by Maureen Lang
Anger joined the confusion on his face. “What are you talking about?”
How sweet it would be to plunge the knife of regret into his gut and give it a twist or two. To hear the truth about a sibling and have that truth let him down. “She was stealing, Christophe. From my father’s factory, from empty homes, from strangers or neighbors. And selling what she could on the black market.”
There, it was done. So quickly, too. She saw all the emotion she expected even as she came to the instantaneous, terrible realization that the knife didn’t feel nearly as pleasurable as she thought it should. His eyes went from curious to astonished, skeptical to accepting. Moist.
She turned from him, ashamed she’d been so eager to hurt him, ashamed she’d succeeded. She went up one step, and he didn’t follow. She stopped.
“I didn’t blame her,” Annaliese added over her shoulder, because as suddenly as the impulse had come upon her, she wanted to withdraw that knife, to erase the evidence she’d ever used it and banish the look in his eye. “She was left with too little; she sold her own goods first and not for luxury. She needed to eat. And she only stole from those who could afford it.”
“But my parents—”
“Were too generous before they died. They helped so many others that they had too little left for themselves. Or Nitsa.”
“But I sent money home, whenever I could.”
Annaliese was fully regretful now; she wished she’d never told him. Nitsa wouldn’t have wanted him to find out this way. “She suffered the same flaw your parents did. She was too generous with what little she had, and whatever was left to us was so expensive. It still is.”
He rubbed his hands over his face but then looked at her again. “She left home because she thought I would judge her for that?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
Christophe looked away so all she could see was his profile, one that seemed suddenly cut from stone. “Once, maybe. Not anymore.”
“What changed?”
He faced her. “The same thing that changed you. And the rest of Germany.”
She wished she could ask him how the war had changed him, how he could have written some of the things he did and speak today as if none of it mattered. She wished she could share her own memories, too, but so much stood in the way. Starting with Giselle.
She didn’t want to look at him, but her eyes went to his anyway. “The last time I saw you, I was a child. I’ve grown up.”
He took the three steps separating them. “No.” He was so close, he nearly spoke into her ear. “It’s more than that. I remember your smile. I remember you smiling at me. But now . . . it’s as if you can’t even bear my company. Why?”
If she told him, it would be like taking another knife to him, and she’d lost her taste for that. He didn’t know he was the cause for what Giselle had done. Why tell him? It wouldn’t change anything. “Perhaps it is the war,” she said. “It’s made me too serious. We’re all that way.”
He shook his head. “I don’t believe you.”
No one had ever called her a liar before, but until now she’d never deserved such an accusation. How could she tell him that since she was a child, he’d been her source of one disappointment after another? that he’d been the first to describe to her what love was about, and she’d wished that it had been her he’d talked about? that when he’d spent time with Giselle, it crushed Annaliese each and every time? And later, when she’d become close to Nitsa, who had spoken of him so fondly, it had resurrected that old infatuation in Annaliese, giving it a place in her maturing heart.
But worst of all, he didn’t seem to have held on to anything he believed that had inspired Giselle. It took away whatever meaning she might have thought her actions had.
Annaliese took another step up, away from him, but he stayed her again, this time with a hand over the one she had placed on the banister.
“Come home with me tomorrow, Annaliese. Just see them.”
“Why do you care so much, one way or the other? Wasn’t my father one of the many who profited from the war, one of the many responsible for keeping you at the front for so long?”
“I don’t want you to see them for their sakes. I want you to do it for yours.”
She looked at him, wondering if her voice would work given the pounding of her heart. “The question remains. Why do you care?”
“It’s the right thing for you to do.”
She should have known. Other things might have changed, but he was still the righteous one.
“No, Christophe. Even if you’re right, I won’t do it.”
Then she fled back to her room.
* * *
Christophe had little choice but to let her go. What else could he do? Follow her to her room? Drag her away with him tomorrow? Even if he wanted to, he doubted Jurgen and his squadron of bodyguards would allow such a thing.
And so Christophe descended the steps again, turning up the collar on his jacket. He should have let himself into Leo’s flat, returning to that warm little room with its snug bed and plenty of covers. But he’d tried sleeping there earlier, and once again sleep had eluded him.
They’d come to him the moment his head hit the soft pillow. Those shadows, those faces. All the brighter, all the more clearly condemning in contrast to his comfort. Only now he knew they would be joined by a new face: his sister’s.
She’d fled Germany, and that was his fault too.
An alcove out of the wind would suffice again tonight, and tomorrow he would decide what he would do next. Go home alone, or stay.
11
“So our new soldier has left already,” Jurgen said to Annaliese when she swung through the kitchen door to join the others for breakfast. Bertita cooked for everyone who shared the multifamily living quarters but always used Leo’s kitchen, which was the largest and the center of most activity.
