Springtime of the Spirit

by Maureen Lang

  “He wants me, you know.”

  “I’ve no doubt of that, either.”

  “You do?” She felt a smile on her face, although she had no idea why it was there. She needed to sit down. “He’s going to make it right. Make right what my father and those like him made wrong.”

  “How is he going to do that?”

  “He’s going to . . . to . . . give the workers a voice. And make people share. He’s noble, you know, even though he grew up a peasant. He’s a very wonderful man.”

  “Of course he is.”

  “I’m tired, Christophe. I want to sit.”

  “It’s too cold. Come on.”

  “No. I believe I’ll sit.”

  And so she did, right there on the pavement in front of Westermann’s Department Store, where they handed out soup on Tuesdays and Fridays. The store was closed, and not even the soup alcove was open tonight, so there was no one on the street to get in the way of her rest.

  “Annaliese . . .”

  She looked up at him, but his head was spinning. Or was that her head spinning? She would rest, if only for a few minutes. That was all she needed.

  * * *

  “Annaliese,” Christophe repeated.

  He stared at her, befuddled and amazed. She was sleeping! Right there on the cement.

  “Of all the idiotic . . .”

  Maybe this was what people of passion did: they gave everything to whatever was in front of them. And for tonight, for Annaliese, that had been beer. He wanted to feel more irritated than amused and thought if he sounded exasperated, his emotions would follow suit. So far, he was simply glad to have returned to her side in time to protect her from her own unwise choice.

  He bent over her, slipping his hands beneath her arms and heaving her up over his shoulder like a sandbag. He’d carried his share of those in the last four years. He’d carried more than a few fellow soldiers this way too, some wounded, others in their cups every bit as deep as Annaliese.

  He’d just never carried a woman before.

  If her parents could see her now, they’d have every right to demand she come home. In fact, if he were any kind of friend, he wouldn’t stop before taking her to a train heading in the direction of her parents’ village this very night. They’d want her, even as drunk as she was.

  But her Munich flat was closer than the train station, and as much as he’d like to make the decision for her, he knew it wasn’t his place to do so. Once there, he took the porch steps two at a time, let himself in, and then climbed the inside flight of stairs to what he guessed was the door to her flat.

  The door opposite hers opened, but only a sliver. Christophe ignored it, even if he would have welcomed some help. But he wouldn’t ask.

  There was no need to say a word before Bertita, obviously having heard him shuffling up the stairs with Annaliese, came bustling out of her flat.

  “What’s happened to her!”

  “Nothing serious. Too much beer to celebrate Jurgen’s release.”

  Annaliese’s flat was a one-room apartment. Tidy, sparse. The bed was off to the side, neatly set with covers and pillows. He let Annaliese’s head gently meet one of the pillows.

  Leaning above her, Christophe loosened the belt on her coat even as Bertita stood at the foot of the bed to remove Annaliese’s shoes.

  “No woman should let herself get in such a state,” Bertita muttered.

  “It’s little wonder her mother is worried about her.”

  “So you know her family?” Bertita asked.

  “We grew up together.”

  “Are either of you talking to me?”

  He looked at Annaliese; her eyes were open, though rimmed with red.

  “I didn’t think you’d wake up until morning,” he said.

  “Where am I? . . . How did I get home?”

  “On my shoulder.”

  She scanned the room, but it was as if she didn’t even see Bertita. “Is . . . Jurgen here?”

  Impatience filled Christophe and he might have turned away, but something stopped him. Something in the tone of her voice. Fear?

  “No, he’s not here. Why?”

  She rolled over, away from him, one shoe still on. She mumbled something he couldn’t decipher, so he put a hand to her shoulder, pulling her back to face him.

  “What did you say?”

  But she was either already sleeping or purposefully ignoring him. Christophe turned to Bertita. “Does Jurgen spend time up here . . . with her?”

  Bertita shook her head. “I saw the same kiss you saw yesterday, but it’s the first one as far as I know. She’s never had anyone up here, and she’s abed early every night.”

