by Maureen Lang
“This is something I need to do, Christophe.”
He nodded, then looked over his shoulder as if to see if anyone had noticed them talking. For the first time since entering, Annaliese took a sweeping glance of the warehouse. Dirty was the only word to describe it, but she’d guessed that from the stale smell upon entering, a smell that even now compounded her headache from overworking and too little sleep. There were a couple dozen men around, all armed, many of whom stared in her direction. She suddenly realized how grateful she was not to have had to come here before.
Perhaps Christophe guessed at her discomfort, because when she let her gaze return to him, she saw him studying her. “If you leave this with me,” he said, “I’ll make sure it gets printed.”
She wanted to smile but under so many eyes couldn’t make the effort. She knew she would have to trust him, finding to her surprise that she did. Entirely. “Thank you.” Then she turned back to the door.
“Will you be at the house for supper?” he asked.
“No.” She was meeting with a widow friend who might be able to help her with funds, perhaps enough to cover the paper upon which she hoped to print her pamphlets. But Christophe didn’t need to know that. Trusting him was one thing; spending time with him and encouraging feelings her heart would be safer to ignore were other matters altogether.
* * *
Christophe watched her go, wishing she were happier about his help. If she’d only let him, they might find something they could work on together. But he could start with completing the task she’d allowed him to do.
“Ivo!”
He wasn’t sure where the man was, but Ivo would know where to find the printer—who hadn’t been seen since the election, when Jurgen’s press became little more than a dust collector.
There were few places not clearly seen in the openness of the warehouse, and Christophe spotted Ivo near the firing tunnel. Something Ivo kept in good repair, replacing mattresses and sandbags whenever necessary.
“Annaliese wants this printed,” Christophe said. “Do you know where the man is, the one who worked Jurgen’s printing press?”
Ivo nodded, but with a frown. “I saw him this morning. He stopped in to check on the press, then said he was going to purchase paper.”
“Good! He’ll have supplies for this, then.”
Ivo was shaking his head now. “He received something from Jurgen last night. A flyer.”
“Did you see it? What does it say?”
“I haven’t read it, but I talked to Popoff—he brought it from Jurgen and gave it right to the printer. Popoff said Jurgen has been with Leviné this whole time, ever since the election. I think they’re expecting Jurgen to switch to Leviné’s side on the council.”
“What’s the hurry?”
“Waiting for Eisner to resign is long enough, out of respect for him.”
“So it’s happened, then? Jurgen has joined the Communists?”
Ivo lifted his shoulders. “I don’t know. I only know the paper that’s bought today will go for Jurgen’s flyer—not whatever Annaliese brought you.”
Christophe’s gaze wandered to the door, where Annaliese had disappeared. If she knew Jurgen was fraternizing with Communists, would she remain loyal to him? Would it even make a difference?
* * *
Well past dark, Annaliese trudged up the steps to the town house, counting each one beneath her tired feet. She couldn’t remember ever being so exhausted, and the cot in the back of the party office offered little comfort, which was why she’d left it. She longed for a real bed, with plenty of covers against the late-winter air. Such a bed was only fifteen stairs away.
Halfway up, she heard a door opening. Not Bertita’s, which was likely to happen at any time of day or night, but Jurgen’s. She turned, half-expecting to see him there despite the near-midnight hour. Finally, back from Berlin.
But it was Christophe, and her weary heart made an unruly attempt to dance despite her fatigue.
“You’re working harder without Jurgen here than you did when he and Leo gave the orders.”
She stopped on the steps, grateful for the rest. “Did you give my content to the printer?”
He nodded. “But he has another job keeping him busy for a couple of days. He said he would get to it as soon as he could.”
“What other job?”
“Something from Jurgen.”
She waited for her heart to do something at the prospect of Jurgen’s return. Nothing. “Is he back?”
“Not yet, but from the printing order, I assume it’ll be soon.”
“Why? What does it say?”
“Much of what he’s said before. About fairness. But . . .”
She wished she weren’t so eager to hear what Christophe had to say. She was tired; she should go to bed and tell him she would speak to him in the morning. But the look on his face, so somber, held a warning she couldn’t ignore.
He folded his arms on his chest. “The flyers aren’t supposed to be distributed to the public until after Eisner’s official resignation.”
She was confused. “So why couldn’t the printer do my pamphlet first?”
“Because Jurgen wanted some of the flyers sent to a few people in the labor unions. It’s his way of seeing what kind of support he’ll have . . . for a different approach at change.”
“Such as?”
“He’s talking about public ownership, Annaliese. Starting with the factories. Not with a hope of doing away with private property someday, when everyone accepts the idea of fair sharing. It looks like he wants it now.”
She sank to the stair beneath her, following the downward movement of her heart. “You’re talking about a takeover, aren’t you? a revolution—a Communist one?”
More than anything, she wanted Christophe to deny it, to assure her Jurgen hadn’t left his ideals of society gradually accepting an equally shared partnership. That was the only way toward a better society, when people chose it at the ballot box. With a bit of hope, that could happen. Someday. Hadn’t Jurgen himself said so?