If Jurgen’s observation was supposed to surprise Annaliese, it didn’t. From her window last night she’d watched Christophe walk down the street, then listened for his return throughout the hours that followed. She dozed fitfully, never far from awareness. Evidence of her poor night’s sleep could be found in the puffy eyes she’d seen in her mirror this morning.
“I heard him leave during the night,” Bertita said. “Do you think he will be back?”
Annaliese only shrugged. She didn’t want to say she hoped not because she knew they considered it a feat indeed to have a former officer in their league. Most of those like him were loyal to the old government and the National Assembly. She accepted coffee from Bertita, along with a roll—dry, which meant butter was scarce again.
“You should have convinced him to stay.” Bertita’s tone was level, cool. “He’s your friend, isn’t he? He’s the kind of man we need. One with a gun, who can train others how to use them.”
“I don’t know that he’d be willing. He seemed less than certain about joining us. In any case, he’s gone.” She was eager to move on to another topic. “I’ll be visiting the textile mill today to speak to women about their vote.”
Leo pushed away from the table, taking his cup to the sink for Bertita to wash. “You’re right about how we could use his help, Bertie, so let’s hope he returns.”
“Leave the dishes until later, will you, Bertita?” Jurgen asked. “I’d like a word with Annaliese before the day gets the best of us.”
The room emptied in record time. Huey pushed open the door that swung between the kitchen and dining room—a door no doubt designed in the days of busy cooks needing easy access between the rooms—and Leo followed. Bertita left through the back door with a wicker laundry basket.
Annaliese sipped her coffee, but it was flavorless. Nothing penetrated her senses when Jurgen glowered at her, as he was doing now.
“Tell me about this friend of yours, this Christophe Brecht.”
She tried a smile but was afraid he realized it was forced. “I think perhaps you know him as well as I do, after yesterday. We were neve
r close friends.”
“How can that be? He seemed intent on bringing you home with him.”
Another sip. “And he left without me.”
Jurgen leaned closer. “I heard him leave last night. And I heard your footsteps down the stairs shortly after.”
She met his gaze. “Then you must have heard my footsteps going back up to my room shortly after that. Alone.”
“I did. But why did you follow him out?”
“He threw a stone on my window ledge. I didn’t want him to wake anyone, so I went to tell him to leave me alone.”
“Why was he so eager to talk to you, and why are you just as eager to avoid him?”
“Because he wants me to see my parents before they leave Germany.”
“And you don’t want to?”
She shook her head.
“Why?”
Now was as good a time as any to tell him what would likely come out eventually, especially if Christophe did return as Jurgen must hope—if his interest in Christophe was any indication. “My father is a capitalist of the worst kind. I don’t care if I ever see him again.”
Jurgen smiled as he reached across the table to pat one of her hands. “Anya, Anya. You speak too passionately. He’s your father.”
She leaned away from him, taking her hand from his. “You of all people shouldn’t want me to go, Jurgen. He profited from the war. He turned his metalworks factory into a munitions plant, and somehow, while the rest of us were starving, he still managed to receive shipments of metal.”
“I don’t doubt you. But he’s still your father.”
“You, too?”
“I want to be sure you know what is best for you, mein Herz.”
“I think I’m capable of figuring that out for myself.” She stared into her coffee cup instead of at him.
Jurgen took the spoon next to her cup and stirred his own with it. “So that is all that’s between you and Christophe? He wanted you to settle things with your family?”
“Yes. Why?”
He smiled again and leaned closer, intimately so. “Let’s just say I like to keep track of how many lions are in the den. If he returns, that is.”
A week ago, if he’d used that tone of voice, summoned the smile he reserved only for women who interested him, Annaliese would have smiled back. Her heart would have fluttered. Instead, she looked away, pretending shyness even if she didn’t feel such a thing at the moment.
“Anya,” he said softly, “you’ve become very dear to me. You know that, don’t you?”
“No less than you are to me.” It was true, after all, even if in the past few days she’d thought less about being in his bed than how to understand—or explain—why she no longer dreamed about getting there.
“It’s difficult for me,” he whispered, “knowing you’re upstairs every night, alone. I’ve often thought about coming to you.”
He took one of her hands in his and she was glad because it steadied her. She hid her free hand in her lap.
She must say something, try telling him how confused she was. “I think—sometimes—that’s what I want too. But I’ve never been with anyone before, and for me it seems to be an important step. More important than I once thought.”
He laughed gently. “Are you worried that I will find you lacking? I expect your inexperience. Don’t be afraid. It’s all perfectly natural. What will happen is a beautiful thing, one I’d like to show you.”
She didn’t doubt that. And maybe he was right; whatever mysteries there were between a man and a woman should be beautiful. It was, after all, the most personal of things to share and would certainly make each vulnerable to the other.
“Come here,” he said, standing and pulling her to her feet too. “Let me go through the day thinking of you. Tasting you.”
Then his lips came down on hers. He tasted of the coffee they’d been drinking, only cooled.
“Until tonight,” he said, pulling away.
