Springtime of the Spirit

by Maureen Lang

  Perhaps she needed to abandon the remnants of their rules and let the passions she’d found here in Munich dictate her behavior. Did her actions really matter, after all, if she didn’t hurt anyone? She’d thought everything mattered, once, if not for the moment, then for later. Some things had eternal consequences, or so she’d been told.

  But here, now, everything she believed told her this was all she had. Life must be made better for everyone because life—this life—was their only chance.

  Looking at Jurgen, standing beside him in the light of his power and charisma, she found it impossible not to want him. For now. He had his choice of any woman in their crowd, yet he’d chosen her.

  What was the harm, anyway?

  * * *

  “This is a photograph of Annaliese Düray. Her family often took rooms here, whenever they were in Munich.”

  “Ah, yes, one of the Düray daughters.” The woman behind the counter glanced up and tsked at Christophe, frowning and shaking her head, her double chin wobbling. “Is it true they lost one of their daughters to an accident in their factory? Ach, such a shame, such loss.”

  “But this is the younger daughter, Annaliese. She’s here in Munich. Do you know where I can find her?”

  The woman stared at the picture again, still shaking her head until Christophe repeated his question.

  “She’s not here, not anymore. She was here for several days, but that was . . . oh, two months ago, at least.”

  “And where did she go? Did she leave an address should she have any mail?”

  “No, no . . . Oh, but wait. There is someone who might help you.” She started to say something but suddenly drew in a breath as if a thought had frozen her words. “Whom did you say you were, sir?”

  “Christophe Brecht. A friend of the family.”

  “And have you some proof of that? Why should I help you to find her? The family has always been very kind to me and generous. They’ve lost one child already. I don’t want something to happen to the only one they have left.”

  “Herr and Frau Düray sent me to Munich to find Annaliese. To bring her home.”

  She tsked again. “So she’s run off and left her parents. Such a shame, when they have only her now. Such a shame.”

  “Did you say there was someone who might be able to help me find her?”

  “Well . . . yes, I suppose you might ask the widow, Frau Haussman. She held the room next to Fräulein Düray, and the two of them were friendly. It’s possible they’ve kept in touch.”

  “How can I find her, this Frau Haussman?”

  “I’ll send someone to her room,” she said as she waved to a bellman nearby. Then she looked again at Christophe. “You wait.”

  And so he did, pacing between the window and the glass door of the plush lobby. He’d been tempted to follow the bellman to the widow’s door but thought better of it under the hotel matron’s scrutiny.

  When finally the bellman returned, he only shook his head and said no one had answered.

  The woman behind the desk sent Christophe a sympathetic smile. “Frau Haussman often goes out for lunch, but I suppose she’ll be back before too long. You can wait in the café. It’s there, just beyond the double doors. Best stay inside today. There are a number of rallies going on again, and they’re getting more boisterous every day, all that shouting and carrying on about the election next month.” She frowned. “They’re all promising a better future, but I don’t know how every group can say that when all they do is argue about how to do such a thing.”

  Christophe walked away, passing by the café. Instead, he went back to the street. Activity in this city was more frantic than he’d seen elsewhere, with flyers littering the streets, shops still closed, factories shut down. Wide avenues were jammed not with shoppers but with food lines or men protesting, marching, or simultaneously cheering and jeering at various rallies held in nearly every park or street corner. Not a smile to be found, just shouting and bristling.

  And Annaliese was here; she chose to be. He’d thought of little else in the past few days since agreeing to search for her. He recalled her tagging along behind Giselle wherever she went; back then he’d been fond of her, although Giselle had seemed to think her a nuisance.

  Annaliese hadn’t been at either of the other hotels her mother had suggested and no one had seen her, though a waiter at one of the hotel restaurants had provided a list of possible restaurants the Duräy family might have frequented, popular places with many of the regular guests. Christophe had chased all around the city but was running out of places to look.

  “Take one of these, comrade,” said a man who thrust a leaflet at him.

  Christophe barely glanced at it. He shoved it into his pocket, along with several others he’d been handed that day.

  A motorcar skidded by, leaving a cloud of street dust behind. After that a cart pulled by a donkey ambled along, separating two bicycle riders with packets stacked above their rear wheels. Farther down the block, his ear caught the sound of a woman’s voice. Loud, boisterous, followed by cheers from a crowd more mixed than any of the others he’d seen. Mostly men, but some women were there too.

  He walked along the edge, impressed by the size of the gathering and the fact that it was a woman who drew them together. Attentive faces stared as she touted a better future—the same message everyone offered these days, so he soon stopped listening. The future could hardly be worse than the past four years, so what good were such words? What they needed were open factories with paying jobs. They ought to stop the strikes and these protests that blamed everyone from the government to the military to factory owners; then everyone could get back to work.

  He walked on, turning back now so he wouldn’t be far from the hotel. He would meet Frau Haussman and see if she could be of any help.

  He was directed to a woman who sat in the vestibule of the hotel, a little white dog at her feet yapping his guardianship. When Christophe approached, she looked at him welcomingly despite the dog, which she pulled close and settled on her lap.