To demand private property become public . . . that was something else altogether. Had he entirely abandoned the value of elections?
“Are you certain? certain he’s talking about switching to such measures?”
Christophe didn’t answer for what seemed like forever. He approached her, going to the bottom stair but stopping there so their eyes were level. “Do you know a man by the name of Leviné?”
The name was answer enough. Annaliese dropped her gaze, away from Christophe’s sympathetic stare. She nodded slowly. Then she pulled herself to a stand and counted the rest of the steps to her room. Why hadn’t she seen it? Leviné was from Berlin, where Jurgen was now.
Maybe that was the very reason Jurgen had gone there. To associate with those who’d sent Leviné to Munich.
Communists.
21
Annaliese sneezed yet again, wiped at her nose, then pushed another pamphlet into an envelope. For the past week, she’d worked mostly from here in her room, ignoring the weight to her spirit that had nothing to do with the sniffles filling her head. She couldn’t stop asking herself the same question she’d been asking since talking to Christophe that night on the steps. Would everything she was doing be for nothing? She was willing to work, to wait for the next election, but knew she couldn’t push the Socialist cause by herself. If Jurgen had gone farther than that, if he’d grown impatient for the fruits of Socialism to spread—if he’d given it up for Communism—then she was alone. Not even Christophe would help her. He served God, and she knew there was little room for Him in Socialism, and none at all in Communism.
It was midafternoon, and on her desk was a stack of letters she’d hoped to distribute today . . . if she could summon the energy. Her head throbbed not just with pressure building toward another sneeze but with questions. Would women really listen to her and to her alone? Were they ready to put the past behind them, now that so many of them had a tast
e of working outside the home? Or would everything go back to the way it was before the war, when women were bound to the home, without a choice? If there was a God—One as loving as Christophe wanted her to believe—surely He didn’t mean to give women other gifts beside childbearing and expect them not to be used? Women could be a formidable force for the good of society if they were given the independence to do so.
Such thoughts made her wonder about her own choices. Here she was, living in a flat that wasn’t her own. Dependent on the charity of men. How was that taking care of herself? While she’d been working for the cause of Socialism, responsible for bringing in a hefty portion of donations, she’d felt useful. But now . . . how could she stay here, with Jurgen, if he’d abandoned what she thought he’d believed?
Another sneeze, another tight swallow. Her throat felt as if a knife were lodged inside.
“Annaliese, are you there?”
Jurgen’s voice! She knew he would return sooner or later, but now that the moment was here, she found herself unprepared after all.
Annaliese crumpled yet another handkerchief, glancing at the messy room. She’d taken two naps today and hadn’t bothered to set the covers right. Ever since the thickness in her head had loosened to a steady leak through her eyes and nose, she’d gone through one handkerchief after another. She feared she looked even worse than she felt.
“Yes, I’m here. Just a moment.”
She rose from her chair, smoothed a stray strand of hair behind one ear, slipped her shoes on, and tucked her blouse into her skirt before opening the door.
Jurgen stood smiling like an eager suitor. He half-reached for an embrace before leaning back, his brows fallen and his smile gone. “You’re sick?”
Holding a handkerchief to her nose, she nodded, only slightly offended by the aversion on his face. Perhaps it was her imagination, but he seemed to step back, farther away from her. “Yes, a little.”
“I’ve heard nothing but how hard you’ve been working for the people’s cause. Christophe told me at the warehouse that you haven’t left your room in days.”
“That’s true.” She sniffed. “I’ve been busy. But I’m glad you’re back.”
His smile returned with full charm. “Are you, Anya?”
“There are rumors going around that when Eisner resigns in a couple of days, you’ll announce your support for Leviné.”
He tsked. “And here I thought for a moment you missed me, not my politics.”
“Is it true?”
He shook his head. “None of this should worry you, Anya, especially when you need rest. Nothing has changed. I still want what is best for everyone.” He held out a piece of paper she hadn’t noticed in his hand. “Maybe this will make you feel better.”
“What is it?” She reached for it eagerly, wondering if it would confirm or deny the things Christophe had warned her about. “News of some kind?”
He shook his head. “No. I wrote it for you while I was away.” He looked around, past her, perhaps seeing the rumpled bed, the used handkerchiefs. “I was going to read it to you, to prove you’re never far from my thoughts . . . but I’ll wait until you’re feeling better.”
Then he turned on his heel, whispered good-afternoon over his shoulder, and took the stairs down to his own flat.
Annaliese closed the door, reading the words on the page over the handkerchief at her nose. She saw instantly it was a poem and that the title was nothing other than her name—or the shortened version of it. Anya.
She read it through once, then again, barely believing he could have been thinking of her when he wrote the words. Of springtime and hope and beauty, of energy and the inexplicable power of love—irresistible and mysterious, impossible to deny.
Not a hint of Communism.
It was simply a poem, words Jurgen had conjured for her. Words, both spoken and written, were his greatest gift. And here were some meant only for her. Beautiful words.
