by Maureen Lang
She hurried her steps and pushed through the crowd into a room full of chaos. Neither Jurgen nor Leo was in sight. The uneasiness was tangible. A crowd several layers deep huddled around what she knew must be someone sitting at the typewriter, perhaps one of their writers eager to get copy off to their press.
“What is it?” she asked Ivo, who towered above most others. “What’s happened?”
He reached out to her, then pulled back, as if shy of his deformed hands. She caught him, though, because she’d once held his hand in a march and knew such contact didn’t hurt him.
His palm closed around her hand. “One of the foremen at the tool works factory was thrown over a bridge. He hit his head on a piling and drowned. It happened after Jurgen’s visit.”
“Oh no!”
“The police are holding Jurgen for questioning.”
“But he’s a member of the council! He would never incite violence. How can they hold him against his will?”
“They say they’re holding him for his own good,” Ivo told her. “To protect him in case some of the bourgeois blame him for the death.”
Jurgen couldn’t go to jail, no matter why they said they were holding him. Not again, not after he’d spent so many months in the hands of the government. It had been a government under a different name when he’d been imprisoned the first time, but that would hardly matter. Not if he was to be deprived of his freedom.
And what would this do to the election? To have one of Eisner’s most prominent supporters thrown in jail, no matter the reason, was surely a disaster.
“Where is Leo?”
“He’s there, at the typewriter. Getting out a flyer defending Jurgen.”
“Anya? Is that you?”
She pressed through the crowd and found Leo just pulling a page from the typewriter carriage.
He handed it to Ivo. “Get this to the printer right away. And you—” he looked at Annaliese—“you’ll have to address the crowd outside the jail. I saw them; they’ve already formed.”
Leo took her hand, pulling her along to the back of the room as he spoke. “We must make sure they know Jurgen is as grieved as the rest of us over what happened. And label those really at fault—the capitalists are the ones who continue to suck the blood and hope out of each one of us. That foreman who died knew nothing of freedom; he was hard-pressed by his capitalist bosses to force those under him to reach a certain quota. He was as much a victim as the rest of us. And now they want to make a victim of Jurgen.”
He pushed open the door, and she followed him outside. “Do you understand? It must be made clear that Jurgen in no way condones what happened, and the man who died must be made a victim, too. If the crowd can be made to see that he would have flourished with freedom and fairness, we might gain some new voices to join ours instead of losing any. Come with me.”
The truck waited at the end of the block, and Leo coached her as he had when she first joined the party. Along the route to the municipal building, she heard each word, but his advice matched the assumptions she had already. A man had died today, a man whose identity she did not know, though he represented another loss of German life. She might not be able to put a face to the man who was lost, but she could define the grief and make sure Jurgen himself was absolved of any guilt.
There, in the street before the building where Jurgen was being held, was the crowd Leo had spoken about—and a speaker already on a platform above.
Her heart thudded as she heard accusations labeling the men who’d attacked the foreman a mob. And Jurgen as the one who’d inspired that mob.
The words might as well have been bullets aimed at him, but she could be his shield.
Annaliese fairly sailed from the back of the truck, Ivo scrambling after her with the sturdy wooden platform on which she could stand to grab the attention she needed.
“Don’t add Jurgen to the wrong side!” she cried, and the crowd seemed startled to hear another voice from a nearby corner. The other speaker, a man she did not know, was startled too. His silence gave her time to cry out again. “The victims today are those trapped in a capitalist system that degraded the foreman to a slave driver. If he’d had a taste of the fairness Jurgen offers through our council, nothing like this would have happened.”
“Then why did it happen during one of his speeches?” the other speaker said. “Because he incited it!”
“No! We want peace. If you knew anything about Jurgen, you would know that. He spent a year in a prison just like this for protesting the war, for refusing to respect an antiquated monarch. Jurgen hates war! And violence! There would be no wars without the greed of others. Greed that made a foreman the victim of a senseless crime.”
If not for the strength of her voice against his, Annaliese doubted she could have won the crowd over. But win them she did, offering volley after volley of discourse. These were Germans before her, war-weary, death-weary, just as she was. She knew that and reminded them Jurgen knew it too. This was an entirely new audience to her, one who hadn’t come expecting to hear her message of peace and fairness and equality. Few were dressed as she was, in the worn clothes of the lower class; most of the clothing in this crowd represented the middle class. Seeing that made her all the more impassioned, because if she could win new voices to their way of thinking, then Jurgen’s imprisonment would almost be worth it.
She saw them reluctantly come around to her, warm to her logic, her passion. This crowd, like so many before them, soon let her define the truth, because her vision of the world was simple and clear. A world in which the weak were cared for, the exploiters revealed for what they were. She longed with them for a better world.
One in which Jurgen would not—could not—be part of any violence.
Let the blame fall where it belonged: on the capitalist system exploiting those who had no choice but to offer the strength of their backs, the dexterity of their hands, the test of their will in order to survive on what few scraps the bourgeoisie thrust their way. She was quick to reveal it was the system that failed, not the people—after all, who would knowingly set out to thwart another? It was a system that demanded greed, one that people could abandon in light of their love for others.
