by Maureen Lang
“You’ll stay after we disperse, won’t you? I’d like to introduce you to Jurgen.”
“You might start by telling me your name,” Christophe said as they continued on, stopping traffic, attracting attention from those on the street. A trumpet player in front brought people to the windows of their homes and more marchers from the side streets.
“I’m Leo,” the man said. “Leo Beckenbauer.”
Christophe gave a small nod for a greeting, then let his gaze return to the back of Annaliese’s head. “She has a voice to remember up there, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, she’s very talented.”
“God-given talent, I would say.”
“You seem to have a lot to say about God,” Leo said. “We could use that, you know, even if some of us don’t personally share your beliefs. It’s important that we reach all of the people, including those who use faith in different ways.”
Christophe laughed. “You speak of faith as if it were a hairbrush or tooth powder, an understandable—if dull—sort of habit to get me through the day.”
“I meant no disrespect. To speak for everyone, we need representatives from all corners, to appeal to more people. Could you work with others who don’t hold to some of your beliefs?”
“I have for the past four years.”
Leo smiled. “Then come and meet Jurgen after the march, and let’s talk about how we can work together, shall we?”
The march ended at the Marienplatz, the large city square where the glockenspiel—which had survived the war, the blockades, and even now continual marches from opposing sides of political upheaval—chimed midday.
After a brief, barely heard introduction between Christophe and Jurgen, Leo disappeared just long enough to herald the one type of vehicle Christophe never wanted to enter: a trenchside ambulance. More of his friends had died in the back of one of these trucks than Christophe wanted to count.
But Annaliese jumped in, along with Jurgen and Leo and a bodyguard. Christophe had no choice except to follow.
He sat across from Annaliese, who seemed as intent on avoiding eye contact with him as he was on establishing it.
“So you have experience at the front?” Jurgen asked. The older man was sitting beside Annaliese and, for the moment, wasn’t holding her hand as he’d done throughout the march. Somehow Christophe was relieved by that, even if he did suspect their public connection must include a personal side.
Christophe nodded.
“Leo says you might want to help in our fight for a better future.”
“I don’t know enough to say how involved I’d like to be. For now, it appeals to me because it’s the opposite of the hatred I’ve seen other places, even in myself.” He wasn’t used to expressing himself this way—least of all in front of someone from his own hometown—but words fell out anyway, ideas he hadn’t expected to share. “I believe what you say about Germany being in a unique place, about being able to change our future from the past. Your pamphlets say you want to protect the weak, give work to the strong, stop those who might take advantage of others, and demand fairness for everyone. I have plenty of questions about how best to do all that. But I know one thing: I’m as tired as any German of being lied to and forced to fight against an enemy that I’m not even sure was there before we first marched out.”
He saw Jurgen and Leo exchange approving glances, while at the same time Annaliese now looked at him as though she hardly knew him—or couldn’t believe what he said.
But maybe this was what he wanted. He’d had enough of the desolation that came with defeat. It was time to hope for something better, to brush off the ashes and see what goodness lay beneath. To find the better part of Germany—and the better part of himself.
Still, he couldn’t figure out the intently suspicious look on Annaliese’s face. What had he ever done to inspire such obvious mistrust?
“What we want,” Leo said, “is for the people of lesser means to be heard. Everyone is sick of war, both rich and poor, but especially the poor because we’ve been made poorer. We all need a voice, and the councils we helped establish all over Germany are the real voice of the people, not the National Assembly left over from the last regime. The new prime minister here in Bavaria must be allowed to stay in place to enact the changes we talk about every day.”
From what Christophe had learned since reading the pamphlets circulating in Munich, every party thought they had the answer. “But the People’s Councils haven’t been in power long—barely more than a month. Before them, the monarchy and the military were in place for generations, and they failed. Why do you think the councils will do better, with so little experience?”
“I’ll grant you they haven’t been in place long,” Leo said, “and the election is a risk. But what choice do we have? If we don’t allow an election now, there will be anarchy in the streets.”
“It may come to another revolution,” Jurgen said softly. “Depending on how corrupt this election turns out to be.”
Christophe shrugged. “If it’s another bloodless revolution, it won’t matter.”
Leo scraped his palms on his knees, swiftly, as if Christophe’s words had irritated him. “It does matter. It matters a great deal.”
“But what’s to stop the councils from the same kind of dictatorship the Kaiser had before, when he ignored the assemblies put in place to check him? Doesn’t Germany need checks and balances like other countries—like America, for one?”
Jurgen leaned across the aisle, attracting Christophe’s attention. “The councils are the people. They can hardly dictate over themselves, can they? We want the fairness that’s been beyond our grasp all these years. To make sure even the weakest among us has a voice. We want nothing more than justice for those who don’t have power like the strong and wealthy.”
“Some of your fellow soldiers are joining the free corps,” Leo said. “Have you heard of them?”
Christophe nodded. “They used to tell us in the army that anyone in the free corps was untrained. I would say that must not be true anymore, with so many soldiers returning home and joining in.”