  Annaliese let out a laugh and made an attempt to raise one of her hands. Evidently it felt too heavy because it flopped down beside her. “You’re funny, Christophe. You know what would happen if Jurgen came up here, don’t you? As loyal as Bertita is to the party, I think she believes it wouldn’t be right.” Annaliese rolled over again. “And it wouldn’t. Even I know that.”

  Christophe caught her shoulder, and she faced him again.

  “What do you mean?”

  Her smile was lopsided. “My mother wouldn’t like it either.” Then her smile broadened, the first one she’d ever aimed his way, at least since he’d known her here in Munich. “And neither would you, would you, Christophe?”

  He wondered how she knew. It was true: the thought of them together made him sick. Only he hadn’t realized it until just now.

  Christophe backed away from the bed, undeniably relieved by what he’d learned. All evening he’d watched them exchange glances and smiles, whispers and drinks. It spoke of an intimacy well established. He’d thought . . .

  He was half-tempted to fasten closed her coat again, lace up her shoes, and take her to the station as he’d envisioned only minutes ago. If she’d taken all that beer tonight because she’d expected Jurgen, it meant only one thing. She wasn’t sure she wanted him up here at all.

  He shook her shoulder. “Annaliese, wake up. I need to talk to you.”

  She didn’t stir.

  Sleeping so peacefully, she seemed more like the portrait in her parents’ parlor. Young. Vulnerable. Beautiful.

  “Annaliese, what have you gotten yourself into?”

  He looked around the room. There were only two doors—the one from the hall and another open door leading to a toilet. Going to the window, he peered down at the street. No one was out at this hour. No sign of Jurgen or any other member of this makeshift family of revolutionaries.

  He considered asking Bertita to stay with Annaliese, but he feared she might refuse.

  So he pulled down the shade, stopped to throw a cover over Annaliese, then went into the hallway. Bertita followed.

  “I’m going to stay right here for the night, Bertita. To make sure she gets the rest she needs.”

  “I’ll hear the door if anyone opens it,” Bertita said. Then she looked embarrassed, as if he hadn’t already noticed that she left her own door open so she could hear everything. “The walls are thin. Like paper.”

  “It’s here or the park for me. It might as well be here.”

  Then he slid to the floor and leaned against the jamb, adjusting his brand-new coat. Bertita went into her own flat, shutting the door this time.

  Christophe tried finding some sleep for himself.

  Voices invaded his rest, but they were still outside. The downstairs door opened moments later, and there at the bottom of the steps stood Jurgen, steady enough but grabbing the handrail as if to come up the stairs. He stopped when he caught sight of Christophe.

  “Ivo said you took her from the hall.”

  He shook his head. “I followed her. She fell asleep on the street, and I brought her here.”

  Jurgen eyed him. “Then what are you doing here now?”

  “I had no place else to go.” He didn’t care if it sounded pathetic; it was partially true anyway. There was no place else he needed to go.

/>   Jurgen climbed the remaining stairs, far steadier than Christophe would have suspected possible judging by the amount of beer he’d seen the man consume.

  “Thank you for taking care of her, then,” Jurgen said. “When did you return to Munich?”

  Christophe stood. Was the man planning to go into Annaliese’s room anyway? past him? “I never left. I saw the flyer about welcoming you back at the beer hall. I was surprised to hear you’d been in prison.”

  “Unfairly, of course. Another reason we must fix Germany, to prevent this sort of thing from happening.”

  Christophe nodded. “About that,” he said, “about fixing Germany. I’ve decided to work with you, if you still have a place for me.”

  Whatever suspicion, whatever hesitation Jurgen’s face had hinted at before suddenly disappeared. He slapped Christophe on the shoulder and took one of his hands in his own. “That’s fine! Good news! Come downstairs; let’s have a toast.”

  He followed Jurgen down the stairs—gratefully away from Annaliese’s door—then inside Jurgen’s flat. Christophe wondered how the other man could hold any more liquor without having it get the best of him, but he offered Christophe wine with a steady hand.

