The Plum Tree (39 page)

She continued to look for Isaac every day, and thought she saw him a few times, a man who walked like him or looked over her way. And even though she couldn’t be certain, it made her feel strong and gave her the courage to survive for one more day.

C
HAPTER
26

F
or weeks, spring fought to gain the upper hand from winter. A relentless rain turned the camp into a muddy nightmare. The grounds, the sky, the buildings, the uniforms were devoid of color. For days on end, the only colors Christine saw outside the house were the blues and greens of the prisoners’ hopeless eyes. The springtime air struggled to turn clean and pure, in opposition to the never-ending stench of the crematorium fires.

As the last patches of snow melted into the slowly warming earth and the trees edging the fields were beginning to bud, more and more trains arrived every day. The blast of the whistle and the sound of wheels screeching to a halt felt like needles in Christine’s ears. But fewer women arrived in the barracks, and she knew it meant that the majority of incoming people were going straight to the gas chambers. She started to wonder why they didn’t try to fight back. They outnumbered the soldiers twenty to one.

Soon, everything was coated with a thin layer of fine ash, and as the ground thawed, the remains merged with the soil beneath their feet. The ground would never be the same. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, the earth would take back the dead . . . and the earth would never forget.

As spring wore on, tens of thousands of prisoners from other camps outside of Germany arrived by train. Christine was shocked to see women, already in camp uniforms, with malnourished babies in their arms. She was equally surprised to see groups of uniformed children, clinging to each other as they were herded into a separate quarters, away from the adults. The camp population swelled, and the barracks became severely overcrowded. The sick were no longer separated from the healthy, and hundreds died of typhus every day. The new inmates spread word that the Allies were closing in, so the Nazis were moving all prisoners to camps inside German borders, making sure they never made it into the hands of the enemy alive.

As usual, a certain number of prisoners were recruited to help with incoming prisoners. They were the
Sonderkommando,
or special units, responsible for searching the dead for valuables, transferring the bodies into the crematorium, and cleaning the gas chambers. In return, they were given better housing and more food. At first, Christine couldn’t understand how anyone would be willing to accept the position, but then she realized it was their only hope for a few more days or weeks, their only chance of coming out of this nightmare alive. But after a few months of service, these men were killed, replaced with newly arrived, stronger prisoners. Recently, she’d heard that the number of
Sonderkommando
had been doubled, as if the Nazis needed to speed things up.

At night, the thump of exploding bombs grew closer and closer, and she could hear the distant, mournful cry of air raid sirens. In the beginning of April, the nearby armament and parts factories were bombed. Luckily, the attack happened during the wee hours of the morning, when the factories weren’t full of prisoners. The trains stopped coming because the railroad tracks had been destroyed, and along with no more prisoners, there were no more supplies. The electricity and telephones went out. Water had to be brought in by truck. There were no more showers, and water rations were cut. Christine had to flush the
Lagerkommandant
’s toilet with a bucket, and heat water on the stove for his bath.

As conditions deteriorated, the soldiers and guards grew more short-tempered, needing no provocation to shoot someone. At roll call, the hitting and screaming increased. In the barracks, the women talked about the guards using them as target practice, making them run to work or to get their daily rations. The
Lagerkommandant
was gruff at the dinner table, drinking too much and barely eating.

On one of the first dry days of spring, under a clear blue sky, Christine walked slowly on her way to the
Lagerkommandant
’s house. She looked across the fields, where she could see deer near the edge of the forest, their heads bent toward the new, sweet grass.
How can the world still be so beautiful?
she wondered.
How can the clouds still be pink and blue while witnessing this horror?

Then she noticed hundreds of male prisoners on the men’s side of the camp, walking parallel to her, picks and shovels thrown over their shoulders. Twenty guards with submachine guns and German shepherds steered the shuffling group toward a side entry gate that led out of the camp and into the fields. Christine stopped, searching for Isaac among the columns of limping, stumbling men.

And then she saw him, near the front of the group, his head down, a shovel over one shoulder, his back and shoulders slumped. Something black and oily twisted in Christine’s chest. He’d taken on the posture of a Muselmann, camp slang for a prisoner who’d lost the will to live, due to their resemblance to a praying Muslim. She couldn’t let it happen. She had to do something, anything, so he wouldn’t give up.

