The Plum Tree (17 page)

Christine wrapped her arms around Maria’s shoulders, scolding herself for wallowing in her own foolish fears. Evil secretions coursing through her blood, indeed! What was she thinking? Her family, her little brothers and her little sister, needed her. She had to be strong, no matter what crazy thoughts went through her head.

“Everything is going to be fine,” she said. “I’ll always be here for you. We’ll get through this together, all of us.”

“Promise?” Maria said in a small voice.

“Promise.”

“Promise to God, all included, nothing counts?”

“Promise to God, all included, nothing counts,” Christine said, wondering if it was a mistake to make an oath she had no idea if she’d be able to keep.

C
HAPTER
11

A
t seven o’clock the next morning, the first planes of the Luftwaffe took off from the air base, the low rumble like the growl of a beast lumbering across the valley. Christine was in the kitchen with Mutti, setting the table and boiling eggs on the woodstove, the two of them waiting for the rest of the family to come trickling in for breakfast.

Her mother was sitting on the edge of the table bench, cutting the last four slices of
Roggenbrot,
rye bread, into eight even pieces, her forehead furrowed, her lips held in a determined line. Christine hated seeing her mother that way, the wrinkles of her face deepened by exhaustion, her eyes dulled by worry. Mutti had lost weight; her cheeks were pale and hollow, the back of her dress hanging loose over her frame. Christine knew her mother was probably eating less so there’d be more food for her children, but from now on, Christine was going to keep track. And when she faced her mother with the facts, she’d appeal to Mutti’s practical side. Mutti had to take care of herself too, because how would any of them survive without her? She was the one who knew to grow Swiss chard between tomato plants, knew marigolds would repel garden pests, knew how to bargain with the mill owner for another gram of cooking oil, could stretch the flour into the most loaves of bread, and could tell if the chickens needed more protein or fewer greens just by looking at the yolks of their eggs. She was the key to their survival and the last thread to anything familiar and normal. From food in their stomachs to clean clothes and warm baths, their mother provided the only bits of comfort to be had.

Just as these thoughts crossed Christine’s mind, the heavy planes of the Luftwaffe flew over the village, and everything started to vibrate: the silverware in the drawer, the dishes in the cupboards, the windows, the furniture, the house. Karl and Heinrich burst through the kitchen door and scrambled into Mutti’s lap, burying their faces in her apron. Maria rushed in behind them, still in her nightgown, her braids disheveled and half undone.

“I thought there was going to be a warning siren!” she screamed, putting her hands over her ears.

“It’s our planes taking off!” Mutti yelled. She rubbed Karl’s and Heinrich’s shoulders. “It’s all right. It’s just loud because they’re right over us.”

Oma waddled into the kitchen holding Opa’s hand. They all looked at each other, waiting. When it was finally over, Opa was the first to speak.

“That’ll rattle your bedpan!” he said, and everyone laughed. Christine wondered if any of them would be laughing next week or next month or next year.

For the rest of the day and into the evening, the growling planes flew over the village. By the third day, Christine and her family were starting to get used to it. At first, there’d be the low snarling rumble; then the sound would grow louder and louder, until finally, when the roar sounded like a monster steam engine about to come rushing through the walls of the house, they all stopped what they were doing and held on to a piece of furniture or put a hand over the trembling dishes, waiting for it to pass. At the end of the week, two days went by without aircraft flying overhead, and in the relative quiet, Christine heard ringing in her ears when she tried to sleep.

After the rally, tanks and army trucks became a constant presence in the village. Officers helped themselves to rolls and bread from the bakery, pork and sausage from the butchers, and plums and apples from the trees. The Nazis appointed a new mayor, and every civilian saluted and greeted each other with “
Heil
Hitler.” The “Welcome” signs in the windows of the Krone, the bakery, the tailor, and the shoemaker were replaced with notices that read: J
UDEN
V
ERBOTEN
! An announcement hanging from the bulletin board at city hall stated that, in the interest of public security and order, and on suspicion of treasonable activities detrimental to the state, several village officials and clergymen—including the minister from Christine’s church—had been taken into “protective custody” by the Gestapo.