  “I thought you came from the hinterland, Christophe.”

  “Not very remote. A short train ride from Munich.”

  “Ah. That explains your coat.”

  Christophe looked down at it, made of the finest wool. Soft.

  Expensive, at least in comparison to anything he’d seen Jurgen or Leo wearing. He could tell Jurgen what a bargain he’d gotten, since so few people had money for such things these days, they were nearly giving them away. But somehow he thought it wouldn’t make any difference.

  Jurgen’s distaste had been clear. “I came from north of Dachau myself, out with the farmers and peasants.”

  “There is agriculture everywhere around Munich. Even where I am from.” Christophe didn’t mention that the town where he had grown up—with Annaliese—was better known for its lakes and resorts that attracted the wealthy of Munich than for the farmland that separated the two spots.

  “Right so! Eisner envisions a Peasants’ Council. Did you know that?”

  “Yes, so I’ve read.”

  “Kurt Eisner—you know the name, of course? Our recently named prime minister of Bavaria?” He gulped his wine and sighed. “That should have been me, you know. He was nominated by a Workers’ and Soldiers’ Council, and they’d have nominated me if they’d only known me. But I was too freshly out of prison. I hadn’t my chance yet.” He looked at Christophe. “Now I do, though. Even tonight, more men were with me. Did you see all of them? Some even from the SPD.”

  Christophe nodded, although he had no idea which of the numerous faces he’d seen that night might have been won over from the other, softer Socialist camp.

  “We want many of the same things, only I’d be the better voice in Berlin.”

  “Why isn’t your name on the ballot for the election, then?”

  “And split the vote between me and Eisner? I don’t think so. It’s too soon, anyway. Our message is just beginning to take hold. Change—peaceful change—takes time. The people might not be ready to vote for our ideals yet. They have to know more first.”

  Christophe nodded.

  “We need more voices behind us,” Jurgen went on. “Soldiers, workers, and peasants, too. You can help with the soldiers as well as the peasants, by virtue of being from outside of Munich—if you trade away that coat, of course, for one that will better match those who need our message. How does that sound to you?”

  Christophe held up his glass but set it aside without drinking from it. “I would be happy to discuss it in the morning, when our heads are clear.”

  Jurgen finished what was in his glass. “You’re right.” Then he laughed and looked at the ceiling—perhaps thinking about who was above that ceiling. “Though it’s a shame to sleep alone, isn’t it? Ah, well. Good night, then, Christophe. I would offer you the empty room, but you hardly used it the last time you were here. Did the bed not make you comfortable? Surely it’s better than sleeping on the stairs.”

  He wondered if that was a subtle hint to stay away from Annaliese’s door. “The bed was fine.”

  “Then it is yours again, if you like. I will see you in the morning?”

  He nodded. Tonight, at least, he would accept the comfort of that bed. Blast the nightmares; he wouldn’t sleep anyway. He’d be listening for footsteps—up or down the stairs to where Annaliese lay.

  14

  During the next few days, Christophe never saw Annaliese alone. At first he was convinced it was her doing. If she remembered anything about the other night, perhaps she was embarrassed.

  He could understand that, although he was no less embarrassed himself. Hadn’t she teased him about knowing he wouldn’t like the idea of her with Jurgen?

  Not that he would admit such a thing, least of all to her. He’d been embarrassed more than once by women. First there had been Giselle, whom he’d hoped one day would receive his attention, though she never did, at least as anything more than a friend. Then there had been a German woman working in France; she’d flirted all right, smiling his way as if she’d welcome his attention. But he’d been slow about investigating those smiles, and then his unit had been called away. By the time he’d been able to get back to her, she’d already married another soldier.

  Then there had been a woman named Julitte, a Frenchwoman who seemed to have a faith stronger than that of any other woman he’d known. Stronger even than Giselle’s. He’d wanted to spend time with her, too, but once again he’d been refused. When it came to women, not a single memory gave him much confidence.

