Springtime of the Spirit

by Maureen Lang

  A rumbling in the street caught her attention, and the heart that had been dancing about in her chest all evening now whipped to and fro, unfettered. He was here.

  She’d expected only one set of footsteps on the stairs, but as she neared the door, she heard two. So, Leo must not have believed she would go through with it, after all.

  When she opened the door, it wasn’t Leo at Jurgen’s side. It was Ivo.

  Jurgen walked past her, casually removing his hat and jacket as if coming home to her happened every night. When she looked at him, secretly uncertain—should she greet him with a kiss?—he only cocked his head Ivo’s way.

  Ivo looked surprised to see her. He removed his hat and didn’t meet her eyes. “I came to tell you there was a visitor at the center today, looking for you.”

  She waited. That was nothing new.

  “He knew your full name. Annaliese Düray. Claimed to be a friend of your family’s.”

  “Oh?” Now her heart started beating in a new way, pounding painfully. Anyone who knew her family was probably not a friend—to her or to the cause she’d picked up in Munich. “Did he leave a name?”

  “Christophe Brecht.”

  Her knees might have been wobbly from the moment the truck pulled up to the door, but now they nearly failed her. Christophe! Looking for her, after all this time? Her gaze went beyond Ivo to the hall, foolishly hoping he might have followed them all the way here, demanding to see her. But of course there was no one in the hall.

  “You know him,” Ivo stated, watching her.

  “Yes.”

  He looked from her to Jurgen, whose back was to them. Then he twisted the soft hat in his hand and looked once more at Annaliese. “I told him to come back tomorrow, that you would leave word with me. Do you want to see him?”

  Of course! Yes! He’d come calling for her. For her! Yet she pulled the reins on her wild thoughts. Christophe couldn’t be the same person she’d dreamed about as a child. Hadn’t his letters to Giselle taught her that? All she said was “Yes, Ivo. Did he say when he would return?”

  “No. I told him only to come tomorrow.”

  “Tell him I’ll be there at one o’clock—if he comes before then. Otherwise . . . I will be there myself, won’t I?”

  He nodded and his gaze stayed on her a little longer than necessary, as if curious about something on her face. What did he see? That the name had ignited all kinds of emotions—so many she couldn’t easily sort them out? That not only had Christophe been the first boy who’d ever filled her mind, both day and night, but he’d also been the first who’d ignored her? Who’d wanted her sister instead of her?

  Who had played a part in Giselle’s death, whether he knew it or not?

  She shouldn’t see him. She should leave word that she never wanted to see him or speak to him. Leave word that he was less than welcomed, he was hated.

  But suddenly even the lines between love and hate seemed blurry.

  Ivo closed the door behind him, and Annaliese rubbed one hand over the other, staring at the doorknob. What could Christophe possibly want?

  “Would you like a glass of wine, mein Herz? I have a bottle I’ve saved.”

  She looked over her shoulder, momentarily surprised not only by the question but by Jurgen’s presence. He held up a bottle that was already half-empty, along with a glass. Suddenly everything was fuzzy, not just how she felt about Christophe Brecht or her memories of him. What she was doing here, now, was every bit as confusing.

  And wine certainly wouldn’t help to make anything clearer. “No . . . thank you.”

  He laughed and filled the glass anyway. “I think you need it. Here, take it.”

  She did but did not drink it.

  “Jurgen,” she said slowly, watching him fill a glass for himself. She was grateful, for the moment anyway, that he would be busy consuming the beverage instead of demanding anything from her. “Why do you want me? Instead of the others, I mean?”

  He laughed again. “I knew you would want to talk, mein Herz, which is why I cut short the meeting before I tired of talking. Although you will excuse me if I hope we do not discuss things for too long?”

  “But my question, Jurgen. Why do you want me?”

  He lifted his brows. “How could I not? We work side by side, with the same passions and goals. I find you lovely, and a man cannot ignore that forever.”

  “Those reasons have more to do with you than me. Why do you want me?”

  He neared her and with his free hand stroked her cheek gently. “Because I cannot resist you. Isn’t that enough?”

  Her mind went back to another day, when she was little more than a child and Christophe sat beside her on a park bench, overlooking one of the lakes in their village. He’d told her what it was like to be in love, to see someone in a crowd and feel linked—an invisible bond but immovable, unchangeable, impossible to deny. Everyone else could disappear with a single exchange of glances, like magic, leaving two people alone together even while surrounded by others. It was part of the connection, the excitement that came with learning, then knowing, such mundane things as a beloved’s favorite food or book, with dreaming together and . . . What else had he said? Praying together? Such an intimate thing, he’d claimed.

  That was when she’d hoped Christophe would love her like that someday, but he’d been talking about Giselle.

  And none of what he spoke about, not even a trace of the love Christophe had described, was here in this room tonight—even without the distraction of any other people present. She and Jurgen might have a bond on the platform, but it was the same bond she shared with every other listener.

  “I need to go upstairs now, Jurgen. Alone.”

  “What?”

