The Plum Tree (31 page)

Vater looked at Mutti, his forehead furrowed. “Is this true?”

“Ja,”
her mother said. “Last year. All the Jews have disappeared from Hessental.”

“
Ach
Gott,” he said, shaking his head. “Christine, I want you to understand something. War makes perpetrators of some, criminals of others, and victims of everyone. Not all of the soldiers on the front are fighting for Hitler and his ideals. Just because a soldier is in the battle, doesn’t mean that he believes in the war. When they wouldn’t let us retreat, and when we heard the rumors about the Jews, hundreds of us wrote anti-Nazi messages and attached them to the linings of our jackets, hoping they’d be discovered upon our deaths.”

He stood and took his uniform from Mutti’s lap, yanked at a thread at the hem of the jacket, and pulled out a wrinkled, yellowed paper. He unfolded it and read it out loud.

My name is Dietrich Bölz from Hessental, Germany. Let this show that a large number of my comrades and I do not agree with Hitler’s policies. Let it be known that we recognize we are doomed for failure in Stalingrad, but have been given no other choice but to carry on. Tell the world that it is the soldiers on the front lines who are burdened with the fear and guilt of the actual combat, while the guilty men hide in their bunkers and make life-and-death decisions for the world.

When he finished, Mutti grabbed his arm. “I don’t care what the army says. I don’t want you to go back! I’ll tell them I haven’t heard anything. Let them think something happened to you!”

“And then what?” Vater said, giving her a steady look. “I stay here, hoping they don’t come and arrest me?”

“Nein!”
Mutti said, chin trembling. “You hide! You hide in the attic! There’s a hidden door in the wall where you can go if they come looking for you. We’ll put your uniform in with the others. They’ll never know!”

Christine tightened her grip on the jacket in her lap.

“If this war keeps on as it is,” Vater said, “you might need that attic to hide our sons. If anyone can stand upright, they’ll put a rifle in his hands.”

“Excuse me,” Christine said, standing on trembling legs. “I’m exhausted. I guess I’ll go to bed after all.”

“Gute Nacht,”
her father said. “I’m retiring soon myself. I can’t wait to sleep in my own bed.”

“
Gute Nacht,
Vater,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. “I’m so happy you’re home.
Gute Nacht,
Mutti.” She started out of the room, trying not to run.
Surely he’ll refuse to go into hiding,
she thought.
Oh, Vater, I’d love for you to stay. But what would I do with Isaac if you did? I have one night at least. One night when Vater will sleep in his own bed. And then what? Will Isaac and I be forced to leave after all?
She had reached the door when her mother called after her.

“Christine?”

Christine turned, her heart hammering in her chest.
“Ja?”
she said, trying to keep the tremor from her voice.

“What are you doing with that uniform?”

Christine looked down. She was still gripping the officer’s black jacket in both hands.

C
HAPTER
21

T
he summer wind traveled in through the open kitchen windows, carrying with it the crows of a neighbor’s rooster and the hourly chime of the bells of St. Michael’s. The stale night air of the house had been dispelled, evicted by warm, sweet breezes, and the rooms were filled with the aroma of baking bread. Mutti had gotten Christine up before dawn to help her with the baking. She’d been saving the last of the rye flour, hoping to stretch it at least to the end of next month, but now, determined that Vater would have bread to take with him when he left, they used it all.

Christine’s father stood in the morning light of the kitchen, washed and clean-shaven, his graying black hair combed back from his angular face, his hands scrubbed, his fingernails trimmed and clean. He was wearing his uniform again, spotless and mended with precise stitches. On his feet were a pair of old work boots, because even though the dry leather was cracked and the bottom of the soles worn thin, they were better than the ruined army boots he’d had on when he’d arrived. Mutti put a hand on each side of his face and gave him a smile.

“You’re still so handsome!” She kissed him on the lips, then turned her attention back to the stove.

Karl and Heinrich sat at the table, studying Vater. Occasionally, they glanced at each other, and at the plates Christine was setting in front of them, but their eyes always returned to their father. Silent and hard-faced, Vater filled his battered canteen with water, slipped his
Erkennungsmarke,
dog tags, over his head, and pushed his
Kampfmesser,
combat knife, back into its leather sheath.