  The widow was younger than he’d expected, but then there were so many widows in Germany these days. She was finely dressed, and though she wouldn’t be called pretty, she had a unique look that wasn’t altogether unappealing. Her nose was prominent but straight; her eyes too small and yet bright, as if details wouldn’t go long unnoticed. He briefly introduced himself and then asked her about Annaliese as he showed her the photograph.

  “Yes, that’s Annaliese, isn’t it? Not the best likeness; she’s so much prettier in person.” She looked toward the door. “If only you’d caught me sooner, you could have accompanied me to her rally. I’ve just come from there.”

  “You’ve just seen her at a rally?” He looked again at the quality of her clothing; most of the rallies held throughout the city attracted working-class listeners, not anyone dressed as finely as she.

  “Yes, she was magnificent as always. So impassioned, so selfless. She inspires the rest of us toward the greatest hope and generosity.”

  “Do you mean to say she spoke at the rally?”

  Frau Haussman laughed. “Of course! If you go three blocks to the right, you might still catch the remnants of her group. I don’t know when she’ll be speaking again, but I can assure you it’ll be soon. Just look for the leaflets from the USPD.”

  Christophe bowed with a thank-you, then hurried from the hotel, all the while pulling flyers from his pockets and discarding ones that said nothing about the USPD. The moment he spotted one with the picture of a woman, he stopped to study it.

  It was taken from too great a distance to be identifiable, yet there was nothing in the photo to make him believe it couldn’t be her. The name on the leaflet belonged to someone else, however, an invitation to hear someone named Jurgen promising Freiheit, Frieden, und Brot—freedom, peace, and bread.

  Had it been her, the woman speaking at the rally he’d passed not an hour ago? If so, he could surely find her before this day was out.


  5

  “There was something different about you today, mein Herz.” Jurgen brushed the top of Annaliese’s arm, a spot halfway between her elbow and shoulder. Hand in hand they’d led a procession through the streets, from the city center up to the Friedensengel. What better place to conclude their march and then disperse, full of hope, than at the foot of a statue commemorating peace?

  Now they sat in the back of the truck, on benches that only recently had been padded to offer a more comfortable ride.

  She might have admitted there was indeed something different about the way she felt today. But since she couldn’t define it for herself, she only smiled, letting him hold her gaze and ignoring Leo’s approving attention.

  “There is another meeting this evening,” Jurgen said. “To prepare for the council tomorrow. You needn’t attend, but if I knew you waited for me, the meeting would go by all the quicker.”

  “Why don’t I attend, too, then?” She didn’t have the direct access he had to those on the new council—those who had been allowed to take power after last month’s revolution. Only weeks ago, she’d been in the hotel while armed soldiers had driven through the streets of Munich and stationed themselves in front of nearly every public building. That was all it took for the government to surrender and warn the Bavarian royal family it could no longer protect them. They’d fled, putting an end to the Wittelsbach dynasty. Those behind the guns proclaimed Munich a republic of the Free State of Bavaria. On that day councils of workers and soldiers had proclaimed Kurt Eisner not only their leader but the new Bavarian prime minister.

  It was an easy bandwagon to jump on, at least for idealist poets like Jurgen, power forces like Leo . . . and the guilty, like Annaliese herself. Eisner would make right the wrongs Germany had inflicted on its people, which was why, ever since that day, she worked so hard to make sure he won the election.

  But as much as Jurgen told her he wanted women to have a voice, even claiming Germany had made the right decision by allowing women a vote, he had never agreed to have Annaliese or any other woman sit in on the meetings with those connected to the council. It had rankled her on other occasions, but tonight she wouldn’t let it.

  “It isn’t yet time for your place on a council. But soon.” He raised one of her hands and kissed her fingertips. “You’ll have a powerful voice for women on their own council.”

  Before long they were at an abandoned factory warehouse. It provided more than enough room to house a press for the flyers and pamphlets they produced, a roof and cots for bodyguards who weren’t on duty, as well as a private place to meet. It wasn’t as convenient as the butcher shop–turned–headquarters, but it was far larger.

  “I will see you soon,” Jurgen whispered, then leaned close, hesitating only long enough to catch her eye and smile before pressing his lips directly to hers and letting them linger.

  Annaliese watched him alight, staring after him until the doors to the truck had been shut. Leo went with him, and so when the truck lurched forward on its way back to her flat, with Huey driving, she was left alone in the back.

  She let her fingers brush her lips. Perhaps what would happen between her and Jurgen was inevitable. They’d been moving toward each other ever since the day she’d heard him speak. Certainly she’d imagined being with him before today. She knew what would happen if she followed her desires and let herself into the flat he shared with Leo instead of going up to her own apartment. Leo would surreptitiously disappear. And then Jurgen would kiss her again . . . and more.

  Why shouldn’t she want such a thing to happen? She was a woman now, able to face her desires, make her own decisions. Decisions that could be made without childish embarrassment, her parents’ cautions, or the faith they’d tried to instill in her.