“Yes, that’s right. Do you think you might be interested in helping us increase our forces—a sort of free corps of our own?”
“All of the parties have their own guns,” Jurgen added. “We have a few men already, but none are officers. Is it true you were a Hauptmann?”
He nodded, wondering if there was any reason to correct him. Did it matter anymore that he’d left the army as a Major? “It seems to me this is what brought us trouble four years ago,” Christophe said quietly. “Different groups racing to build up their arms.”
“That may be true,” Leo said, “but the sad fact is we have no choice if we want our message to be heard. Armed members from other groups stir up trouble and discourage people. To frighten them from voicing support elsewhere. We’ve no choice, if we want to ensure freedom, except to be equal to the other groups of the city. Don’t we?”
With all eyes on him, Christophe knew they wanted him to agree, to support them. But guns . . . he was sick of them, especially when they were used in the name of freedom.
He found himself looking at Annaliese, wanting to know what she thought of such an assignment. Was she in for all that? guns and all?
“We have no intention of using the armaments against our fellow man.” Annaliese had directed her statement at Christophe but now turned to Jurgen. “Tell him.”
“It’s true,” Jurgen said. “Our aim is for peace, of course. But we live in troubled times. An armed population is a dangerous thing, and until we can remove those arms, our men must be armed in defense.”
In the thick of battle, it was impossible to tell who was on the offense or the defense. Death came to both sides. Yet Jurgen’s words were true too. They did live in troubled times. For some reason unknown to Christophe, God had appointed him to live in such a time as this.
“What exactly would you have someone like me do?”
; Just as the truck pulled to a stop, Jurgen reached across to offer Christophe his hand. “Come inside the party office,” he said with a smile.
Christophe knew following them inside right now was a decision he hadn’t planned to make, but at that moment it seemed the only thing to do. Maybe the training the German army had used against men could somehow be used to save some. Maybe—just maybe—this was exactly what God intended when He’d sent Christophe to find Annaliese.
In any case, this was the only connection he had to Annaliese, and he wasn’t yet ready to break it off.
10
Annaliese refused Jurgen’s offer to have Ivo see her home. And miss what plans they had in mind for Christophe? Unthinkable.
And so she stayed, although she said little. For the rest of the day, Jurgen and Leo tutored Christophe on the state of affairs, their voices competing with the sounds of visitors in and out of the office, those who came with questions or support, others who came to inquire about the bread they sometimes had.
Leo detailed for Christophe the more localized scramble for power ever since the Bavarian castle had been abandoned. Ties to the seven-hundred-year-old monarchy had died a quicker death than anyone might have predicted, and even here in Munich the population was ripe for a people’s government, a people’s army. Never once did Leo or Jurgen bring up words like Communism or bolshevism, and when Christophe did, they both shook their heads.
No, the rise of the German people would be nothing like that. A social democracy was what they all wanted, along with support of the councils under Eisner. That he was Jewish never came up, at least not in this little circle. It made no difference to an idealist like Jurgen—she knew that. And for her, Herr Eisner had proven himself the day he’d orchestrated a revolution without a shot fired. That was no little feat.
She watched Christophe, wondering what he thought. He asked few questions, only nodded from time to time. Not knowing his thoughts, not even being able to guess at them, surprised her. Here before her was the first man she’d ever dreamed about. Childish hopes, but hopes nonetheless. And yet the Christophe she knew must have been an illusion of her own making. In reality, she’d never really known him. She’d been so young. She knew only what she’d imagined about him—dreams that had started when she was a child but had been rekindled when she’d become friends with his sister, Nitsa, just before she’d left Germany.
It was interesting to contrast him with Jurgen, who was so glib and self-assured, so unlike the peasant he said his father had been. Compared to Jurgen, Christophe was quiet, thoughtful. Careful.
What she didn’t understand was the absolute absence in Christophe of the voice in his letters to Giselle. Those had been so forceful, so passionate about hating many of the same things Socialists railed against: big businesses like her father’s, the helplessness of those who had only the sweat of their brows to offer as barter, the lack of compassion in the profiteering bourgeois class. Why was Christophe silent about all that when his letters had been so vocal? What had it all been for, then, inciting her sister to do what she did?
His lack of enthusiasm stirred more than just anger against him; it confused her. Perhaps, somehow, the last days of the war had changed him from the way he used to be when he wrote those letters. Perhaps the war had turned him so passive that he didn’t even want to fight against what he once hated. But if that were true, it made what Giselle did even harder to bear.
Anyway, she could only hope he didn’t want to jump into their cause. She certainly didn’t want him around, a constant reminder of her parents. Her sister.
He spent the rest of the day with them, even sharing the evening meal. Food was still scarce—rumor had said the blockade would lift for things like food and necessities, although so far there was little evidence of that—but they had eggs and the inevitable turnips that had once been considered fodder only for animals. And bread, real bread, not the stuff of sawdust-laden flour the government had tried passing off, even here in Munich, not so long ago.