The guards, busy watching the prisoners and controlling the dogs, either didn’t notice or didn’t care that she was there. She hurried toward the fence. Isaac was only a few feet away, his eyes on the ground. His head came up, and he turned and looked directly at her, his eyes missing any spark of strength or hope. Then he looked away and walked past her, and she felt her heart rip from her chest. She caught up and followed on her side of the fence, staying beside him as long as she could, until the entire group was herded through the gate.

“Don’t give up, Isaac!” she shouted. “I love you!” He lifted his head and smiled weakly back at her, then looked away again. Ice-cold fear flooded her body, making her chest feel frozen and hard, as if her lungs were made of the thinnest porcelain, ready to shatter if she took a deep breath.

Then two guards were in front of her, a stern look of warning in their eyes. She turned away and hurried toward the house, where she stood on the porch to watch the group move, like a dark, ragged stain, across the green fields.

The sight of Isaac in such despair felt like the weight of an anchor chained around her heart. She went through the house in slow motion, her head in a daze, trying to concentrate on her work. Somehow, moving out of habit, she made the
Lagerkommandant
’s breakfast, did his dishes, scrubbed the tub, and swept the floors. Afterward, she headed outdoors to check the garden.

When she reached the edge of the backyard, a torrent of gunfire erupted in the distance. It came from the direction of the woods, unmistakable, uninterrupted, and unending. She fell to her knees, stomach twisting, thinking she’d go crazy before it stopped. She pressed her hands over her ears, but the sound of gunfire found its way through her trembling hands, ripping into her brain. When it finally ended, she collapsed, curled up and sobbing, her head in her hands. She lay that way for a long time, wishing she would pass out. An eternity passed before she was able to pull herself upright.

On her knees in the mud, she tried to think logically.
Why would they shoot those men when they have such an efficient method of extermination right here? Maybe it’s not what I think. They need them for labor. Isaac is still alive. He has to be. They were probably just cutting down trees, and the soldiers were trying to scare them so they’d work faster. But they didn’t have axes. They had shovels.

More sporadic gunfire from the woods. Then silence. Then, six shots from a pistol. She winced at every echoing blast, her stomach tight, fresh tears starting. After a few minutes, she wiped at her face and ran her hands over her head. She stood and looked out toward the fields, waiting, the world a blur before her. The silence was deafening.

After what seemed like forever, the guards came out of the woods, smoking cigarettes, carrying shovels and submachine guns. There were no prisoners, just guards. There was no Isaac, just guards. And then she knew. She knew they had shot him and all the others. He was dead, undeniably this time. And he’d known what they were going to do. So many times before, she’d thought she’d lost him. Now, finality hit her. Again, she fell to the ground, cold mud colliding with her cheek. The world went black.

Christine had no idea how much time had passed when she came to, but when she looked across the fields, the guards were nowhere to be seen. Pushing herself onto her hands and knees, she swayed upright and retreated into the house, where she stood in the kitchen gripping the counter, her head reeling. Wondering how it was possible that her legs still held her up and her lungs drew in air, she prayed for her bleeding, shattered heart to kill her, for the agony to end. Looking around the kitchen, she tried to think of ways to poison herself, but nothing came to mind. She pictured the sharp knives in the drawer, pictured herself slicing open her wrists, but knew there were easier ways to die in Dachau.

She left the house and staggered back to the barracks, then lay down on the hard bunk and closed her eyes, hoping her mind would shut down. She folded her hands over her chest and held her breath, willing her lungs to quit struggling for air. She resolved to stay there and stop eating. If she was lucky, one of the guards would shoot her for not doing her work.

For the rest of the day, Christine lay motionless on the bunk in the empty barracks. Mental exhaustion overwhelmed her, and a deep but fragile sleep kept her mind from further torture. But it only protected her for short periods. Every few hours, she startled awake, coughing, instantly assaulted by the knowledge that Isaac was dead. A hot rush of grief lit up her face and chest, and a savage twist of regret ripped through her stomach.

