The Plum Tree by Ellen Marie Wiseman Page A

their breath. Every now and then, one of them would lose her balance and fall to her knees, while the other laughed and helped her up out of the snow. Eventually, they took off their scarves and stuffed them in their coat pockets, sweating from the exertion.
    After dragging the Christmas tree home through the snowy streets, the sisters set it up in the corner of the front room, wrapping a white sheet around its base to look like snow. Normally, they would have had a short evergreen, one that would sit on the end table and, even with the star on top, still fall short of touching the ceiling. This spruce went from the ceiling to the floor, its branches nearly reaching the dining table.
    When the boys came into the room, Heinrich’s eyes went wide.
    “It’s the biggest Christmas tree ever!” he shouted.
    Karl put his hands over his open mouth and edged closer to the evergreen, moving in slow motion, as if he wanted to make the moment last.
    Maria knelt beside him. “Do you like it?” she asked, putting her arm around his small shoulders.
    Karl smiled and nodded. “Can I touch it?” he said.
    Maria kissed him on the cheek. “Of course you can! It’s your tree!”
    “I’ll bet we’ve got the biggest Christmas tree in Germany!” Heinrich said, his voice filled with pride.
    “That’s because you’re the best brothers in Germany,” Christine said, standing behind him and wrapping her arms around his shoulders.
    “Danke,” he said, turning to look up at her. She hugged him, one hand reaching out to Karl and Maria. Karl did his best to wrap his short arms around them both, and Maria joined in by hugging everyone. As the siblings embraced in front of the tree, Christine’s eyes filled, and she glanced at Maria, who looked back with shining eyes.
    “Fröliche Weihnachten,” Christine said. “Merry Christmas, my loves.”
    “Fröliche Weihnachten!!” the boys and Maria said at the same time, and everyone laughed.
    On Christmas Eve, after Christine and Maria used ashes to leave footprints on the floor next to the giant spruce, Mutti and Oma decorated the fragrant boughs with white candles, tinsel, and straw stars. Christine, Maria, Heinrich, and Karl waited outside in the hall until the grown-ups shut off the lights and rang a bell that signaled “Bescherung” —that Christkindl had left and the children could enter the glowing room to see their presents. Heinrich hurried toward the tree, then stopped short, pointing at the floor.
    “Look, Karl!” he said. “Christkindl left footprints!”
    Karl gasped, staring at the oversized, ashy prints.
    “That sorglose Christkindl!” Mutti said. “I told him to wipe his boots!”
    “It’s all right, Mutti,” Heinrich said, winking. “We’ll help you clean them up.”
    Christine and Maria looked at each other. Heinrich knew it was a trick. For some reason, the thought that he no longer believed in Christkindl made Christine’s chest constrict. She had been hoping her brothers still believed in magic. Someone had to. It reminded her of the morning she’d spent in the hills with Isaac, how naïve and idealistic she’d been, how, in what felt like a matter of minutes, she’d been forced to face reality. Everything was shifting too fast. There was a war going on; her brothers would be forced to grow up soon enough. Now, no matter how hard she tried to recapture the joy of this special day, this Christmas Eve with her family and the biggest tree they’d ever had, the lighthearted moment was gone. Her heart sank.
    Before they could open their presents, the entire family gathered around the flickering tree to pray and sing carols. Oma cried as usual, her wrinkled, watery eyes shining as she stared at the tree and sang “Stille Nacht” —“Silent Night”—in her soft, quavering voice. It was almost more than Christine could bear. Now more than ever, she understood why Oma wept when she sang the familiar carols. Christmas was an enduring milestone that came and