And then he let her go.
* * *
Christophe neared the woman pulling in laundry, noticing her attention was clearly drawn to something inside the kitchen. He topped the last step behind her and followed her gaze with his own.
In time to see Annaliese in Jurgen’s arms.
He must be twenty years her senior! Nearly as old as her father!
An immediate notion to barge in crossed his mind, past the woman watching from just outside the door in the chilly morning air. He would demand Jurgen leave Annaliese alone.
But then it all became clear; that embrace, that kiss—they were hardly one-sided. She’d welcomed him.
Christophe backed away, straight into a frigid sheet dangling on the line. Wordlessly, without apology, blindly, he took the opposite end of the material and together, as if by design, he and the woman stretched it taut; then with two steps he handed it to her to finish folding.
She thanked him, but he couldn’t respond, not even a murmur. He left the porch and started walking, barely paying attention to his direction.
12
The women Annaliese met with that day were eager to talk to her. These were workingwomen, some of them supporting their families while their husbands—returned soldiers unable to find a job or others let go from factories still transitioning from war goods to civilian needs—looked for work. Others were unmarried women like Annaliese, drawn to the city from various agricultural villages, enjoying the independence their jobs provided. She knew if the war had afforded any favors, it was emancipation from the few roles previously available to women like her.
She welcomed the diversion, their enthusiasm, the questions and discussions about the privilege of voting for the first time in their lives. The world of politics had never been an option for them, and they were eager to hear her views on fairness and equality for everyone, about the People’s Council who would speak for them so long as they were not dissolved should another party win the election. They were even eager to donate a few coins of their hard-earned wages in support of Eisner, because he’d been chosen by the council.
Working felt natural to her. It was not just a mindless way of escaping from more personal things on her mind. She contributed to the future of Germany by educating women who very much wanted to learn what she had to teach. And she added to the party coffers every time she spoke, no matter where she went.
But escape she must, not only from wondering if Christophe would return to work with their party, but from thoughts of Jurgen and what he expected of her when she saw him that night.
By the time Annaliese returned to the party office, it was late in the day. She’d extended her workday as long as she could, but with each footstep toward the butcher shop came thoughts of Jurgen, waiting.
It was times like this she missed Nitsa. Though Annaliese had known Nitsa all her life, they’d only become close friends shortly after Annaliese had caught her stealing money from the payroll office at the factory. She’d made Nitsa return it but had promised to give her something from her parents’ home that would bring nearly as much on the black market as the puny sum Nitsa had managed to steal. Her parents had never missed the silver candlesticks they’d stored in the back pantry.
“Why would being alone with Jurgen be unpleasant now,” Nitsa would ask Annaliese if she were here, “when only a week ago you thought you wanted to be with him? to give yourself to him? What’s changed?”
Nothing, absolutely nothing.
The whole situation reminded Annaliese of a painting her father once owned, one Annaliese wanted to give to Nitsa to sell. But for some reason on the very day Annaliese had planned to remove it, her father had taken it from the closet where it had been stored. Everyone thought it had been the work of a minor artist from right here in Munich. While mildly respected, the painter’s work had never garnered the attention he would have liked, not even upon his death. The artwork her father owned had been appealing enough, a nice use of color, which was why Annaliese thought it might sell on the black market. B
ut when her father took it to an art critic who recognized it as the work of a famous Flemish artist, the price had leaped to the sky.
What had changed? The painting?
No, only its perceived value. Her father sold it immediately, pocketing a hefty profit.
She shook her head, refusing to compare her present dilemma to a capitalistic phenomenon. This was far more personal than that.
And yet what had caused the value of being with Jurgen to do just the opposite—to plummet? Had he changed? Had he done anything to make her see him differently? She’d known he had flaws since the day she met him. Like his pride. It had never bothered her much; she knew it took confidence and self-assurance to draw others to a vision.
But what he wanted to do involved her, and so personally . . . though it was almost as if he thought it had only to do with him.
And then there was Christophe.
His face often came to mind. Even if she’d been wrong about the letters he wrote to Giselle, even if they’d been written on the heels of battle fatigue or some kind of shell shock–induced hatred that had long since faded, he was still judgmental and rigid. Even if Giselle had been wrong to be inspired by what must have been a whim of passion in him, he was still responsible. He also thought her wrong to ignore her family.
His presence had brought with it a reminder of every rule she’d been raised with, about virtue and fidelity and the bonds of matrimony every good girl ought to long for. Worse, he reminded her of all those childish dreams she once had about falling in love and then having a wedding, the kind of wedding her father could afford. Jurgen might compose unforgettable poetry about women and love, but not a single verse would he write about marriage; she knew that well enough.
Annaliese rounded the corner near the butcher shop and all thoughts abandoned her. There was a crowd outside the door, and from the clamor she knew it wasn’t just a busy day of recruiting. Too much noise for that, and an undercurrent of tension in the shouts.
