Springtime of the Spirit

by Maureen Lang

  Evidently refraining from that salute had made no difference in giving him away. Christophe nodded.

  “Welcome! We can use a man like you, tall and strong and trained. Tell me, what is it you most want for Germany?”

  “Peace,” he said without the slightest hesitation. “A lasting peace.”

  “Good! That’s very good! It’s what we all want. You know, don’t you, that coming from a soldier, these words mean more to everyone else? to everyone filling the streets these days, wanting the same thing? How long were you at the front?”

  “I was in France nearly the full four years. Assigned over occupied villages at first, before I had . . . more specialized training.”

  Annaliese wondered why he’d paused and what specialized training meant. But she had no time to ponder that as she watched Leo pull Christophe farther into the office, going so far as to pat him on the back as if they were already partners in vision.

  “Come in, come in, and talk to us. You’re here in the middle of the day. Does that mean you’ve not yet secured work? It’s hard these days. You might find your hours well spent here if you can support yourself for a while.”

  Neither looked her way. She saw Christophe take a seat near the desk Leo most often occupied. She followed but did not sit; instead she leaned against the wall, watching. Unsure what to think, how to feel. It had been only a few months since Christophe had written his last letter to Giselle, at least the last one that she knew about. The end of the war might have mellowed him, but surely he hadn’t abandoned everything he believed in so short a time. If he had, she would demand he tell her why he’d inspired Giselle to do what she’d done.

  She might enjoy watching him receive such news: that if it weren’t for him, Giselle might still be alive to accept his attention.

  But first she would observe him, because even though he was willing to listen to Leo, it was obvious he’d lost the passion he once had. This calm, self-assured man before her didn’t seem at all like the frenzied man who’d written from the battlefield.

  The poster artist caught her eye, waving her near, but Annaliese ignored him. This was one induction conversation she wasn’t going to miss.

  8

  “What do you think we fought for, soldier?”

  Christophe settled back in the chair, noting that the other man didn’t seem interested in his name, just his role as a former soldier.

  “We were told we fought for freedom,” he said slowly, “but after a while, the reasons for the war were as muddy as the trenches.”

  “Exactly! And now is the time to restart our society; don’t you believe it to be so? We have an opportunity few other countries have. An opportunity to develop this country into something better than it was before. But we must do it together.”

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Annaliese’s shadow. Her arms were folded, and even from the farthest corner of his peripheral vision, he could tell she was skeptical. But about what? Surely not of what this man spoke. Suspicion of Christophe himself, then. But he sensed more; it felt like animosity. He hadn’t expected that. What had happened to the affection her parents thought she had for him?

  He caught the gaze of the man before him, clearly impassioned and eager for Christophe to embrace the cause, too. An idea, a hope. Christophe barely listened until a phrase caught his ear.

  “The monarchy is dead, and good riddance. It was antiquated before this war began. Along with it will go all of the old ways. We’re equal, after all. Aren’t we?”

  Christophe hadn’t thought much about the aristocracy of Germany, except for the Kaiser. It was his face Christophe still remembered and hated for urging them all into the war that became a debacle for the entire world.

  “We believe in the most basic fairness for all,” the man went on, “in the most practical of ways. We want nothing more than the best interests of people like you and those who served at your side. We’re stronger with a united voice, along with the workers who supported you here at home. I can see you’re the kind of man who’s interested in such things, aren’t you?”

  Christophe nodded. How could he not be? “I can’t deny that if everyone beyond this room respected the equality you talk about, the world would be a better place. But fairness is a hard thing to practice, isn’t it? Owners and workers don’t always agree about what seems fair.”

  The man smiled even as his eyes narrowed. “It’s ownership and profit that corrupt the basic generosity of spirit we’re all born with. I daresay it is wealth itself that produces poverty. A country is worth only what it produces, but for generations it’s been acceptable for the poor to sacrifice to the rich by the sweat of their brow. Now it will be the other way around, until we all unite under equality. Once we see everyone being treated equally, earning equally, each of us will be inspired to work equally, to be part of such a great and equal society. Christophe—is that what you called yourself a moment ago?”

  He nodded, although beyond the question about his name, the man’s words sifted together, making little sense to Christophe.

  “What we do here is more than revolution to change Germany, Christophe. There is a natural sense of brotherhood in all of us, no matter where we were born. Did you notice it, even in the trenches? how unnatural it was to be shooting at those just like you on the other side instead of working together toward a better world? And yet the capitalists convinced us we were threatened. What better way for them to fill their coffers than to produce material destined for destruction—so we must need more and they must produce more? It was a never-ending cycle designed only to line their pockets.”

  Christophe glanced Annaliese’s way, seeing she was already staring at him. Did he need to assure her he wouldn’t betray her secret? If indeed it was a secret that she’d been raised in a home where the risks, profits, and losses of capitalism were breathed in like the air around her. Hadn’t he been raised with the same ideals as Annaliese? His own father had clung to the golden rule of capitalism: what was good for others was good for him because trade begot trade. Though his haberdashery had shut down because of the blockades and lack of imports, it had provided well for Christophe’s family before that day, just like the business in Annaliese’s family. They’d both been raised on the capitalism this man blamed for the war. Christophe had never thought one person’s gain was another’s loss, which seemed to be what Socialists thought.