She had those present calling for Jurgen’s release before she was finished with her speech.
Leo pulled her to the side, pointing to the municipal building, where armed police were emerging to disperse the crowd. She let him lead her back to the truck, and no sooner had he shut the back doors than Ivo sped away, beyond the reach of any officers.
“You did what you could,” Leo said.
If only she knew it would be enough.
* * *
Christophe closed the shop door against the wind, turning up the collar of his new coat. Perhaps he should have gone home, after all, if only to save the money this new coat had cost him.
Deciding to stay in Munich had been easier than he thought, considering how he’d felt that very morning on the back porch of the house where Annaliese lived. He could have convinced himself the last thing she needed—or wanted—was to have someone looking after her, especially someone sent by her parents. Somehow, though, that very thought had helped him decide. That, and what Nitsa had done against her family. He owed the Dürays that much, and it wasn’t even a sacrifice of his time or energy.
Christophe had spent the afternoon scouting for someone to deliver a message to Annaliese’s parents. Several hours before that had been spent choosing how he would word such a message. Their daughter was safe; she was busy; she was productive. She was working to improve the lives of common Germans. He left out any reference to Socialism or even politics in general, knowing he needed to keep the wording just vague enough if his note was to remain cheerful.
But there was no evading the one fact her parents most wanted to hear about. Annaliese would not come home, not even to say good-bye. He ended by saying he would continue to hope she would change her mind before they were scheduled to sail. If that happened, h
e would see her safely home. In the meantime, he planned to keep an eye on her and told them where they could contact him. At the home of Leo Beckenbauer.
He would go there, but not tonight. As determined as he was to watch over Annaliese, he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to face her just yet—not while wondering if she spent all of her time in that little room upstairs or if she sometimes shared a room with Jurgen. By tomorrow Christophe would be adjusted to all that, he was sure.
Tonight he would return to the park, enjoy the warmth of his new coat. He would stare at the stars for as long as he could, demand himself to keep awake. Sleep so rarely brought him any rest, he doubted tonight would be any different.
13
Annaliese scrambled to the bottom staircase of the municipal building, which Jurgen was just descending. Free after more than twenty-four hours of being held “for his own protection.”
She fell into his arms, not even caring that others were around to see him kiss her. She’d once vowed if she ever did carry through with sharing his bed, no one but the two of them would realize such a thing had occurred. She didn’t want others watching, measuring the length of such a personal relationship. But she was so relieved to see him, she didn’t care who saw them. “Leo has arranged a celebration at the beer hall,” she said breathlessly. “Everyone is eager to see you.”
“I suppose I could use a clean shirt first,” he said.
She smiled, taking his hand and leading him to the back of the truck. “There’s one on the bench.”
Leo held it out for him when they joined him. Before Jurgen had even unbuttoned the shirt he wore, Annaliese averted her eyes. But he reached across the aisle and caressed her cheek as if to tell her there was nothing he wouldn’t share with her.
She offered a smile, then looked away again.
The music in the beer hall was so loud, it greeted them before they’d even stepped inside. Upon Jurgen’s entry, cheers drowned every other noise.
Beer was thrust at all of them, and Annaliese raised a glass mug along with the others, saluting Jurgen.
More supporters than ever clamored nearby, and countless new faces welcomed them. Annaliese recognized some she’d seen at rallies supporting the SPD, the more centrist social democratic party theirs had broken off from some time ago, before Annaliese had ever come to Munich. Having them here was something she was sure neither Jurgen nor Leo missed.
Annaliese drank beer while the tension from previous days slowly dissipated. This day was a triumph. The near-nonstop street speeches in support of Jurgen could end. She could go back to speaking about workers’ unity and encouraging support for Eisner in the election. And Leo could go back to writing pamphlets instead of battling behind the scenes for Jurgen’s freedom.
More than once, Jurgen caught her eye over his beer. He even whispered in her ear, but it was too noisy to hear what he’d said. She couldn’t help meeting his gaze, knowing from his smile the meaning behind whatever words he’d spoken.
Annaliese let her mug be refilled. Now, right now, was the time to celebrate Jurgen’s triumphant return. She would worry later about whatever was to happen once they reached home.
The crowd provided a lure for both of them. Surrounded by those of like mind, they took turns speaking to the entire hall. In between speeches they drank more beer and sang songs, and after a while a sense of pleasant security settled on Annaliese. She had a place here. Those around her had nearly as much faith in her as they had in Jurgen, if she could judge by the hurrahs that greeted her speech. Her place among them had been secured by no less than Jurgen himself, and for that she was grateful.
Others took their places on the tabletop, presiding over the crowd, echoing sentiments she and Jurgen had inspired, all in support of Eisner and the People’s Council. She accepted yet another drink Jurgen pushed her way, toasted with the traditional “Prost!” and drained the contents. Annaliese wasn’t accustomed to taking more than a few sips of beer, but today was different. The atmosphere was holidaylike, even though Christmas was more than a week away and the election a couple of weeks after that.
