The Plum Tree (45 page)

Out on the kitchen balcony, Mutti was hanging laundry. The girls worked without talking, listening to their mother sing as she pinned clothes to the line. On top of the woodstove, kettles of leeks and a rare pork hock filled the kitchen with the sweet, tart smell of onions and vinegar.

The breeze through the open balcony doors was mild, but still, Christine shivered. Each sun-filled day since her return was longer and warmer than the one before, yet she felt the remnants of winter hidden within each current of air, like the cold, thin hands of ghosts touching her skin. No matter the temperature, she wore winter stockings and an extra sweater. The only time she took off her sweater was when she sat in the backyard in the direct sun, where the chicken coop and the house blocked all drafts. Only then did the chill that radiated from deep inside her bones seem to retreat.

Christine glanced at her sister out of the corner of her eye, suddenly picturing the two of them as little girls, running down the hall on their way to bed, in a time before they knew about war and rape and bombs and concentration camps. But she was determined not to wallow in self-pity, so she pushed the thought from her mind, concentrating instead on the perfect round peas in her hand.

Along with keeping Christine up-to-date on who had returned from the war and who hadn’t, Maria knew which local girls were seeing American soldiers on a regular basis.

“Helgard Koppe is going to America with her
Ami,
” she told Christine.

“I guess I can’t blame anyone for looking for romance wherever she can find it,” Christine said. “There aren’t many German boys left.”

Just then, Mutti came inside and crossed the kitchen, then hurried downstairs and outside to the enclosed backyard, where a load of whites dried in the sun. All of a sudden, Christine heard Maria sniffing, and she turned to see tears streaming down her sister’s cheeks. Maria’s arms were shaking, her fingers trembling as she struggled to open a peapod.

“What’s wrong?” Christine asked, a cold eddy of fear opening up in her chest. She was used to Maria being weepy, but this was different. She looked on the verge of breaking.

“I saw starving women and children living in cellars under heaps of rubble,” Maria cried. “With nothing but a mattress and an empty pail for a toilet. They fought so hard to stay alive! Then the Russians came and . . .” She choked on her words, sobbing now. “But I survived, and I know I’m supposed to be grateful. . . .”

Christine took the peapod from her sister’s hand, moved the bowl from between them, and turned Maria to face her. “I still hear you crying at night. And I understand! But we’re strong, remember? We’re survivors! And we have each other! The war is over, and our slate is wiped clean. We get to start over!”

Maria’s expression tightened, and she stared at Christine with bloodshot eyes, her face getting redder by the second, like a kettle ready to burst. “I’m pregnant,” she said, spitting the words out as if they were poison.

Christine stiffened, a greasy mass of nausea seizing her gut.
“Ach nein,”
she said. “Are you sure?”

Maria nodded, her tears a bitter flood.

“What are you going to do?” Christine said. She tried to put her arms around her sister, but Maria pulled away.

“I’ve heard there are ways,” Maria said, her voice quivering. “Knitting needles, or throwing yourself down a flight of stairs . . .”

Like a jolt, a series of images flashed in Christine’s mind: a boy being ripped from his mother’s arms; babies being sent to the left with their grandparents while their howling mothers were sent to the right; couples with newborns being pushed into gas chambers.

“Nein,”
Christine said, gripping Maria’s arm. “You can’t do that.” Maria buried her face in her hands, shoulders convulsing. Christine leaned forward, speaking in a soft voice. “Maybe you can give the baby to someone who lost a child in the war.” She paused, overcome by the inadequacy of her words, knowing she had to say them anyway. “And I know it seems impossible right now, but maybe you’ll feel differently once you see your baby. We’ll all love it, no matter what.”

Christine waited for Maria to get angry and tell her she had no idea what she was talking about. And she would be right. But Maria said nothing, instead disappearing into her pain. Christine reached out to hug her again, and this time Maria gave in, arms limp at her sides. When they heard Mutti’s footsteps on the stairs, the two sisters straightened, returning to the chore of shelling peas.