  Still, he could see the good in this man’s goals, and it had been too many days since Christophe had thought about something other than himself, his hatred, the defeat. The loss. He should care about things like fairness and equality, at least.

  “I like aiming toward brotherhood,” Christophe said. “It reminds me of the first churches, when people shared everything to take care of one another.” And didn’t promise soldiers their battles would be won.

  “Those churches knew what people today have forgotten,” the man in front of him said. “Didn’t you mention once, Anya, that if there is a God, He must have envisioned a world without classes? He would see the heart and not be distracted by the quality of our clothing or the positions we hold.”

  She stood straight, hands falling to her sides. Christophe wondered if he’d imagined a flash of . . . something in her eye. Annoyance? She wasn’t at all what he remembered of the cheerful, somewhat-shy girl he once knew. She’d grown bristles.

  “I mentioned it as something my mother once said,” she told them. “Personally, I don’t believe there is a God at all. Entirely faithless, like you.”

  No, this was not the Annaliese he knew. Not Giselle’s sister, whose faith had matched his own. But then, perhaps Giselle’s faith had changed too. It had been so long since he’d had any contact with those left at home, he couldn’t know.

  The man in front of Christophe looked around the room, raising a hand as if to include anyone else there. “Oh, we have faith, Anya, and plenty of it. It’s faith in our fellow man here. But we also want to appeal to those of every faith . . . or no faith
at all.”

  He stood then, placing a hand on Christophe’s shoulder. “We’re having a march in the morning. Jurgen is our spokesman in support of Prime Minister Eisner for the election in just a few weeks. It would be an honor to have you march with us. We need more men like you, with a background people admire. You might consider working with us.” He looked from Christophe to Annaliese. “Anya is one of our most popular speakers.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Christophe said as he stood.

  “You’ve been to our rallies?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What was it that drew you to our party specifically, then?”

  Christophe had never been one to lie, though if there were ever an opportunity for doing so, it would have been now. “I wanted to see Annaliese and thought joining the party would provide the quickest way of doing that. And,” he added, because there was more truth than that, “because in the last four years I’ve been forced to believe killing is right. I want to believe in something better than that.”

  The man laughed as if Christophe’s honesty was refreshing. Then he leaned closer, his gaze intent. “You’re what I hope walks through that door every day, young man. A slate upon which to write the truth. You’re looking for it, and we have it.”

  He grabbed a pamphlet from the desk behind them. “Here, take this home with you. And this.” He pulled another from a different stack. “Read these and see if you agree that what we want will make Germany a better place. And isn’t that what we all want? We’ve been disgraced, betrayed by the monarchy, and handed over by the High Command. Now it is our turn to lead. The people’s turn.”

  The words were as firm as any general’s, though Christophe thought neither lofty generals nor common people would welcome any link to the other, even one of comparison.

  “I’ll read them.” Then he turned to Annaliese. “Perhaps I might speak with you before I go?”

  “Actually, I think she’s needed,” said the man behind the desk, who also stood. His gaze went past them, to the artist in the corner, who was waving their way. “But if it’s a quick word, that might be all right.”

  Christophe nodded and followed her halfway toward the artist. “Will you meet me later, when you’re finished here?”

  She didn’t look at him. “I’m busy until very late.”

  “Your parents,” he whispered, “want very much to see you. They’re leaving Germany and want to see you about it. To talk to you.”

  At least now she looked at him as if to see if he was telling the truth. “Leaving?”

  “Yes. For America.”

  Her lips tightened. “Good.”

  She tried walking away, but he caught her wrist. He hadn’t meant to touch her, but he couldn’t think of any other way to stop her without raising his voice loud enough for others to hear.

  “You won’t see them?”

  Annaliese shook her head, tugging at the wrist he still held firmly.

  “I thought everyone in this room believed in the brotherhood of man. How does that not extend to your parents?”

  “Leave me alone.” She ripped her hand from his and allowed no more than a glimpse into her eyes before turning away. But it was enough to see something he hadn’t noticed before, something that made him want to refuse her demand. She wasn’t angry with him for his persistence. It wasn’t anger he saw. It was pain.

  She kept her back to him once she reached the artist at the window.

  Christophe was sure she wouldn’t give him so much as another glance. Yes, she certainly had grown bristles, and they grew on a strong backbone.

  He left the party office feeling every bit the failure. There was no getting used to defeat.

  9

  “We’re no longer under the thumb of the industrialists, not with our voices echoing from one corner of Germany to the other. Even now, men of our council are working for an eight-hour workday and for wages to be more evenly distributed.”