  Annaliese settled the wineglass on the table nearby, turning away from him and walking toward the door. With one quick movement he slid his wineglass onto the table somewhere near hers—a dull clink sounded when the two collided—and before she’d reached the doorknob, he stood between her and it.

  “Why do you want to go? Have I said something wrong?”

  She shook her head. “It isn’t what you said. It’s what I’m remembering.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t have waited here tonight, to make you think I might do something I cannot do, after all.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders, and she was grateful his touch was light. “It’s why you need the wine, Liebchen. To relax you.”

  “I’m not ready, Jurgen. You wouldn’t want me to do something I might regret. Wouldn’t that make you regret it too?” She touched his chest, where his heart would beat beneath her palm if she rested it there long enough to feel it. She did not. “You have a good heart. I know you want what’s best for others. And what’s best for me is to go upstairs.”

  Instead of letting her go, he leaned closer and his mouth claimed hers. His lips were warm, soft, tender. Accomplished at making her want more. Slowly his arms went around her and she wanted to lean into him, to give in to his closeness. Maybe . . .

  And yet she couldn’t.

  She pulled away, reaching past him to take hold of the doorknob. “I’m sorry.”

  Annaliese was relieved when he didn’t stand in her way.

  7

  The sun was high but the air cold, and Christophe turned up the collar of his old suit jacket. It was neither his finest nor his warmest. The warmest coat he’d owned had been issued by the army and had seen four winters in France, four of the coldest winters of his life. But the day before yesterday, when he spotted an old man just coming away from the food lines, Christophe knew even with a temporarily filled belly the man wouldn’t be warm for long. The army-issue coat had nearly been too heavy for the man’s frail body, but he’d been grateful nonetheless.

  It had been easy to give away. Maybe some of the memories would go with it.

  This jacket was inadequate, but at a brisk pace Christophe barely noticed. He push
ed open the now-familiar shop door under the butcher’s sign draped with a flag depicting men and women reaching upward—no doubt toward the better life their politics promised. Politics and politics alone. From what he could tell of the flyers he’d seen, they weren’t reaching for God. The only kind of faith their pamphlets preached was faith in unity.

  Inside, there was considerably more activity than yesterday when he’d signed up for his tepid membership in their party. There was still a man behind the desk who started to address him before another man stepped forward, the man who’d been so protective of Annaliese yesterday.

  “Good day!” He held out his hand, all stiffness of yesterday abandoned. The hand he extended wasn’t an invitation to a handshake; Christophe noted he held what few fingers he had left close to the palm, as in a mangled fist. Rather the gesture was an invitation to enter deeper into the room, past the desk in front of him. The man cocked his head toward the other half of the room, and Christophe looked that way.

  Nearby, two other men worked folding flyers, stacks of them. Others bundled papers or performed various clerical duties. Beyond them in the foremost corner, sitting amid the light streaming in from the window, sat an artist at an easel with a woman in a black skirt and white blouse bending over him. Her back was to him, but based on the picture and the familiar color of her light blonde hair, Christophe guessed it was Annaliese. At last.

  He nodded a silent thank-you to the man who’d pointed her out.

  “Yes, I see your point,” she was saying to the artist while they both stared at a rendition of a woman with two children at her side. “But it isn’t only children women must worry about. This is the second poster you’ve drawn emphasizing just one role women fill. We do worry about the protection of children and their education—but so much more. Why not draw an equal number of women at work to show that our contribution is equal—or can be? or the one I mentioned yesterday: women beside men at the ballot box?”

  Even from behind, Christophe could tell the artist hadn’t caught her vision. He pitied the man; her idea was sound, but the reality of women working outside the home—and even voting next month—was something they would all need time getting used to.

  “Annaliese?”

  He saw her stiffen and wondered for a moment if she would turn around. Most likely she didn’t recognize his voice; perhaps she wouldn’t even remember him.

  “It’s me, Christophe Brecht. Do you remember me?”

  At last she turned, and he wished he were better at reading faces. All he saw was how pretty she was. Her skin was pure and white with a touch of pink highlighting her cheekbones. Her hair was piled up and he wished it were down, the way it had been painted, because it was full of waves. But of course she’d been younger in the portrait, the child he remembered her to be.

  It was her eyes he wished most to read; although she stared at him—not just glanced, but stared—he couldn’t tell if she was happy or sad to see him. Not indifferent, which he might have understood. No, there was emotion behind that stare, but he couldn’t determine what it was.

  “Yes,” she said slowly, “I remember you. I wondered how long it would take you to show up here.”

  “You expected me?”

  “Well, I thought you might already have a place in the party. Here or perhaps with the Communists.”

  That was the second time he’d been taken for a Communist. He could understand why she might think him a member of her party already—a number of those who’d given him information about her independent Socialist party had been soldiers, so he knew it was a popular movement among them. Perhaps the Communists were just as popular with soldiers.

  He shook his head.

  She looked at his inadequate jacket. “I see you no longer wear your uniform. Weren’t you a Hauptmann in the army? You might have removed the rank but kept the jacket.”

