Springtime of the Spirit
Page 1
Praise for the Great War series
“Set in the French hamlet of Briecourt, [Look to the East] teems with conflict. . . . Lang’s novel is a cautionary tale as well as a romance within an exciting framework of war, secrets, and blissful reunions.”
Publishers Weekly
“Maureen Lang’s novel is a must read for all historical romance fans!”
Story Circle Book Reviews
“A story of love and courage that uplifts and inspires.”
freshfiction.com
“A wonderful read! I’ve come to expect excellent prose from Maureen Lang, and Look to the East doesn’t disappoint. It gives a glimpse into the past that will make you reflect upon the characters and the message long after you’ve finished reading.”
JUDITH MILLER, best-selling author of Somewhere to Belong
“Maureen Lang is a master storyteller! The plot kept me turning pages, and I found myself enraptured with the heroine’s desire for love and peace amid conflict. Highly recommended!”
TRICIA GOYER, author of Songbird Under a German Moon
“The characters are well written and well-rounded in this tale of romance and suspense.”
Romantic Times
“Whisper on the Wind shouts God’s goodness to His followers, even when His plan seems unknowable. . . . Lang has done an excellent job drawing her reader into World War I and the stories of the brave souls who fought and perished on both sides.”
Author’s Choice Reviews
“Whisper on the Wind brings to life a time and place too often forgotten in historical fiction. . . . The suspenseful climax kept me on the edge of my seat!”
LYNN AUSTIN, best-selling author of While We’re Far Apart
“Whisper on the Wind is a suspense-filled romance set in occupied Belgium during WWI. Lang has written an exciting page-turner, one that will have readers racing to reach the end so they can discover how it will turn out. I highly recommend this book.”
ROBIN LEE HATCHER, best-selling author of A Vote of Confidence and Fit to Be Tied
“The plot gripped me almost from the beginning. I loved the combination of action, adventure, and romance. . . . A good read for anyone who likes historical romances.”
Moments-of-beauty.blogspot.com
“[A] tale of bravery and intrigue that will keep your eyes glued to the story, page after page.”
Berlysue.blogspot.com
“The story is so well written, it keeps you glued to the pages and you find yourself going through a roller coaster of emotions—you laugh and you cry, and you just keep wanting more and more. A definite must read.”
Familycorner.blogspot.com
Visit Tyndale’s exciting Web site at www.tyndale.com.
Check out the latest about Maureen Lang at www.maureenlang.com.
TYNDALE and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.
Springtime of the Spirit
Copyright © 2011 by Maureen Lang. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of buildings copyright © by Stephen Vosloo. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of woman taken by Stephen Vosloo. Copyright © by Tyndale House Publishers. All rights reserved.
Author photo copyright © 2005 by Jennifer Girard. All rights reserved.
Designed by Beth Sparkman
Edited by Sarah Mason
Published in association with the literary agency of WordServe Literary Group, Ltd., 10152 S. Knoll Circle, Highlands Ranch, CO 80130.
Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lang, Maureen.
Springtime of the spirit / Maureen Lang.
p. cm. — (The Great War)
ISBN 978-1-4143-2437-1 (sc)
1. World War, 1914-1918—Veterans—Germany—Fiction. 2. Germany—Social conditions—1918-1933—Fiction. 3. Germany—History—1918-1933—Fiction.
I. Title.
PS3612.A554S67 2011
813'.6—dc22 2010047427
Dedicated to my three brothers, David, Mark, and Patrick, and my brother-in-law, Jim,
each of whom at one time or another inspired political “discussions” in my family.
For this model of political passion, I extend my heartfelt gratitude.
Table of Contents
Praise for the Great War series
Introduction
Part One: November 1918
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Part Two : February 1919
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Epilogue
Author’s Note
About the Author
Discussion Questions
Acknowledgments
As with all my books, only my name shows up on the cover. In fact, my stories would barely be recognizable without the encouragement and insight of my two editors, Stephanie Broene and Sarah Mason. For this one especially, I am deeply grateful.
Germans who lived during those first ten postwar years talked of them afterwards as a time full of dangerous strains, yet too of hope and promise—a springtime of the spirit.
Terence Prittie, Life World Library: Germany, 1961, 1968
And what doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?
