The Plum Tree Read Free

he said, following her. “And I don’t care what anyone thinks. Besides, I thought you knew. Luisa is leaving for the Sorbonne.”
    “But she’ll be back. Right? And Mutti told me . . . Frau Bauerman always says: ‘Use the best silverware tonight, Rose. Luisa and her family are coming for dinner.’ And just last week, ‘It’s Luisa’s birthday, so please buy the best herrings to make Matjesheringe in Rahmsosse; it’s her favorite. And make sure that Isaac and Luisa are seated next to each other for afternoon coffee and cake.’ ”
    “It’s only because our families are close. My mother grew up with Luisa’s mother.”
    “Your parents are hoping . . .”
    “My mother knows how I feel. And so does Luisa.”
    “And your father?”
    “My father can’t say anything. His parents protested his engagement to my mother because she wasn’t a practicing Jew. But he ignored them and got married anyway. He’s not going to tell me what to do.”
    “And what are you doing?” she said, shoving her hands deep in the pockets of her coat.
    “I’m enjoying a hike on a beautiful day with a beautiful girl,” he said. “Is there something wrong with that?”
    His words sent a thrill coursing through her. She turned away and strolled downhill, past the last row of twisted apple trees to a wooden bench, its thick supports buried in the sloped earth. She gathered her coat around her legs and sat down, hoping he wouldn’t notice the trembling of her hands and knees. Isaac sat next to her, elbows propped on the short backrest, legs outstretched.
    From here, they could see where the train tracks left the station, then bent along a wide, slow curve before running parallel to the hills. Beyond the tracks, neatly plowed fields rolled out in brown furrows toward the village, huddled on one end of the vast, green-and-brown patchwork valley. Wood smoke curled from chimneys toward hills patterned with trees, their leaves turning to autumn’s red, yellow, and gold. The silver ribbon of the Kocher River meandered through the center of town, its winding curves banked by high stone walls, its length cut into sections by covered bridges. They could see the spherical stone steeple of the Gothic church of St. Michael’s, soaring high above the market square. To the east, the pointed, brownstone steeple of the Lutheran church, across the street from Christine’s house, rose tall and noble above a congregation of clay-tiled rooftops. Each steeple sheltered a trio of massive iron bells that rang each daylight hour and echoed through the Sunday morning streets with the majestic peals of an ancient call to worship. Beneath the sea of orange clay rooftops turned the life of the village.
    Within a crooked maze of cobblestoned streets and stepped alleys, between centuries-old fountains and ivy-covered statues, children laughed and ran, kicking balls and jumping rope. The village bakery filled the cool fall air with the aromas of freshly baked pretzels, rolls, and Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte, Black Forest cherry tarts. Chimney sweeps walked from house to house in top hats and soot-covered clothes, their oversized black brooms carried over their shoulders like bottlebrushes for giants. Inside the Metzgerei, or butcher shop, apron-clad women counted out their coins, inspecting and selecting fresh Wurst and Braten for the midday meal and sharing news and greetings in front of the impeccably clean white counter. Beneath a gathering of striped umbrellas in the spacious market square, farmers’ wives arranged crates of apples and purple turnips in preparation for the open-air market. They organized buckets of pink and violet zinnias beside sunflowers, and stacked wooden cages of clucking brown hens and white ducks beside mounds of pumpkins. At the Krone, on the corner, old men sat in worn, wooden booths and sipped warm, dark beer, elaborating on the stories of their lives. It had always seemed to Christine that there was an urgency to their reminiscing,