“Come,” Christine said to him. “Sit down and have breakfast.”

Vater smoothed the front of his uniform with both hands, then sat next to Heinrich. Opposite him were Maria and Karl, with Oma and Christine on either end of the corner nook.

“You behave for your mother, now,” Vater said to the boys. “You’ve grown while I was away. Now you have to be the men of the house until I come back.”

Christine placed two fried eggs on his plate, the yolks shiny and dark yellow from the chickens’ diet of insects and vegetable trimmings. She filled his favorite mug with warm goat’s milk and handed him a slice of jam-smeared bread. Mutti wrapped a dishcloth around the handle of a steaming pot of mint tea, set it in the center of the table, then pulled up a chair beside her husband. The family ate in silence, letting the morning sounds of the village fill in the blank spaces. The boys had already finished eating, but they remained seated, watching their father, as if waiting for him to disappear again, like a figment of their imagination.

“Where will they send you this time?” Maria finally asked.

Mutti took in a sharp breath, then stood and started clearing the table. Christine watched her mother stack the dirty plates and pick up the used silverware, surprised to find herself vaguely irritated that Mutti wouldn’t just sit down.

“Mutti, sit down and talk to Vater,” Christine said. “I’ll clean up the kitchen later.” On one hand, she felt like she should help; but on the other, she knew that the cleaning up could wait all day if it had to—until he had left, until he was gone again, until they had no choice but to return to the mundane concerns of their lives. But she knew why her mother had gotten up. Her household was the one thing she could control. Cooking meals, washing dishes, folding laundry, washing windows, scrubbing floors. She could control all of those things, and so she did. She kept busy every minute of every day, performing each job completely and flawlessly, the only way she knew how to deal with her unpredictable life.

Mutti was at the sink, running water over the plates and silverware, her lips pressed together in a hard line. She turned off the water, then stood with one hand on the faucet, her head lowered, staring into the sink. After a long moment, she came back to the table and sat down.

“I have no idea where I’ll be sent,” Vater said. “They could tell me I don’t need to leave for a few days, but I doubt it. They’re running out of men. I’m sure they’ll tell me to return to duty right away.”

“When do you have to go?” Heinrich asked in a small voice.

“I wish I could sit here with you all day, but I have to go now. I have to be at the station by ten to catch the train to Stuttgart.” He stood, placed his mug in the sink, then turned to look at his family.

Karl sniffed and put his hands over his face, watching his father through parted fingers. Heinrich got up and faced Vater at the sink, his face serious, his right hand outstretched.

“Good luck, Vater,” he said in a loud voice. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything until you come home again.” Vater smiled and shook Heinrich’s hand. A flood of tears welled in Mutti’s eyes, and she wrapped her arms around Karl. Christine felt a hard knot form in her throat.

“I won’t worry,” Vater told Heinrich. “As long as I know you and Karl are here taking care of things.”

Then, like a shot, Karl scrambled out of his seat and wrapped his arms around Vater’s waist, refusing to let go. Finally, Mutti stood. She was pale and trembling, but her voice was strong.

“Come now, Karl,” she said. “Your father has to go, but we can walk him to the station.” She put her hands on Karl’s shoulders, but he spun around, ran back to the table, and buried his face in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” Vater said to no one in particular.

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” Mutti said. “None of this is your fault.” She hugged him for a long time, but Christine noticed she had stopped crying. Her resolve had found its way back into the square of her shoulders and the upright position of her head. “You’d better get going now. We’ll walk you to the station.”

“I’ll stay and clean up the kitchen,” Oma offered. “You don’t need me slowing you down.” Christine’s first instinct was to say she would stay and help. She was so conditioned to looking for opportunities to visit Isaac that she was already in the habit of waiting for everyone to leave.
I’m sorry, Isaac,
she thought.
I don’t know when, or if I will ever see my father again, so I must be with him for as long as I can. You’ll have to wait for breakfast until I return.