  And now Annaliese. She’d known, somehow even before he’d acknowledged it himself, that he didn’t like the idea of her with Jurgen. How did women know men better than they knew themselves? Her teasing had served the purpose well enough. He wasn’t going to make a fool of himself over a woman again.

  He didn’t have much chance of that, anyway. Jurgen and Leo kept him busy—and removed any possibility of time alone with Annaliese. They were her best bodyguards.

  If only he could be assured they prevented themselves from being alone with her too—at least Jurgen.

  Christophe was assigned to train the men who’d sworn loyalty to the USPD and specifically to Jurgen. Each day he rose early, before anyone else, grabbed a dry roll from the cupboard, then made his way to the warehouse where most of the men bunked. He would have taken up a cot in the warehouse with the men if he’d been ordered to, but he knew if he did, he would never see Annaliese. As it was, he saw her only in the evenings and on the rare occasion she rose early enough to spot him leaving for the day.

  Nearly a week into the training program, on the day before Christmas, Leo caught the door before it had even closed behind Christophe. Leo held up a roll of his own as if in a toast; then side by side they walked to the warehouse.

  “I want to see how the men are coming along,” Leo said. “What do you think of them?”

  “I think they’re young, mostly foolish, and itching for a fight they thought would wait for them. In their minds, the war ended too soon, before they were old enough to fight. But—” he eyed Leo, who still looked ahead—“I think they’re loyal and willing to follow you or Jurgen or Eisner.”

  “Can they fight? Will they, if it comes to that?”

  Christophe lifted a shoulder. “I’ve seen older men better trained than these turn tail and run. But the majority will fight if they’re threatened. Maybe the younger ones, like these, all the more. That’s what you’ve told me to do with them—teach them to defend themselves and others. And that’s what they’ll do.”

  He didn’t voice his greatest fear, that someday their band of men—presently numbering a few dozen—might have to use the training Christophe supplied. It was no secret everyone wanted control of the scattered army, and it was anyone’s guess what would happen if such a power w
ere used badly. Only one people lived in Germany these days: Germans. Could Christophe watch one shoot down another, even in defense? Could he be responsible, because of his training, for yet more killing?

  At the warehouse threshold, Christophe noted as he did every day the signs someone had painted espousing their political messages: Universal Brotherhood. All People are Equal. Take Care of Your Brother. End Exploitation. Down with Greed.

  “Hey, Brecht,” one of the men called as they filed into line. It was one of the things Christophe had accustomed himself to, no longer being addressed by rank. Such titles as Hauptmann or Major did not lend themselves to equality, so rank had been outlawed.

  This man was called Popoff because on the day of his arrival he’d popped off in anger every time someone mispronounced his name. Ottokar came more easily to the lips than Odovacar; even Christophe had made the mistake once. He’d been Popoff ever since.

  “How many men do you think it would take for another revolution?”

  “No need for a revolution when we have a vote coming up,” Christophe reminded Popoff, irritated as much by being waylaid before entering the warehouse as by Popoff’s eager tone. The closer the election came, the more whispers spread about a counterrevolution if the election didn’t go the way they hoped. And with so many weapons sprinkled throughout the city, sometimes Christophe wondered if one election would be enough—no matter who won.

  He’d seen the look in Popoff’s eye before, at the front when an untried soldier wanted to lead a skirmish over no-man’s-land to raid an Allied trench. End the war quicker, they’d said. More likely to end their own life quicker.

  Still, it looked like Popoff needed more persuasion.

  “Jurgen brings in new numbers all the time. Every march he leads shows growth. Let the election do its job.”

  Christophe led the way to the far side of the warehouse, where they’d erected a long tunnel lined with bricks and mattresses; at the very end, a target was propped against a thick block wall.

  He ordered the men to line up, beginning as he always did before this portion of their training. He inspected their guns. Christophe was aware that Leo watched but was glad he didn’t interfere. As much as Leo knew about politics, Christophe had the feeling the man knew nothing about weaponry.