“Where are you living?” Leo asked when the last of the coffee had been consumed and it was time to say good night. “Can we take you somewhere?”
Christophe shook his head. “I’d planned to return home tomorrow, at least to resolve the business that brought me here.” He glanced at Annaliese, then back at Leo. “I may return here to Munich, but to where . . . I don’t yet know. I’ve been staying in the park, with other soldiers. We’re used to living under the stars.”
“Then come with us tonight. There is an extra room you can use.”
Annaliese’s gaze shot from Leo to Christophe, hoping he’d refuse. Perhaps that hope was all over her face, since he caught her glance, which curiously arrested his.
“That’s very generous of you.”
Leo patted Christophe’s back as they made their way out to the truck, Ivo leading. “It’s only fair. We’d like to have you stay and put you to work. You’ll more than earn your keep.”
When Ivo pulled up in front of the town house some minutes later, Annaliese was the first to alight. She called a good-night over her shoulder, then hurried up to her flat. Without looking at either Christophe or Jurgen.
Instead of going to bed, she sat at her desk and tended to a handful of letters from a pile that, thankfully, only seemed to be growing. Her message might only be heard by working-class women, but each of them had been awarded the same vote every other woman of Germany had been given, regardless of class. That somehow made them equal—to each other and to men. Such importance wasn’t lost on them, if these letters were any indication.
Sometime later she readied herself for bed, but sleep eluded her. She listened for noise from the rooms below, hearing nothing. After lying awake on her pillow for a while, she gave up any notion of rest and went to the window overlooking the street. She’d avoided thoughts of her parents all day, despite Christophe’s presence. If it was true they were leaving—and really, why should she doubt it—it might also be true that this would be her last opportunity to see them, to speak to them. Perhaps forever.
Part of her wanted to return with Christophe, to cave in to his judgmental recommendation and at least say good-bye. But how could she? Everything she stood for today went against what they were, what they wanted her to be.
Could she just cast such a difference aside? And if she couldn’t, why would her parents want to see her anyway? Wasn’t her duty to be true to her beliefs as a woman, and wasn’t that a greater duty than to honor the abandoned obligations she might have felt toward her parents? Even the Bible, she recalled, talked about putting aside childish things. Or something like that.
She was making her own way in life, had cut all ties for a reason. Once cut, those ties couldn’t be mended.
Movement from the street below caught her eye. Someone had slipped out the door just below her window and stepped into the street to look at the house. His face was clear in the moonlight, staring up at the windows.
Christophe.
She was tempted to duck away but doubted he could see her from her darkened room anyway.
He was clearly studying the upper floors. Huey and Bertita had already been abed when she’d come upstairs, not even a peek from Bertita tonight.
Christophe disappeared, moving closer to the building and out of sight. Then he was back, and to her astonishment, a pebble hit her windowpane.
She leaned closer and knew he saw her because he held back what must have been another pebble in his palm.
She waved him away.
He shook his head, motioning for her to join him.
Annaliese stared at him. She could ignore him but guessed he might continue throwing stones at her window until she complied. She could open her window and demand he leave her alone, but the sound of voices might rouse Bertita. And yet to meet him . . .
Why couldn’t he give up? accept that she wanted nothing to do with him or his mission to bring her home?
She waved for him to wait, then grabbed her jacket, sl
ipped into her shoes, scrambled down the stairs, but stopped at the foot of the porch. “Go away, Christophe.”
Instead, he joined her at the bottom of the stairs, so close the vapor from his warm breath touched her forehead. Even though she stood one step above, he was still taller. She pivoted away, intent on going back to her room.
“You can’t avoid me forever, you know,” he said. “Especially if I decide to become part of this organization.”
On the second step she turned on him, nearly nose to nose when he leaned forward as if to follow. “And why would you want to join us, exactly? Do you believe any of what you said to Jurgen this afternoon? Do you believe any of what he believes, what the rest of us believe?”
“I wouldn’t have said I did if I didn’t.”
“Then why did you act as if you hardly knew what we stood for? When you hate all the same things we hate?”
“Hate people like your father?”
“Yes!”
“Why should I hate him? It wasn’t his decision to go to war, and in the beginning, he was hailed as a patriot, same as every soldier out there.”
“What a liar you are, Christophe. Or do you just enjoy manipulating others around here, the way you’re trying to manipulate me into going home?”
“You should go home for you own good, Annaliese. And for your parents.”
How much more self-righteous could he be? Spouting the importance of family when he’d encouraged her sister to destroy their father’s business. He might have had a change of heart from the hatred he’d expressed in those letters, but he was no stranger to broken family bonds. She knew how utterly he’d failed with honoring one of his own. “Why do you suppose your sister left home? Why was she so eager to leave, to make sure she was gone before you had the chance to come home?”
He was confused—she saw that instantly, even before his brows drew together.
Annaliese forged ahead. “She went off before you came home because she didn’t want to face you. You with your high standards—she thinks perfection is attainable to you. Too bad she never felt she could live up to your expectation.”
