The Plum Tree (32 page)

“Feel free to proceed, Herr Gruppenführer,” her father said, stepping aside. He stared at Christine, his forehead furrowed. “We have nothing to hide.”

Christine struggled to stand straight and look forward. The hall began to tilt.

“We’ve searched every house and barn in the village and come up with nothing,” the
Gruppenführer
said, his eyes on Christine. “Your daughter was extremely nervous the last time we were here. And now that we know your wife and daughter used to work for the family of the man in question . . .”

Mutti’s eyes snapped in Christine’s direction, her face suddenly white. She moved closer and put her arm around Christine’s shoulders, her body shaking. Now she knew who they were looking for, and that changed everything. Christine’s stomach cramped, and the back of her throat felt blocked, as if her airway were closing shut.

The
Gruppenführer
walked past them, then stopped and turned, standing in the center of the hall.

“Get a lantern,” he ordered her father. Vater went into the kitchen. “Follow him,” the
Gruppenführer
ordered one of the soldiers. The soldier did as he was told and stood in the open doorway, following Vater’s movements with the end of his gun. In the kitchen, Oma, Maria, and the boys sat at the table, watching in silence as Vater lit an oil lantern. Vater returned to the hall, lantern in hand.

“Follow me!” the
Gruppenführer
ordered.

The soldiers motioned Christine and her parents forward with their guns. Christine looked at her father, eyes wide, silently pleading with him not to let this happen, even though she knew that there was absolutely nothing he could do. He looked at her, his face hard, and shook his head back and forth. Then he motioned for Christine and Mutti to move ahead of him, putting himself between them and the submachine guns.

The
Gruppenführer
continued up the stairs to the third floor, his chin held high, as if sniffing the air. In the center of the hall, he ordered his men to pull down the attic ladder, then climbed up first, with everyone else following. At the top, he took the lantern from Vater and started at the opposite end of the attic. He walked slowly around the perimeter, knocking on the thick timber and stone walls, shining the lantern into every dark corner. When he reached the low wall near the bookcase, he knocked his knuckles along the length of the wood. Then, in slow motion, he turned his head and sneered triumphantly at Christine.

He examined the bookcase from top to bottom, his arms and legs moving precisely and deliberately, like a marionette on a stage, playing to his audience. Then he bent forward, examining the floor, and paused. He shined the light onto the floorboards in front of the bookcase, then looked up at Christine again. The grin on his face looked oddly stretched and rigid, like the painted-on smile of a lunatic puppet. It was only then, as the light of the lantern illuminated them, that Christine saw the wide, arched scrapes on the floor. The bookcase had left hard evidence each and every time she had moved it, and in the end, she had betrayed herself.

The
Gruppenführer
snapped erect. “Move this bookshelf!”

One of the soldiers did as the
Gruppenführer
instructed, while the other pointed his submachine gun at the bookcase’s empty shelves, as if afraid it would grow wooden limbs and make a run for freedom. The
Gruppenführer
held the flickering light of the lantern close to the wall, his head tilted to one side as he examined it. The outline of the undersized door stood out on the aged wood like a fresh scar on pale skin.

“Open this door!” he ordered the soldier.

The soldier yanked the door open and, gun first, entered the hiding place. The
Gruppenführer
drew his Luger and followed him with the light, while the second soldier kept his gun trained on Christine and her parents. Once the
Gruppenführer
and the soldier were inside, Christine could only see them from the waist down. She held her breath as they stood, motionless and silent, facing the front wall of the house, two pairs of black legs in black boots, a submachine gun and lantern suspended strangely above. After a moment, the
Gruppenführer
stepped back into the attic.

For an instant, Christine thought that Isaac had left without her, that he’d escaped through the roof or had somehow disappeared into thin air. But then she saw the satisfied smirk on the
Gruppenführer
’s face. She felt a shift somewhere deep within her, like great glaciers sliding over one another, tearing jagged edges off, burying the old landscape and replacing it with unknown territory. She felt the change in her head, as if her brain had suddenly been altered. She felt it in her chest too, a thickening, a pressure, an abnormal slowing of her heart and lungs.