  He hadn’t come to discuss politics—or to tell her he’d been a Major for over a year. “I wasn’t able to come home until recently, but army life is behind me.”

  She stepped closer but kept the table between them, gripping its edge as if she needed its assistance. “And are you living in Munich now?”

  He shook his head. “No, I went home.”

  “I’m sorry about your brother. It was hard on Nitsa—harder I think than even losing your parents.”

  “And I’m sorry about your sister. I didn’t know . . . not until I came home. It’s been so long since I’d heard from her, but I always imagined her home. Safe with the rest of you. Or as safe as anyone could be, considering everything.”

  Her knuckles had gone white at the mention of Giselle. Annaliese looked away, and he noticed her profile was so different from what her sister’s had been. Annaliese had a small nose, delicate chin. Giselle had had a wider forehead and a slope to her nose he doubted he would ever forget.

  “Thank you for stopping by to see me, then.”

  He stepped to the side, putting himself in her line of vision. “I came because your parents asked me to find you. They’d like you to come home.”

  One brow rose as if he’d spouted something ridiculous. Perhaps he had. In that moment it made sense to him. Here she was, working for a party that was as anticapitalist as her father was capitalist. A warmonger, the village called him—and so would anyone in this butcher shop–turned–party office. He was hated, so hated he’d had to buy the dogs and hire a guard for fear of his life. Enough hatred to inspire his upcoming flight to America.

  Did Annaliese hate him too?

  Christophe might not have been able to read her reaction to his arrival, but he could read her reaction to his words easily enough. She wanted no part of the reason he’d come.

  * * *

  He might be taller than the last time Annaliese had seen him, he might be older and even sport a new scar across one eyebrow, but he was every bit as handsome as the moment she’d first noticed him as more than just another boy in her village. The moment her child’s heart had listened to him describe what it was like to fall in love, when she herself had thought she wanted to love him someday, when she was all grown up and the five years’ difference in their ages would no longer matter.

  When, she wondered for the hundredth time, had Giselle fallen in love with him? He knew when he’d fallen in love with her—he’d as much as told Annaliese that day on the park bench.

  But what had he meant when he said it had been such a long time since he’d heard from her? Perhaps, to someone in love, it had only seemed a long time. Giselle had done what she’d done just four months ago. Before that, she’d written to him. Hadn’t she?

  Annaliese sent a quick glare his way, wondering what he would do if she accused him right now in front of everyone in this room. Those letters—his letters—had been to blame for what Giselle had done. But Annaliese knew she wouldn’t accuse him. This man standing before her, who only shook his head with no further explanation about whether or not he was a Communist, might not see things as he’d seen them when he wrote those letters. She would keep her secret and not tell him anything at all about Giselle. He didn’t deserve to know, anyway. The knowledge gave him too much importance.

  Annaliese repeated his words in her head. What had he just said? Her parents had sent him to Munich for her? to bring her home? She nearly laughed. Not only at the irony of him doing anything for them, but of him being willing.

  “You of all people should not want to do their bidding, Christophe. Once a soldier, always a soldier.”

  He reached for one of the flyers on the table between them. Kameraden! it said in bold black lettering. Freiheit, Frieden, und Brot. He pointed to the words. “Isn’t this what you believe? That it’s time for peace now?”

  She took the flyer from him, replacing it on the stack. So he was ready to put it all behind him, the passion he’d written of in those letters. The passionate hatred of anything fueling the war.

  Well, she wasn’t.

  How she would have loved naming all the reasons s
he knew peace was impossible between her and her parents—and in particular between her and her father. Christophe should still understand that, even if he only wanted peace now.

  He hadn’t been in the village when one by one their neighbors lost interest in the war except for the agony it brought. When people stopped talking to her family, when the blockades that were still in place slowly cut off the flow of food to starvation levels but somehow, from somewhere, metal was delivered to keep the munitions factory going. And her father brought in more money—enough to leave the village for that house, that big, awful house that was a testimony to the lives his weaponry had cost.

  “Yes, it certainly is the time for peace,” she said, mindful of the fact that no one in this room—not a single one pretending to be too busy to hear—knew of her close connection to a warmonger. She needed to see this man out, not just out of the office, but out of her life. “You may tell my parents I wish them well. Good day to you, Christophe.”

  She started to turn away but he held up a hand as if he would touch her, causing her to stop where she stood.

  “Is that all you have to say to me, an old friend? Just good day? What about your parents?”

  She faced him, but no other words came to mind. Not here. Not now.

  “I’m a member of the party,” he said. “Your party.”

  If that was supposed to impress her, it didn’t. The letters he’d written had been full of passion to change Germany, many beliefs that were right in line with her party’s—and even more radical, farther to the left, where only Communists and Spartacists could stand. “Why are you here at my parents’ bidding, then?”

  Someone stepped closer, behind them. “Did you say you’re a member of our party—the USPD?”

  Leo’s voice; he was one person who didn’t care if others knew he was eavesdropping.

  “Yes,” Christophe said, standing at what would have been attention if he still wore his uniform. Thankfully, he did not salute.

  “You were a soldier?”