The first time someone asked to shake her hand because she’d touched the Führer, Christine didn’t understand what was happening. She stopped in her tracks, ready to run away from the person rushing toward her. When she finally understood what they were after, their eyes shining, their smiles wide, she pretended to act proud that she’d met Hitler face-to-face, hoping they wouldn’t notice the raw scratches and dry skin where she’d scrubbed her hand and face. They were mainly the boys from the Hitler Youth, but there were young girls too, giggling and curtsying as if she were their personal connection to the man they’d seen on stage. But there were also people, mainly old men and middle-aged women, who no longer smiled and said hello when she passed.

Two weeks later, at one o’clock in the morning, Christine was pulled from her sleep by a hollow, anguished wail. Before she was fully awake, an image flashed through her mind: Mutti with a telegram clutched to her chest, screaming because her husband was dead. Christine’s heart seized beneath her ribcage. She looked around her dark bedroom, the echoing wail growing higher and stronger, rising and falling, like the lament of a thousand mourners. And then it hit her. It was the air raid siren.

She threw on her clothes, the whooping howl of the siren going on and on and on. It sounded far away and yet impossibly close, as if it were coming from inside her room. She heard the door to her mother’s room slam, her brothers crying in the hallway. Her fingers fumbled over the buttons on the front of her dress, and she pushed into her shoes, the siren crawling under her skin and settling into her bones, like the icy wind of a sudden blizzard. She grabbed her coat and ran into the hall.

Mutti was waiting near the top of the stairs, her hair loose on her shoulders, the waist of her dress skewed to one side. She was breathing hard, holding the boys by their hands. Maria came out her bedroom door, one shoe on and one off. Christine held her steady while she finished putting on her shoe, pulling her braids out of the collar of her coat.

“When we get to the first floor,” Mutti yelled, “you two take the boys and run ahead. I’ll help Oma and Opa.”

“I can help them,” Christine shouted. “You go with Heinrich and Karl!”

“Just do as I say!” Mutti said.

Christine reached for Karl’s hand, but he shook his head and leaned toward his mother.

“It’s too hard for the three of you to go down together,” Christine said to him. “It’ll be faster if you come with me.”

He looked up at Mutti, who nodded in agreement. Karl timidly reached for Christine’s hand. Then they heard the drone of approaching aircraft, and horrifying comprehension coupled with sheer panic forced them down the stairs. On the first floor, Oma and Opa were just coming out of their bedroom. Maria grabbed Heinrich’s hand, and she and Christine ran ahead with the boys, out into the dark street and the deafening, undulating keen of the air raid siren.

The streets were filled with running people, some still in bedclothes, everyone wide-eyed and glancing up at the sky. Halfway down the hill, Christine looked over her shoulder and saw her mother and grandparents moving down the street in a shuffling half walk, half run. Opa’s balding head bobbed up and down as he hurried behind his wife as fast as his aging body would carry him. She ran with her siblings across the street and behind the shops, pushed forward by the knock of anti-aircraft fire and the first high-pitched whistles of dropping bombs. In the distance, the probing beams of searchlights swung in the sky, capturing airplanes and bursts of exploding flak in circles of bright light. Christine could see bombs falling from the bellies of the planes, like seeds tumbling from a farmer’s hand. She craned her neck to see if the rest of her family was almost there, yanked open the door of the bomb shelter, and shoved her sister and brothers inside.

“I’ll be right back,” she said to Maria. Maria opened her mouth to protest, but Christine turned and ran back down the alley. Her mother and grandparents were still on the other side of the road, Opa hunched over and breathless. A hollow thud-thud followed by cyclic explosions shook the earth. Oma hesitated at the edge of the sidewalk. Christine ran over and took her hand, and Mutti stepped back to help Opa.

“Come on,” Christine shouted. “We’ve still got time. They’re over the air base.” When they reached the middle of the street, a line of airplanes flew directly overhead. Christine and her family stopped and looked up, frozen. She could see the bombers’ dark underbellies, like enormous pregnant fish swimming through the night sky. The roar of the engines hurt her ears, and everyone grimaced and ducked. Then the planes were gone as fast as they came, disappearing into the gray and black smear of night sky. Christine hooked her arm through Oma’s and helped her across the cobblestones and down the alley.