C
HAPTER
31

W
ith regular meals of garden vegetables and stewed chicken, homemade bread and plum jam, Christine’s bony elbows and ribs began to recede. Eventually, Mutti relented and let her take lunch to her father at the school construction site. Christine was relieved to get out of the house, to stretch her legs and feel the wind in her face. She begged Maria to go with her, but Maria refused, going through her days with her hair unwashed, her clothes un-ironed. She’d made Christine swear not to tell anyone about the baby until Maria felt strong enough to share her secret.

Walking alone inside the village, Christine felt watched from behind parted curtains, by people wanting to look at the girl who had survived the camps. Sometimes, she took the long way home, through the wide-open spaces outside town, where her pace slowed and she took long, cleansing breaths, feeling free enough to hold her chin high and look out toward the hills, remembering when the fields had been yellow with sprouting wheat, and row after row of sugar beets had spread toward stone fences like the long, green ribs of a sleeping giant.

Once, she climbed to the highest point in the forest. where she looked down on the valley and saw hundreds of American tanks and jeeps crowded around the two-story control tower at the air base. From there, the Allied path of destruction revealed itself, the outer edge of the village scarred with bomb craters, blackened patches of flat, scorched earth, and splintered, overturned trees. Between the tiled rooftops of surviving buildings, the ruined houses and shops looked crushed, as if a giant, lumbering ogre had trampled through the valley and left massive footprints across the town.

Two weeks after Maria’s confession, Kate stopped by to see Christine. It was her first visit since Christine’s return. During the last months of war, as the air raids had increased and the other girls were being sent off to bigger cities to become air raid wardens or auxiliary firefighters, her parents had sent her to her uncle’s farm in the countryside, in the hopes of keeping her safe. Christine wondered if Kate had any idea how lucky she was.

Kate entered the living room in slow motion, her hands clasped in front of her, as if visiting someone who has suffered a long, disfiguring illness.

“How are you?” Kate asked.

“As well as can be expected,” Christine said.

Kate stood in the middle of the room, fingers fidgeting with the side seam of her skirt.
She’s afraid of me,
Christine thought in amazement.
She acts like I have a disease.

“I’m glad you’re home,” Kate said.

“Danke,”
Christine said. “Me too.”

“What happened to your hair?” Kate said, pointing.

Self-consciously, Christine ran her fingers over the short locks above her ear. “They cut it off.”

“Why?”

“They did it to all the prisoners.” Christine dropped her hands to her lap, her thumb rubbing the tattooed skin beneath her sleeve.

“Oh,” Kate said, looking away. “I’m glad you’re home,” she repeated. “My mother said your mother thought she’d never see you again.”

“I thought I’d never see anyone again either,” Christine said, rearranging the couch pillows so Kate could sit down. Kate lingered awkwardly in the middle of the room, eyes darting toward the windows as if she were planning an escape. Finally, reluctantly, she moved toward the couch.

“You didn’t think they’d do anything to you, did you?” she said, sitting down. “You’re German, after all.”

Christine pulled her legs up under herself and turned to face Kate.
Has her hair always been such a scorching shade of red?
she wondered. In the shafts of sunlight coming through the window, it looked iridescent, as if tiny flames flickered within each strand. Again, Christine ran her fingers over her own sparse hair, fine and soft, like the yellow down of a baby chick. When Kate glanced in her direction, Christine put her hands in her lap, her thumb over her wrist.

“Every minute I was in that camp,” she said, “I thought I was going to die. They were murdering thousands of people every day.”

“Thousands?” Kate said, looking directly at her for the first time. “Why would they murder thousands of people? And how could they even kill that many at a time?”

“They gassed them, then burned them in a giant crematorium. Sometimes they just shot them.” Images of Isaac made Christine’s chest constrict. Beneath her thumb, she could feel her heartbeat pick up speed below the number on her wrist.

“Why would they do that?” Kate asked again, her face filled with disbelief. “They were going to relocate them!”

“They lied. They didn’t want to relocate the Jews. They wanted to slaughter them.”

“I have a hard time believing that. It’s physically impossible.”

Christine felt a hot twist of anger at the bottom of her rib cage. “I saw thousands of people murdered. I saw it with my own eyes. They shot Isaac.”