  Annaliese paused for the cheers, holding up her hand to stay the noise in favor of them hearing more. “We’re willing to do what Germans do—we value work and production and discipline. We’re willing to do our part and end the strikes, work toward production so we can share the fruits of our labor. For a better Germany—a fairer Germany!”

  More cheers. She sensed the crowd’s increasing energy, half in approval of her words, half in anticipation of seeing Jurgen. She saw their faces, not as one mass of people but as countless individuals with lives of their own, with dreams and fears and hopes and worries. So many needs that could easily be met if only they worked and shared.

  She was nearly ready to hand them over to Jurgen . . . and then she saw Christophe.

  How long had he been there? Sticking to the edge, the outskirts of the crowd, where loners tended to be—those independent ones who never came, like others did, in hordes. There he was, his eyes so fixed on hers it was as if the rest of the rallygoers had disappeared.

  The way he’d once told her it would be if ever she fell in love. Their gazes would meet, and everyone else would disappear.

  But no, that was only her interpretation.

  Instead of speaking anymore, she waved an arm Jurgen’s way. He looked only momentarily surprised that she was finished, so eager was he to take over. Grabbing her hand in the way he liked to do, sharing the cheers with her, he joined in the call for unity that had been their habit ever since she’d first raised her voice on his platform.

  But she hardly listened when he took over. Not that she needed to; she knew exactly what they were fighting for, what they hoped to accomplish by letting the Socialist government keep the place it had taken weeks ago, this time by vote. So she went by rote, cheering when the crowd cheered.

  If Christophe intended to speak to her, he would have to wait. They marched as usual through the streets of Munich, their sheer numbers punctuated by the signs they carried identifying their party and by the songs of unity they sang. She walked beside Jurgen, glad for his public smile, no hint of the awkwardness she’d felt in front of him just after her refusal the other night. They stood hand in hand as if nothing could ever come between them.

  United in the cause they both believed in.

  * * *

  Christophe followed the crowd, only a few paces behind Annaliese, stunned by what he’d seen. Had he once thought her shy? vulnerable? She was anything but that up on a platform. She was self-assured, fiery, thoroughly captivating. Selfless in her message, convinced of the validity of her argument—so much so that Christophe thought he must surely agree with her.

  And why should he not? The pamphlets he’d read last night were noble if anything, claiming society was only as good as its care for the least of those within that society. Lofty dreams, perhaps, but so superior to what he’d been living these past four years that he couldn’t help but want to believe it too.

  Hearing what both Annaliese and the man called Jurgen had said this morning, he could be persuaded into thinking they were right. They did have at least one answer for Germany.

  Germany had given the upper classes a chance to rule. The monarchy had utterly failed, and the elite in the military, too. Christophe had seen firsthand just what a mess they’d made and how costly were their mistakes. Letting the people have their turn couldn’t possibly bring any greater disaster than had already been wrought.

  But something else made Annaliese’s argument more powerful to Christophe. She loved them; he could see that in her eyes, hear it in her voice. That was what touched him from the moment he’d heard her voice up there. How easy it could be to love others through her, too. He knew he should, and he wanted to, but knew whatever love he’d once had for mankind had been used up when he’d watched too many of them die. Killed too many of them himself. How could he love that which he’d been made to destroy?

  Her words rang through his mind, mingling with other words he’d always believed to be true. God loved them—loved them even when Christophe could not. And yet how many times had he re
minded himself what God required of him? To act justly, to love mercy, to walk humbly with God.

  Wasn’t that everything Annaliese proclaimed? Maybe not to walk with God, but the rest? She wanted justice for all—from the top of the society to the bottom. For mercy to make up whatever differences inevitably surfaced.

  She might not have known it or wanted to acknowledge it, based on what she’d said in the party office the day before, but Annaliese Düray was preaching straight out of God’s Word.

  The march continued on through the streets, block after block, Annaliese walking hand in hand with the man who seemed every bit as enigmatic to the crowd as she was. Christophe had to acknowledge they were well paired, at least in spirit and talent. They had a connection; he’d noticed it the moment the two of them shared the platform and exchanged one of many smiles. Together, they represented men and women, young and mature, both attractive in their single-minded passion, sincere in their concern for those in need. They made their arguments all the more powerful because of their connection to each other, more than doubling what one alone could have done.

  Annaliese might have found the very place God wanted her to be. Such a thought made his heart skip a beat. Perhaps God Himself decreed that she be the voice of the masses, the voice of the workers that others like her father supposedly used to fuel their own capitalistic greed.

  A touch to his elbow distracted him from his focus on Annaliese.

  “Christophe! Were you at the rally?”

  He turned to see the man he’d spoken to yesterday, who’d been absent from the stage but obviously present behind the scenes.

  “Yes, I was there.” He wanted to smile, to say something about how the speeches—particularly Annaliese’s—had stirred even him, but he wasn’t yet sure if the source of his excitement was the speech or the speechmaker. Annaliese had grown so independent and passionate—something he hadn’t expected from a member of such a proper family as the Dürays.