someday, just like the snail who left the fossil in that rock. We’ll meet here at the same time next week. Can you do it?”

“I’ll be here.”

Then they kissed again, long and hard, and she wished for it not to end. When it was over, he turned and walked toward the opposite end of the narrow corridor, disappearing around the gray stone corner of the café. She lingered, shivering, and listened to his fading footsteps, hoping he would turn around and come back. But little by little, the quiet night grew silent, and she knew he was gone. With the cold fingers of fear and loneliness wrapped around her heart, she made her way out of the alley, crossed the empty square, and hurried home.

A million flickering stars dappled the sky above her house as she stood looking up toward her parents’ living room window. The light was still on, and she could see faint shadows high on the wall, her father leaning back in his chair, Opa’s head bent, chin to his chest, as he dozed. What would they think if they knew she was not in her bed, but out here, alone, in the dark street? What would they think if they knew she’d just met Isaac in a cold, wet alley?

Back in the house, she moved in slow motion, locking the heavy front door and taking the stairs one at a time. She paused between each step to listen for any sign she’d been heard, surprised that her parents were still awake, listening to the insistent, tinny voice of Hitler. Instead of subsiding once she was safely back inside, the miserable clutch of fear settled in her stomach, like an ancient boulder at the bottom of a lake.

C
HAPTER
5

O
ver the next few weeks, more and more posters went up in the village, one claiming “All of Germany listens to the Führer on the People’s Radio.” Another showed Hitler—shoulders back, a hand on one hip—staring into the distance above the words: “One People, One Reich, One Führer.” The newest poster hung outside the bakery, the butcher shop, and every church and store. It showed a handsome blond couple with two flaxen-haired, rosy-cheeked children, above the slogan: “Marry well—for race, health, and party membership!” When Christine saw the perfect Aryan family smiling merrily on every wall, it made her think of the latest directive the Nazis had issued: the list of unacceptable baby names.
What will be next?
she wondered.
Will they tell the German citizens what to eat and wear?

At night, as she made her way along the deserted streets to meet Isaac, the Nazi posters shimmered in the dark, like birthday candles in a tomb. She thought about ripping them down, taking them home, burning them in the woodstove. If she got caught, she could always use the excuse that they were out of firewood and coal. But fear outweighed anger, so she tried to ignore them and move on.

Dwelling on her thoughts wouldn’t change anything. Time was the only thing she had on her side, because it was the only power that could command change. They’d have to wait this out and hope someone would overthrow Hitler, or that somehow the Nazis would come to their senses. She thought it ironic how, only weeks before, she couldn’t wait, had been downright impatient in fact, to know what adventures lay before her. If someone had told her that her life would include middle of the night rendezvous because it was illegal to love someone, she never would have believed it. But she refused to surrender to bitterness or self-pity.

Instead, she counted the days between their secret meetings, remembering Isaac’s gentle kisses and the way his mouth cocked to one side when he smiled. Even though they’d openly professed their love for one another, their first few encounters had been brief and awkward, filled with self-conscious moments of silence until they thought of something else to say after the initial “hello” and “I missed you.” The world had changed by leaps and bounds in a matter of weeks, and it seemed pointless to talk about everyday things. The only thing that made sense, the only thing they understood, was what they were feeling for each other. And for that, they needed few words. Each time they met, they felt more at ease. It wasn’t long before conversation became easier, silences became more comfortable, embraces more familiar, and kisses more urgent.

“It seems almost too easy to walk the streets at night without being seen,” she said at their fourth meeting. “They’re always deserted.” They were holding hands, side-by-side on the café steps, hunched together against the cool nighttime breeze.

“People are keeping to themselves,” Isaac said. “They only leave home to do important errands and shopping. Everyone’s afraid of being stopped and questioned. I’ve been thinking we should meet closer to your house. I don’t mind walking a little farther.”

“But why?” she said. “I’m not worried about getting caught. I could just let my eyes water and tell them that I was out letting off steam because I had a fight with my parents.”

“Because it’s less suspicious for a man to be out late. It’s too dangerous for a woman. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you.”

“But what about you? Once they check your papers . . .”

“If the Gestapo comes into the village at night,” he interrupted, “I’ll hear their vehicles. I’ll have time to run and hide.”

“Oh,” she said, teasing him. “So you think I can’t run?”

“Not as fast as I can.”

“Would you care to prove it?” She stood and let go of his hand.

“Nein,”
he said. “Sit back down.”

“Ach nein,”
she said. “You can’t get away with saying something like that and not have the courage to prove it.”

He stood and wrapped his arms around her waist, squeezing tight. “Go ahead and run,” he said. “I’m right behind you.”

She tried to pry his arms open, but it was no use. He was too strong. “That’s not fair.”

“See how helpless you are?”

“It’s your fault.”

And then they were kissing, any worries about running and hiding melting away.

A week later, Christine’s confidence in her ability to fool the Gestapo received a crushing blow when she overheard Vater telling Mutti about a friend he used to work with, a Catholic man married to a Jewish woman.

“I was in the hall,” Christine told Isaac. “I don’t know why I didn’t just go into the kitchen. It wasn’t as if they were trying not to be heard. I guess I just felt . . .”

“Guilty?” he said.

“I was going to say scared.”

“What did he say?”

“Vater’s friend had taken the train to Stuttgart to visit his sister on her birthday. When he arrived on the platform, a man stopped him and said he was with the Geheime Staatspolizei, Secret State Police. But he was in plainclothes. He asked Vater’s friend where he was from and where he was going. The friend showed his papers, and the policeman said to follow him to the Gestapo building opposite the train station. Inside, a second officer took the presents Vater’s friend had brought for his sister, mint tea from his wife’s garden and a tin of goat cheese. They accused him of stealing these things and told him he couldn’t ride the train anymore. They said if they saw him at the station again, he and his Jewish wife would be sent to a work camp.”

“What are you saying?” Isaac said. “Do you want to stop seeing me?”

“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.”