The
Gruppenführer
stood erect, his chin raised and his chest puffed out, one hand tugging on the bottom edge of his uniform jacket, as if preparing to make a speech.

“Come out now!” he screamed.

Isaac came out slowly, bent double, his hands in the air as he straightened. Mutti drew in a sharp breath and stood protectively in front of her daughter, her hands reaching blindly back for Christine. The
Gruppenführer
grabbed Isaac’s arm and shoved up his shirtsleeve to expose the tattooed number on his wrist.

“So what do we have here?” he asked, looking at Christine.

“They didn’t know I was up here!” Isaac said.

“Silence!” the
Gruppenführer
screamed. One of the soldiers hit Isaac in the stomach with the butt of his gun. Isaac doubled over and fell to his knees, holding his middle and gasping. The
Gruppenführer
walked over to Mutti, pushed her aside, and glared at Christine.

“I believe someone knew he was here,” he said. “How else would the bookcase get in front of the door?”

Isaac got up and pushed himself between them, but a soldier pulled him away, and the other held a gun to Isaac’s chest. “They didn’t have anything to do with it!” Isaac shouted. The soldier hit him again, this time in the jaw. Isaac reeled and nearly lost his footing. The soldiers held him up.

“You’re right!” Christine said, breathing hard. “I did it!” She stepped forward, coming nearly toe-to-toe with the
Gruppenführer,
his face a blur through her tears. “My family knew nothing about it. I hid him there. I’m the guilty one.”

“Nein!”
her mother cried. “It’s not true!”

Vater pulled Christine back and placed himself between her and the
Gruppenführer.

“Take me,” he said. “She’s just a young girl.”

“
Nein,
Herr Bölz,” the
Gruppenführer
said. “You’ve served your country well. It is your daughter who is the traitor. She is the Jew lover!” He motioned to the soldiers. “Arrest them both.”

“I’m sorry,” Christine said to her parents.

Mutti put her hands over her mouth, shaking her head back and forth. Vater held her back as the soldiers cuffed Christine and Isaac’s wrists together and pushed them toward the trapdoor.

“Nein! Nein!”
Mutti screamed, struggling to get out of Vater’s grip.

The
Gruppenführer
went down the ladder first, a grin etched on his face. Isaac and Christine, their hands bound together, tried not to fall as they followed. Isaac stepped down first, his arm above his head to give her some slack, moving slowly for her benefit. When they reached the hallway, the soldiers shoved them forward and down the stairs, as the
Gruppenführer
and her parents followed.

“Christine!” Mutti screamed, struggling to push past the
Gruppenführer.
“
Nein!
Don’t take her!
Bitte,
don’t take her!” But the
Gruppenführer
blocked her way with outstretched arms, saying nothing. Vater grabbed her, holding her back.

“They will shoot you,” he said, his voice hard.

Mutti either didn’t hear him or didn’t care. She screamed for Christine, clawing at her husband’s hands like a wild animal. Oma, Maria, and the boys came out of the kitchen, pursuing the soldiers down the stairs, everyone crying and screaming Christine’s name. When they reached the street the soldiers ordered Isaac and Christine into the back of a canvas-covered army truck. The black barrels of their submachine guns followed Christine’s and Isaac’s every move, as if there were an invisible string from their chests to the end of the soldiers’ weapons. The
Gruppenführer
climbed into the front seat with the waiting driver. Ear-piercing screeches of rusted metal drowned out Mutti’s cries as the gears of the truck ground together. The oversized vehicle lurched and stopped twice, releasing bursts of exhaust before moving down the cobblestone street.

Through a flap in the back canvas, Christine could see her family in the street. As the truck drove away, they grew smaller and smaller, flickering in and out of her vision like the illustrations in a picture book that one flipped through with one’s thumb, making the images on the pages appear to be in motion. Oma was looking at the sky, her frail arms held up to the heavens, her mouth an open circle of despair. In stiff, erratic movements, her mother wrenched herself from Vater and ran after the truck, her face contorted. She made it halfway to the bottom of the hill before she fell, inch by inch, to her hands and knees in the street. Christine closed her eyes. She couldn’t watch any longer. But the images wouldn’t stop playing over and over, frame by frame, in her mind.