Micah 6:8
Glossary
A Summary of Terms:
By bourgeoisie is meant the class of modern capitalists, owners of the means of social production and employers of wage labour. By proletariat, the class of modern wage labourers who, having no means of production of their own, are reduced to selling their labour power in order to live.
F. Engels, note to the English edition of 1888, The Communist Manifesto by Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels
Introduction
Once there was a country that wanted a turn being a great and mighty empire. They thought their freedom was at stake when the countries around them matched their race for armaments. To protect that freedom and to make a try for their mighty empire, they ordered their army—an army with a glorious history of excellence—to fight.
Despite all assurances that they would surely win, this country was defeated after all. And its people, shocked at losing a war they’d been told would be won, ripened for revolt ag
ainst the leadership that had brought them not only the loss of so many men, but the scorn of the world.
Some were willing to allow more sacrifice, but no longer from the workers and soldiers who had already given so much.
Some wanted a better nation through finding a better part of themselves.
This is the story of two such people.
1
One step, then another. He’d started out with his eyes forward, chin up, but all he could see now were the tips of his boots.
Christophe Brecht was inside German territory, the train having taken them back over the border, away from the trenches that had marred France for the past four years. The ground his boots pounded now belonged to the fatherland.
Home.
The only sound was that of his men marching beside him—not that their tread could be called marching. Most looked as tired and worn as he, barely able to take the next step. They were still covered in the mud of no-man’s-land, thick from boots to knee and in varying layers up to the helmet.
Did any of them remember how it had been when they marched—yes, really marched—in the other direction? Songs and praise echoed from every avenue, and flowers showered them from smiling women, with proud pats on the back from fathers and old men.
The city that had sent them so gloriously off to battle was still beyond sight. Those not wishing to go all the way to Munich had been made to get off the train already, close to but not at their requested destinations. The train lines were in disarray after handing over half of Germany’s locomotives to the Allies—too much disarray to answer individual needs.
But Christophe wasn’t far from Braedon, his small hometown some distance west of Munich. He shoved away old thoughts of how this day was supposed to be. No victory parades to greet them, no flowers. No woman to kiss him now that he was home. Just silence.
He stared ahead under the autumn sunlight. His vision was clear, something the army had taken advantage of when they’d trained him to be a sniper in the last chaotic weeks of the war. Despite his earlier promotion from Hauptmann to Major, they’d stuck him where he was needed most, no consideration of his rank. Not that he hadn’t been a successful sniper, but what he’d counted success only days ago now seemed something else altogether.
Very likely many of the men beside him couldn’t see the details he could—signs on the series of poles before them: splashes of red, in flags, in backdrop. Signs he hadn’t seen the likes of since before the war. Back when people still talked about politics, when the German voice wasn’t the single one it had turned into during the war.
Then he saw it. An older poster, a bit tattered by the wind. The Kaiser’s face, easily recognizable with his mustache and uniform. A call to arms.
Christophe tore his gaze away, to the sky, back to his boots. He’d answered that call; so had each of those who trod at his side. A call that had ended this way.
Rumor had it the Kaiser had fled Germany in disgrace. Good riddance. If what they said about the armistice was true—that Germany was to be given sole blame for the war—then the world hated them. Hated all of them for how the Kaiser and his cronies, both aristocratic and military, had pushed them into this war.
Hated them almost as much as Christophe hated himself for all he’d done while in it.
His pace picked up before he knew it; blood pumped as wildly as it had during any fight with the British or French, in offense or defense. He reached for a rock and hurled it at the Kaiser’s image. It landed with a thud directly between the eyes.
Another rock, then suddenly more than just his own, along with a grunt here and there, a muffled cry. Were they his? No. A few men broke ranks and hurled themselves at what was left of the poster.
All his life Christophe had needed something to cling to. His parents, a schoolmaster, the church, his commanding officer. In the trenches, other soldiers. And Christ.
Hate filled him now—something he didn’t want but couldn’t rid himself of. He clung to that.
Christophe kept hold of the rock in his hand. No need to throw it—the poster had disappeared.
* * *
“And so, fellow Germans! The calendar may say autumn, but in fact we are in the springtime of Germany. The winter of an unjust war is behind us. New life buds for all of us. Are there storms in spring? Yes, but the squalls bring us the energy we need for change. We can build our country anew and model for all—for ourselves and for our neighbors, with the world’s eye on us—that we speak as one voice, a voice of men, of women, all of us together as one people without differences.”