Mutti tied a worn cotton sheet into a sling and hung it over Vater’s shoulder. She placed a warm loaf of rye bread on its end in the bottom and filled a lidded tin with goat’s milk. She placed the tin next to the bread in the makeshift pack, then cushioned it with a dishcloth, two extra pairs of socks, and a pair of gloves. Earlier, she’d wrapped four boiled eggs in newspaper. Now, she tucked them on top of the warm bread.

“Be careful of the milk,” she said. “Don’t spill it.”

“We’ll see each other soon,” Vater said to Oma, hugging her.

“Take care of yourself.”

The other six went into the hall, first Vater and then Mutti, followed by the boys, Maria, and Christine. They walked single file behind Vater, like a funeral procession down the stairs, not one of them saying a word. From her position at the end of the line, Christine could see five arms outstretched, pale, thin hands holding tight to the banister.

When Christine was four steps from the bottom of the staircase, a loud knock on the front door made her jump. She jerked backwards and nearly lost her balance, her eyes flying to the red and blue window in the top center of the entryway. Three shadows appeared on the other side of the glass, pitch black in contrast to the sunlit morning outside, the wrought iron grate giving the impression that this was a silhouette of men behind bars. She stopped on the steps, her heart a thumping boulder in her chest. The
Gruppenführer
and his armed soldiers had returned.

Vater turned to face his family. “All of you,” he ordered. “Back upstairs.” Christine struggled to find her feet, then turned and ran back up the stairs, the rest of her family stomping behind her. She stopped in the hall, her mother and siblings brushing past her on their frantic rush into the kitchen.

“Get in here!” Mutti ordered.

“I want to hear what’s going on,” Christine said. She had to listen; she had to know if her father could persuade them to leave. If they were coming up the stairs again, she needed to know. Not that she had any plan. Her heart couldn’t take the suspense. She couldn’t hide in the kitchen and blindly await her fate. Mutti came reluctantly into the hall, closing the kitchen door behind her. Together, they stood motionless, barely breathing, listening as Vater opened the front entrance.

“
Heil
Hitler!” Vater said.

“
Heil
Hitler!” the
Gruppenführer
shouted. “
Guten Tag,
Ober-gefreiter Bölz. We are here to search your house—”

The rest of his words were buried beneath the thunderous heartbeat in Christine’s ears. When Mutti’s eyes widened, Christine knew Vater hadn’t put a stop to the second intrusion. And why would he? He had nothing to hide and no reason to believe his family did either. Mutti had instructed everyone not to tell him about the first time, deciding not to burden him. She was afraid he’d become needlessly angry and more downhearted than he already was.
I should have warned him about Isaac,
Christine thought, her mind spinning.
If he’d known, maybe he would have tried to stop them. Maybe he would have known what to do.

Now it was too late. He was letting the soldiers in, bringing them up the stairs, bringing them into his house. She couldn’t fault him. He was certain this was a formality, certain that once they cooperated, the soldiers would leave. He had no idea he might be signing his daughter’s death warrant. Christine put her hands over her ears as the soldiers marched up the stairs.

“What’s wrong?” Mutti said, looking at her. She pulled on Christine’s hands. “Christine, calm down. You don’t need to be afraid. Your father is here. We have nothing to hide.”

Then Vater appeared at the top of the stairs, the
Gruppenführer
and the armed soldiers behind him. One of the soldiers had taken her father’s rifle.

“These men are here to search the house,” Vater said. “It seems they’re missing a prisoner from the work camp.”

Deep in her chest, Christine felt hysterical terror destroy the brittle restraint on her heart, as if pieces of it were flying in all directions, like a ruptured machine, ripping gaping holes in her lungs and stomach. “Vater!” she said too loudly. She tried to catch her breath. “They were here once already! They found nothing!”

“Hush, Christine!” her father said, his dark eyes stern, the tendons near his temples flexing in and out.

“There’s no need for us to search the entire house, Obergefre-iter Bölz,” the
Gruppenführer
said. “Just the attic.”

Christine felt the blood drain from her face. She started to gag and reached blindly for her mother’s hand.