C
HAPTER
22

T
en minutes later, they arrived at the barracks next to the train station.

“Get out of the truck!” the
Gruppenführer
yelled.

In the truck bed, Isaac grabbed Christine and hugged her. “I’m so sorry I let this happen to you.”

“Get your hands off her, you filthy Jew!” the
Gruppenführer
screamed.

One of the soldiers pried them apart, undid their handcuffs, and shoved them toward the rear of the truck. Christine fell and Isaac helped her up, then held her steady as she climbed over the tailgate.

When they were both on the ground, the
Gruppenführer
shouted, “I told you to keep your hands off of her!”

The butt of the gun collided with Isaac’s head. He struggled to remain upright, but his knees buckled and he fell against the back of the truck. He lifted his hand to his skull, a trickle of blood running behind his ear. Christine wanted to reach out to help him, but she didn’t dare, for fear they would hit him again.

At gunpoint, they were forced into the long, brick building of the train depot. Inside, they followed the
Gruppenführer
into a brick-walled office, where an immense SS
Hauptsturmführer,
Head Storm Leader, dwarfed a desk in the center of the room, as if it were a student’s writing table. To the left of the desk, a second door led out to the train platform. The
Hauptsturmführer
looked up when they came in, his wide forehead and broad jaw like the face of a bull. A portrait of Hitler hung on the wall above his head. In it, Hitler looked regal, almost handsome. Clouds floated behind him, as if he were a savior from God. On the desk were several stacks of papers, a jar of pens, a black telephone, and a slender, brown-handled Luger lying on a folded red cloth. Isaac and Christine stood in front of the desk, the
Gruppenführer
to Christine’s right, the soldiers behind them. The
Hauptsturmführer
stood and eyed them, his wide, muscular body straining the seams of his uniform.

“I have returned our missing prisoner,” the
Gruppenführer
said triumphantly.

“And who is this?” the
Hauptsturmführer
asked. He came around the desk, went to Christine, and touched her face with the back of his oversized fingers.

“This is our runaway Jew’s girlfriend. She hid him upstairs in her attic.”

“Well,
Fräulein,
” the
Hauptsturmführer
said to her. “I can certainly see what he saw in a beautiful German girl like you, but tell me, what did you see in this Jewish pig?”

Christine kept her eyes on Isaac, standing as close to him as possible and trying to pretend it was just the two of them in the orchard on the hill. But she couldn’t remember the apple trees, couldn’t remember the green grass and bright sky. The only pictures in her head were of gray and white uniforms and skeletal prisoners, black boots and dropping bombs, bomb shelters and boxcars full of withered people. Isaac wouldn’t look at her. He kept his head down and his eyes on the floor. She could feel every taut tendon in her neck, every burning vein beneath her skin. The side of her hand, where it touched his, felt on fire. She needed him to look at her. A scream was building in her chest, ready to erupt like a swarm of hornets exploding from their shattered hive.

One of the soldiers shoved them toward a bench against the wall, instructing them to sit. The
Hauptsturmführer
lit a cigarette and sat on the corner of his desk, the thick oak groaning beneath his weight. Then he lifted his frame and walked over to Christine, taking a long draw from his cigarette, and ran a hand over her hair, his leg pressing hard against her thigh. Christine stared at Isaac. He was breathing hard, the whites of his eyes bloodshot, his forehead bulging. The trickle of blood behind his ear was already starting to dry. The
Hauptsturmführer
dropped his cigarette and stepped on it, then pulled Christine to her feet. He put a plank-thick hand on the small of her back and held her arm out to the side, humming as he began to sway, his massive body pressed against hers. Christine glanced toward the
Gruppenführer.
His fleshy face was crimson. With disbelief, she realized he was jealous.

The
Gruppenführer
cleared his throat and said in a loud voice, “It’s too bad she’s been spoiled by this Jew. We could keep her for ourselves. But who would want something a dirty Jew has touched?”