“I heard,” Kate said, glancing at Christine with pity and false understanding. “And I’m sorry. You were brave to risk your life for him, and I know you’ve been through a lot. But you’re home now. You’ll be better off if you just forget it.” Then she patted Christine’s knee, as if she were a foolish child afraid of monsters under her bed.

“I’ll never forget it,” Christine said, her face burning. A ringing in her ears made her voice sound as if it were coming from someone else.

Kate ignored her and got up to stand by the window. She leaned against the sill and looked out toward the street. “Remember the three-story house with the fancy balcony on Hallerstrasse that I always admired? Stefan’s mother lives there and she’s giving the house to Stefan and me as soon as we’re married!”

All of a sudden, the ringing in Christine’s ears disappeared and she could hear perfectly. She sat up straight. “Stefan came back?”

“
Ja!
And he looks
so
handsome in his black uniform!” Then Kate straightened, and her eyes grew wide. “Oh
mein
Gott! I’m not supposed to tell anyone he has it! It just slipped out.
Bitte,
don’t tell him I told you. He’d be so mad. He just tried it on so I could see him in it, then he was putting it away.”

Christine felt light-headed. “Kate,” she said. “I saw Stefan! He was a guard in Dachau!”

“He said what he did for Germany was important. It was a secret.”

Christine took a deep breath, trying to keep her voice steady. “Does Stefan’s uniform have a skull and crossbones on the hat and lapel?”

“
Ja,
” Kate said, shrugging. “So what?”

“Listen. If Stefan’s uniform is black, he was a member of the SS. If it has a skull and crossbones on it, he was a member of the SS Totenkopfverbände, the Death’s Head Units.”

“Promise you won’t tell anyone he has it! His own mother doesn’t even know!”

“Did you hear what I said?” Christine said. “I saw him! The Death’s Head Units were the ones running the camps, the ones murdering Jews!”

Kate rolled her eyes. “The war is over, Christine,” she said. “Besides, whatever Stefan did, he was only following orders.” Kate moved toward the living room door, then stopped. “I should go, so you can rest. You’re still not well. I don’t think you remember exactly what happened. You were homesick and scared. You could have imagined all sorts of things.”

“I didn’t imagine any of it!” Christine said. She got off the couch and took a step toward Kate, her vision pulsating in time with her hammering heart. “I saw it all! And for the rest of my life I’ll never forget the bodies, the blood, the lines of people being led into the gas chambers!”

“I’m not going to stay here and listen to this!” Kate said. “I came as your friend, to see how you are, and this is the thanks I get?” She marched across the room.

“Kate!” Christine said, following her. “Wait!”

At the door, Kate spun around to face her. “And if that’s the way you feel, don’t bother coming to the wedding!” She slammed the door in Christine’s face.

With her hands clenched in fists, Christine stared at the stippled grain of the wooden door, the timber knots and tree rings like frightened faces being consumed by swirls and licks of fire. She listened to Kate run down the stairs; searing fury coiled inside her stomach. The front door opened and closed. For a second, she thought about going to the window and calling out to Kate, but changed her mind.
What could I ever say to make her believe me?
she thought.
I have no proof. As far as I know, I’m the only one from the village who survived the camps. But that should prove I’m telling the truth, shouldn’t it? I’m the only one who came home. Sooner or later, they’ll all know the truth, won’t they?
She felt herself going somewhere else, like a dropped coin spiraling toward the bottom of a lake.

She yanked open the door and hurried to the kitchen. Oma was at the sink, and Mutti was hunched over the table, kneading a mound of dough with floured hands. Mutti stopped working and looked at her, wiping her forehead with the back of her wrist.

“Are you all right?” she said.

“I think so.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh . . . Kate left because I . . .”

“She didn’t stay long,” Oma said, turning toward Christine. Sunlight streamed in through the window behind her, backlighting the loose wisps of gray hair surrounding her head like a downy halo. All at once, Christine felt enveloped in stillness, as if the smell of wood-fired bread had seeped into her pores and slowed her galloping heart, the yeasty aroma so strong she could almost taste the spongy bread melting in her mouth. She wrapped her arms around her waist.