And she needed whatever fortification the drink could bring. Hadn’t Jurgen said wine would enhance what took place between them? Beer would provide the same help tonight. She hastily finished the entire mug and let it be refilled again.
Before long, sleepiness shrouded the edges of her vision. She considered taking a short nap even amid the noise of the still-crowded and jubilant beer hall. What would it matter, anyway? Ivo and Huey were nearby. She picked up her mug to finish the last of her third beer—or was it her fourth?—before she would push it away to rest her head on the table.
But the glass was taken from her hand before it reached her lips.
“I think you’ve probably had enough.”
The voice belonged to Christophe Brecht.
She looked at Jurgen instead of turning to Christophe—Jurgen, who was far deeper in his own cups and just now sharing an animated recitation of one of his poems. Undoubtedly neither he nor Leo had seen Christophe, or they would have invited him into their circle.
“Go away,” she said over her shoulder.
“Come outside with me, Annaliese. Get some fresh air.”
He’d already dispelled the deliciously sleepy feeling she’d enjoyed only moments ago. And the beer hall air was heavy with smoke and malt.
“I do want some fresh air,” she said, standing. “But alone.”
Her head spun and she wondered if she’d gotten up too quickly. She had no idea what time it was, but for her the day was over. She wanted only to go home. With or without Jurgen.
“Ivo, will you see me home, please?”
She touched the side of the table to steady it; somehow it had moved, despite having so many people sitting around it. Squinting, she peered through the smoke and spotted the front door, but there were hundreds of people in the way. She never should have stood; she might have easily fallen asleep right in her seat and been happy enough.
But she was up now and wanted only one thing. Her bed. Alone.
She felt the large shadow behind her as she made her way through the throng. Ivo steadied her once when someone stepped unexpectedly in her path, but she never took her focus from her destination. How foolish she’d been to have more than one mug of beer. It made her vulnerable even to someone stumbling around her.
Or perhaps she had stumbled into him.
Outside, the crisp air pierced her lungs. She’d forgotten her coat. But to swim back through that sea of people was unthinkable and so she didn’t even turn around. She stepped toward the street.
“Here, put this on,” said a voice behind her, with some exasperation.
The wrong voice. Not Ivo, but Christophe.
“Where is Ivo?”
“It doesn’t matter, Annaliese. I’m taking you home.”
Then he draped a coat—hers—on her shoulders and she put her arms into the sleeves, letting him tie it closed with the belt.
“Does Jurgen know?”
All she heard was a grunt in response. He looped her arm through his and started walking, and for a moment it was all she could do to keep up.
“Slow down or let me go!”
He slowed.
She took another breath of the night air, and after a wave of nausea passed, she tugged on his arm. He didn’t let go.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she said. “Does Jurgen know I left with you?”
“I don’t know. Ivo saw us leave; he’ll probably tell him.”
She looked behind them, toward the front of the beer hall that seemed far away already. A few people lingered outside, but the air was too cold for more than the thinnest crowd beyond the warmth of the hall.
“I told you to go away.”
“And so I did. Along with you.”
“That wasn’t . . .” She didn’t finish. It was no use. Although he’d slowed his pace, he had her arm twisted around his so she couldn’t escape.
�
��You shouldn’t drink alcohol,” he said. “At least not so much. You’re too small to drink.”
“I’m not too young. For anything.”
“I didn’t say you were too young. I said you were too small. Your body. It’s too small to hold much beer. And you are too young, too, or else you’re just foolish. You don’t have any sense left in you right now.”
“Yes I have!” She would have been proud of the firmness behind her statement, but a hiccup compromised her.
“Really? Then how is it that you left with me, when I heard you clearly say you wanted me to go away? If you hadn’t drunk so much, you would have known it was I behind you, not Ivo. You’re just lucky it was me and not some thug from in there.”
“I wasn’t with any thugs. I was with friends.”
He didn’t dispute that, and she considered the argument won. But after another block of walking, she stopped. “Why didn’t you let Ivo take me home? He has the truck. He would have come back for the others, and I would be home now. I’m tired. And cold.”
“Keep walking,” he said.
“I’m not foolish.”
“It’s foolish to drink so much that you lose awareness of your surroundings. Any number of things could happen to you, the way you are right now.”
She laughed. If only he knew! Tonight was supposed to have been the night she gave herself to Jurgen, and being tipsy wouldn’t have made one bit of difference to him. It would have been easier to get it over with. Decision made before any hesitation could arise.
“He’s not going to be happy.”
“Who’s not?”
“Oh, no one you need to know about.”
“Jurgen?”
She stopped short but he didn’t let her linger, tugging her forward again.
“How did you know I was talking about Jurgen?”
“He’s old enough to be your father. What do you see in such an old man?”
“He’s . . . he’s . . . experienced.”
He snorted. “I’ve no doubt of that.”