She wiped away the moisture from her eyes, suddenly unsure if it was the words on the page or the sickness in her head that dampened her handkerchief this time.
She set the poem on her desk along with the letters. Surely someone who wrote such words couldn’t join a group as violent as the Communists she feared. Part of her wanted to follow him down the stairs, to make sure nothing had changed, the way he said.
But she stayed in her room, knowing that he didn’t want to be around her while she felt so ill. It was just as well—she needed more rest.
So she went back to bed, more eager than ever to be healthy again. She needed to know where her future efforts would be best spent.
Annaliese shaded her eyes from the sun shining directly on her face. She’d forgotten to close the window coverings the night before. Forgotten to change from her skirt and blouse and into her nightdress. The sun almost made it look like spring outside, but that was still weeks away. The chill in her room reminded her that even such bright rays as these did little to cut winter’s touch.
She turned at the sound of a gentle tap at her door. Maybe it was Jurgen, to see how she was feeling this morning. “Yes?”
“Are you still sleeping?”
Christophe’s voice made her heart react in its usual, fluttery way, even though she wished otherwise. “I’m awake.”
She rose too quickly and her head throbbed. Slipping a shawl around her shoulders to cover at least some of the wrinkles in her blouse, Annaliese opened the door. There stood Christophe, snug in a sweater of his own, holding out a steaming mug and a plate of toasted bread.
“You weren’t at breakfast this morning, and Bertita told me you weren’t at dinner, either. I wasn’t here. Are you sick or just back to work?”
Seeing Christophe so neat and fresh, smiling so warmly, made her aware of her own unkemptness. Smoothing down what was sure to be a nest of hair atop her head, she reached out to take the hot mug. It was just what her throat, dry and sore, needed. Through the one nostril that still worked, she smelled a hint of honey.
“Oh! This is wonderful. I’m not sure about the toast, though.”
“Dunk it.”
She smiled. Soggy bread didn’t appeal to her, but it was probably the only way she would be able to swallow anything of substance.
Annaliese turned away from him then, savoring a sip of the hot tea, and to her surprise heard him follow her inside. Christophe was at her bed, holding up the blankets.
“Get under the covers,” he said. “Here, give me that until you’re settled.” He took the tea and toast and put it on the table beside her bed.
She should most definitely send him away, but surely not even her mother would object. He was only doing what she would have done had she been there: tucking her in.
After covering her, he took another pillow from the chair by the window, something she’d wanted earlier but hadn’t been willing to leave the warmth and comfort of her bed to retrieve. Placing it behind her back, he pulled the covers up to her chin, then reached for the tea.
“Where did you find honey?” she asked.
“From Mama, at the restaurant. And the tea flakes, too. She said it would be good for any mood, from an ailment to overwork.”
Annaliese smiled, letting the hot steam break through the swollen interior of her nose. “Thank you, Christophe.”
“What else do you need? company? or just a book? maybe paper to write on?”
He went to the desk and there, on top of the letters she’d been answering yesterday, was the poem Jurgen had written for her. She said nothing, watching Christophe as his gaze was caught.
He didn’t even attempt to hide that he read something so personal. Christophe picked it up with one hand while with his other he turned the chair toward the bed and took a seat.
“Annaliese,” he said softly when he finished reading, “do you want me to leave?”
“I . . . I suppose sleep is the only thing I need right now.”
“No, Annaliese.” He wasn’t accepting her stall. “I mean do y
ou want me to leave Munich? leave you alone? with him?”
The weight on her chest, in her head, in her nose . . . in her heart . . . felt too much to bear just then. Why was he asking her this? Because of the poem? Or did he want to leave, be done with the assignment he’d been hired by her parents to do?
“He said nothing has changed, that he still wants what’s best for everyone,” Annaliese said. “He knew about all the work I’ve been doing lately. The same sort of work we’ve always done.”
“I wouldn’t expect him to say anything yet. I asked him about it too—bluntly, the only way I know how.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
She wanted to feel relieved, wanted to believe Jurgen was still the same man he’d been before the loss of the election. “Then nothing has changed.”
Christophe shrugged, then made his way to the door.
“Are they paying you to stay here, watching me?” She’d called the words after him in spite of herself. She shouldn’t want to draw out this visit, but these past days of work and sickness had left her lonesome.
“Your parents? They offered to do that, yes, but—”
“Then consider yourself free of whatever obligation you felt. I’ll send them a letter if you like, telling them you were every bit the watchdog they meant you to be, in case you’re worried they won’t pay you for the time you’ve been here already. I’ll tell them your services are not required.”
Was that the hint of a frown? She’d hurt his feelings! Part of her was pleased, but she reminded herself he would count himself less than a gentleman if she believed him only motivated by monetary decisions. Even if he was.
“I like the idea of your sending them a letter,” he said. “It’s a start, anyway.”
She shrugged.
“If you can’t blame me anymore, you blame them for Giselle’s death, don’t you?”
She didn’t answer, didn’t look at him. He didn’t know, he couldn’t know, how accurate his guess was.