  She wasn’t going to run away from what she wanted anymore.

  * * *

  “Sign here. I’ve printed your name below, as you can see.”

  Christophe eyed the man behind the desk inside the butcher shop. He had a German education, after all, and if they’d done anything right before the war, it had been education. Why would he need help filling out the most basic form? If this party offered anything of value, even the soldiers, workers, and peasants they claimed to represent would continue to be offered free education.

  He signed his name.

  “I’m interested in speaking to a leader in the party.” Christophe held out a leaflet. “This woman in particular. Annaliese Düray.”

  “Contact with members of the party is available through letters of support,” the man said, producing an envelope from a pile on the desk. Just the size of a German Mark, no doubt to encourage donations as well as letters.

  Another man Christophe had casually noted in the shadows stepped forward. He was large, taller than Christophe himself. Bulkier. Missing a few fingers, but still formidable.

  “What is your business with her?”

  “I am a friend of the family.”

  “She has no family.”

  Christophe smiled, though inside he cautioned himself. He hadn’t seen so many guns in such a small room since he’d been in a bunker at the front. “Everyone has a family,” he said. “I do. Don’t you?”

  The man looked in no mood for friendly discussion. He folded massive arms on his massive chest, the gun tucked under his arm, and stared at Christophe as if contemplating the fastest way to crush him.

  “Where are you from?” he asked suspiciously. “The Communists?”

  Christophe had only a vague familiarity with the multitude of political arguments raging through Munich these days, but he wondered what prompted the question. Were his clothes so tattered? He’d given away his coat and hadn’t shaved in a few days, both good reasons he might be associated with such a group.

  “I just signed a paper to join this group—”

  “And why is that? To meet a pretty girl?”

  “I’ve spoken to a number of people who attend these rallies on a regular basis—” six, not counting the first, Frau Haussman—“and not one of them claimed to know Annaliese by anything other than her first name. They verified only that this picture was she. How could I have known her full name if I’m not acquainted with her family?”

  “What is your name?”

  “Christophe Brecht.”

  “I will tell her you support our cause, and if she knows your name, she will leave word here when you can see her. Come back tomorrow.”

  Christophe didn’t protest. He’d had four years of confrontation and wasn’t going to risk another for politics . . . or for a young woman who might not want what he had to offer—her parents’ attention. Obviously Annaliese was healthy and not in any danger—at least beyond the danger she chose to put herself in by being a leading figure in a politically volatile world. The Socialists were the ones in power for the moment.

  But if she was willing to risk her life for German politics, he doubted she’d be interested in fleeing to America. At least not anytime soon.

  6

  How many times had she been in Leo’s flat since she’d come to Munich? Too many to recall, usually to share a meal or to discuss the election or the needs of the people. They often met in the dining room, not for a banquet of food but for a smorgasbord of ideas.

  The lines between individual liberty and security of the masses, both personal and financial, might be gray in some circles but not here. No topic was banned, though most often they discussed such things as the real meaning of freedom, the ideals of universal unity and fairness, or the pitfalls of capitalism and hazards of profit in light of those ideals.

  Annaliese had kept silent during some of the early conversations, though she’d come to Munich with many of her own opinions about the menaces of greed and the evils in capitalist businessmen. She soaked up the knowledge and passions around her and somehow, with less and less coaching about what she should say, not only were her street speeches drawing more and more attention, she’d joined in a few of the discussions in
this very room. Unlike Bertita, Huey’s wife. She was the only other woman who lived under this roof. Bertita quietly did the cooking and the cleaning, the laundry and the mending, but Annaliese knew she kept an ear on what happened. Perhaps as avidly as Annaliese herself. More than likely Bertita knew, at this moment, that Annaliese waited for Leo and Jurgen to return.

  But Bertita couldn’t know that the politics discussed in this room was the last thing on Annaliese’s mind right now. She sat alone on one of the chairs near the window so she would spot the truck when it pulled up to bring Leo and Jurgen home. If Leo came along; she suspected he might find something else to do this evening.

  Which might pique Bertita’s curiosity, if she knew Annaliese and Jurgen would be alone in the same way Leo often left him with a woman of choice.

  Annaliese’s mind raced. She had been alone with Jurgen before, but never like this. Expectations of the evening thrilled and frightened her all at once. Right or wrong no longer mattered, not the way it once might have. What mattered now was what she wanted. Her only question was if allowing herself this freedom would help or hurt her future.

  She wasn’t naive enough to think what happened between her and Jurgen tonight would mean anything to him. Though she had met him less than two months ago, she knew his taste for the women he’d been with rarely lasted. Lovemaking, to him, was like creating one of his poems—flaring up with passion, loving the words into place, only to have other words, other women inspire him. She couldn’t envision his desire for her to be any different. She would face the same fate, a similar season of favor that would bud, flower, and fade.

  Surely since she was aware of that, expected each step of the pattern, she wouldn’t end up with the remnants of tears on her face every time she saw Jurgen after he no longer wanted her.