Annaliese barely paused, although the crowd was already beginning to cheer. She read the same fervor on every face; it was like a wave passing over those gathered, binding them together, uniting them.
“They’ll hear us speak of protecting and not exploiting our fellow citizens. They’ll hear of our compassion for those in need, feel it in the plans to protect even the least in Germany. They’ll hear our demands for the equal distribution of food!”
Cries of affirmation forced a pause.
“We’ll no longer be burdened by the yoke of a monarchy or kept under the thumb of warmongers, but we will be free—yes, really free—to live in the peace for which our men fought. Peace! Freedom! Fairness! And bread!”
Annaliese Düray reveled in the jubilation, in the immediate approval of her call. They outmatched her voice, which was a considerable thing because her voice—especially on this platform—was bigger than she was. Hands raised, she lifted her cry even louder, proud of the timbre she’d inherited from her one-time schoolmarm mother. Not the strident screech of some women but midtoned, boisterous, easy on the ear even at this volume. “Peace is ours! And so is the future! If we rally behind the party!”
“Anya . . . Anya, come along now.”
Leo Beckenbauer’s arm went around her waist and he ushered her from the crowd. Two others carved a path between the brick wall of the Apotheke behind them and the crowd before them, and off they went, the exuberance still echoing in her ears.
“Did you see them, Leo?” she called, breathless. “And more were coming! We should stay—”
But he pressed forward, and there was little she could do except follow, with Leo next to her, bodyguards in front and behind them. Each one was a brother to her, united not by blood but by something deeper, a passion ardent enough to stir all Germany to embrace a better future. One that would bond them with others throughout the world.
They evaded the few people who followed by turning into a narrow gangway between the back of the Apotheke and the shop next door. Only four blocks to the back of the butcher shop Leo’s father once ran, the temporary headquarters for those whose ideals about the future matched their own.
Not a block away, Annaliese heard the echoes and cries of another rally, led by a voice she recognized as belonging to another party. The Communists—a party not likely to support the recently appointed Bavarian Prime Minister Eisner the way she did. Eisner had been appointed by revolution, with a quick and systematic takeover—and not a single shot fired. Such a takeover would have been far different had the Red Communists been in charge, even if they did want some of the same things Annaliese’s own party wanted. Eisner had agreed to a quick election just weeks from now, proving his confidence that he had the will of the people behind him, even though a half-dozen other parties demanded their voices be heard, too.
But in this neighborhood, one voice rang loudest, and that was Jurgen’s. A Socialist one.
She saw the exchange of glances between the men around her, starting with Leo, who looked at Ivo, who looked at Huey. Huey was an ironworker and Ivo a woodworker—or Ivo had been, until the war had claimed most of his fingers. Despite any hint of a disability, he was as tall as he was stalwart, just like Huey. It would take little more than a word from either one of them to disperse a competing crowd in their territory.
“I could have stayed this time, Leo,” Annaliese said once they entered the back of the darkened sh
op. Though the kitchen hadn’t boasted a single slab of meat or even the stingiest of sausages in well over a year, the slight residue of blood and spices still tickled her nose when Leo closed the door behind them.
Leo went to the table, where a stack of papers awaited him. “You know how Eisner likes it; you and Jurgen are to keep their thoughts on Eisner’s council so the vote will be won. You’ll spend time more freely with the people once Jurgen is back beside you. He is Eisner’s council around here—or at least the best known of the council members.”
Of all the voices struggling to be heard these days, other than Eisner himself, it was Jurgen who attracted the biggest response from nearly all corners of their broken society. His promises to meet everyday needs did not fall on deaf ears, because his was the voice of the workers and the peasants themselves—of all those who’d never had a voice before.
Jurgen liked to tell Annaliese she brought the women’s voice to him, but Annaliese knew better. People came because they wanted to see Jurgen, to hear him, to witness the spark in his eye as he promised them what they wanted most of all. Each came with one need or another, but Jurgen promised that the council had the answer, no matter the question.
And Leo had access to bread. Bread few could afford in the quantities their office provided through donations and collections at street rallies. They could afford collectively what individually they must do without. Starve alone or unite and eat. Practical evidence of the effectiveness of the council’s goals.
“Oh! This must have been delivered while we were gone.” Annaliese scooped up the package left on the wide butcher’s table beside the stack of notes Leo tended. “And just in time for tomorrow’s council meeting.”