Inside the bomb shelter, a quiet gathering of shadowy figures waited in the gloom, some sitting on benches, some standing, some crouched against the walls. Two oil lamps hung from the ceiling, casting flickering silhouettes along the curved walls. Everyone looked at each other without speaking, their wide, panic-filled eyes expressing everything. A handful of people shifted on the bench, making room for Oma and Opa to sit down. Christine moved toward the rear of the shelter, where Heinrich and Karl, along with a group of other children, sat on mattresses thrown over the potato bins. She glanced toward the back wall of the cellar, behind the slat of the last crate, but the edge of her and Isaac’s tablecloth was no longer visible.

Maria was there, leaning against the wall, arms wrapped around her waist, staring at her shoes.

“Are you all right?” Christine asked her.

Maria looked up and shook her head, her eyes flooding. “How long do you think we’ll have to stay in here?”

“I don’t know, not long.” Maria pressed her lips together, and Christine pulled her close, whispering in her ear, “Don’t worry, we’ll be all right.” Maria squeezed Christine’s arm with both hands and leaned into her shoulder, head down and eyes closed, as if trying to make herself smaller. Christine could feel her shaking. “It’ll be over soon,” she said, praying it was true.

Just then, a bomb hit close by, making everyone duck. Jagged chunks of cement fell from the ceiling. Maria jumped and dug her nails into Christine’s skin. Heinrich and Karl put their hands over their ears and squeezed their eyes shut. Several people cried out. Some of the children started to whimper and weep, burying their faces in each other’s shoulders. The oil lamps swung back and forth, like pendulums counting down the seconds of their lives.

“Try not to worry,” Christine told her sister, a raw flicker of panic rising in her throat. “They’re bombing the air base, not us.”

“But what if they miss?” Maria said, tears spilling from her eyes. She wiped them away and glanced at the boys, who were watching with furrowed brows, their arms wrapped around their knees, as if they wanted to curl up and disappear. The sisters reached out, and the boys jumped down from the mattresses and scrambled toward them, burying their faces in their skirts.

“They won’t,” Christine said, trying to keep her voice from catching.

“How do you
know?
”

I don’t,
Christine thought, realizing there was nothing she could say to ease her sister’s fears.
But maybe if I say it, it’ll be true.
Maria picked up Karl, whose small limbs shuddered with fear.

Just then, Mutti appeared, the corners of her lips twitching as she tried to smile. She reached out and, one at a time, caressed her children’s cheeks. Karl practically leapt into her arms. Christine thought about the love and care her mother had put into raising them, baby bonnets to protect them from the sun, soap and kisses on bee stings and scraped knees, hands held while crossing the streets. How helpless she must feel, waiting to see if Hitler’s war would be the death of her children.

“I’ll have that fixed tomorrow,” Herr Weiler said to the crowd. He pointed toward the new cracks and holes in the ceiling.

“We won’t be here tomorrow,” a woman said in a small voice.

“Of course we will,” Herr Weiler said, putting an arm around his weeping wife. “And we . . .”

Another bomb exploded close by, cutting Herr Weiler off mid-sentence. It was followed by the roar of bombers passing over, so close it seemed they might crash down through the dirt at any second.

For the next half hour, no one spoke. They sat with their heads down and their shoulders hunched, listening to anti-aircraft fire and explosions in the distance. Christine held her breath with every bomb, some that sounded right over their heads. At first, she tried to count the number of explosions, but the blasts grew too numerous and close together, as if God were having a tantrum and stomping His feet on the earth. The air in the shelter grew thick with sulfur, smoke, and the sour odor of sweat and human fear.

It was impossible now, in the confines of the root-cellar-turned-bomb-shelter, to believe in the hopeful plans she and Isaac had made while meeting here. Back then, the scent of dark soil had intermingled with the smell of oak barrels, aged wine, and cold storage potatoes, to create a rich, earthy aroma. Now, the floor smelled like a rotting grave; the concrete walls reminded Christine of a tomb. Her mouth went dry, and she fixed her eyes on the wine barrel they’d used for a table, wondering if it’d be the last thing she saw before she died.