No one came looking for her. No one came to shoot her for not reporting to work. When the prisoners returned that night, no one spoke to her. The barracks were overcrowded with sole survivors now; women who knew that, more than likely, they were all that was left of their families. More than ever, everyone kept to themselves. The women moved slowly and purposefully, their eyes downcast, their bony shoulders sagging, each one lost in her own dark world of personal grief and torment.

Throughout the night, Christine drifted in and out of sleep, moments of misery alternating with dreams of her mother’s kitchen, black-and-white snapshots of her family, and bloody images of Isaac’s body lying in the mud of the forest floor. When dawn filtered down through the transoms in the barracks ceiling, she was wide awake, having waited for what seemed like hours. For what, she wasn’t sure.

The other women climbed out of the bunks, mutely shuffling outdoors for morning roll call. Christine took a deep breath, searching for the strength to command her body to sit up. She swung her legs over the side of the bunk and closed her eyes, listening for the customary name-calling and shouting, the cruel, hateful voices. But they didn’t come. Instead, there was nothing but an eerie silence, as if she were suddenly alone in the vast complex of empty barracks. She pictured herself sitting there, a solitary woman on a wooden bunk, the only living thing left in row after row of enormous, filthy coffins. Then, quietly at first, then louder and louder, she heard the rumble of tanks in the distance. Somewhere, people started yelling. The rattling growl grew closer. She heard people hurrying past the door. Then a woman prisoner came back inside, running and stumbling into the barracks.

“The Americans are here!” she screamed, her eyes wild. She ran over to Christine and grabbed her by the shoulders. “The Americans are here! We’re saved! Get up! We’re saved!” Before Christine could respond, the shrieking woman ran out of the barracks, her bony arms flailing in the air.

Christine put her hands over her face.
Oh, Isaac! One more day, that’s all you needed.
She wiped at her eyes but found no tears; either she was severely dehydrated or had used them all up. She climbed down from the bunk and staggered out of the barracks.

Drizzle was falling from gray clouds, tiny drops serrating the greasy surface of brown puddles. She blinked against the rain and wrapped her arms around herself, trying to stop shivering. Her chest hurt, and with every breath, a rattle came from somewhere inside her lungs. The grounds were filled with prisoners, shouting and hurrying toward the front of the camp. She followed the other women toward the main gate, where she’d entered the prison an eternity ago. Looking past the growing crowd, she could see two tanks and a half-dozen army trucks with white stars on the doors. A line of men blocked the exit. The white flag of surrender hung from each watchtower.

American soldiers were arresting
Unterscharführers, Blockführers,
and guards, taking away their guns, cuffing their hands behind their backs, forcing them into the backs of open trucks. To her right, a dozen Americans were shouting and pointing their guns at a group of nearly a hundred SS guards gathered between two watchtowers. The majority of the guards looked around as if lost, hands on their heads in surrender, eyes wide. The rest glared at the Americans, brows furrowed, mouths hard. Christine looked for the
Lagerkommandant
and Stefan, but didn’t see them. She didn’t see the
Hauptscharführers,
or any of the other higher-ranked officers she knew were in charge of the camp.

A man carrying a movie camera surveyed the compound, panning slowly across the growing crowd. Another took pictures. The rest of the Americans stood, guns drawn, staring at the prisoners coming toward them from the other side of the electric fence, stick-thin legs, bare, bony arms, living skeletons with teeth and eyes and hair. A group of male prisoners had gathered around the American soldiers and SS guards near the base of the watchtower, screaming and yelling at the guards, shaking their fists in the air. One of them picked up a rock and threw it. The rock hit one of the guards in the forehead. The guard touched his face, then looked at his fingers, forehead furrowed, as if he’d never seen blood before. Another prisoner lunged forward, grabbed a pistol from an American soldier, and shot a guard in the head. Before anyone could stop him, the prisoner held the weapon to his own temple, rolled his eyes toward the heavens, and pulled the trigger. His knees buckled, and his head spouted blood as he crumpled. The American soldier grabbed his gun out of the dead prisoner’s hand and pointed it at the other prisoners, ordering them to step back. They did as they were told. An American officer stood on the back of a truck with a bullhorn.