Free The Plum Tree by Ellen Marie Wiseman Page A

it more than I do.”
    He kissed her again, then put the stone in his pocket. “Hopefully, all of this will be nothing but a memory someday, just like the snail who left the fossil in that rock. We’ll meet here at the same time next week. Can you do it?”
    “I’ll be here.”
    Then they kissed again, long and hard, and she wished for it not to end. When it was over, he turned and walked toward the opposite end of the narrow corridor, disappearing around the gray stone corner of the café. She lingered, shivering, and listened to his fading footsteps, hoping he would turn around and come back. But little by little, the quiet night grew silent, and she knew he was gone. With the cold fingers of fear and loneliness wrapped around her heart, she made her way out of the alley, crossed the empty square, and hurried home.
    A million flickering stars dappled the sky above her house as she stood looking up toward her parents’ living room window. The light was still on, and she could see faint shadows high on the wall, her father leaning back in his chair, Opa’s head bent, chin to his chest, as he dozed. What would they think if they knew she was not in her bed, but out here, alone, in the dark street? What would they think if they knew she’d just met Isaac in a cold, wet alley?
    Back in the house, she moved in slow motion, locking the heavy front door and taking the stairs one at a time. She paused between each step to listen for any sign she’d been heard, surprised that her parents were still awake, listening to the insistent, tinny voice of Hitler. Instead of subsiding once she was safely back inside, the miserable clutch of fear settled in her stomach, like an ancient boulder at the bottom of a lake.

C HAPTER 5
    O ver the next few weeks, more and more posters went up in the village, one claiming “All of Germany listens to the Führer on the People’s Radio.” Another showed Hitler—shoulders back, a hand on one hip—staring into the distance above the words: “One People, One Reich, One Führer.” The newest poster hung outside the bakery, the butcher shop, and every church and store. It showed a handsome blond couple with two flaxen-haired, rosy-cheeked children, above the slogan: “Marry well—for race, health, and party membership!” When Christine saw the perfect Aryan family smiling merrily on every wall, it made her think of the latest directive the Nazis had issued: the list of unacceptable baby names. What will be next? she wondered. Will they tell the German citizens what to eat and wear?
    At night, as she made her way along the deserted streets to meet Isaac, the Nazi posters shimmered in the dark, like birthday candles in a tomb. She thought about ripping them down, taking them home, burning them in the woodstove. If she got caught, she could always use the excuse that they were out of firewood and coal. But fear outweighed anger, so she tried to ignore them and move on.
    Dwelling on her thoughts wouldn’t change anything. Time was the only thing she had on her side, because it was the only power that could command change. They’d have to wait this out and hope someone would overthrow Hitler, or that somehow the Nazis would come to their senses. She thought it ironic how, only weeks before, she couldn’t wait, had been downright impatient in fact, to know what adventures lay before her. If someone had told her that her life would include middle of the night rendezvous because it was illegal to love someone, she never would have believed it. But she refused to surrender to bitterness or self-pity.
    Instead, she counted the days between their secret meetings, remembering Isaac’s gentle kisses and the way his mouth cocked to one side when he smiled. Even though they’d openly professed their love for one another, their first few encounters had been brief and awkward, filled with self-conscious moments of silence until they thought of something else to say after the initial “hello” and “I