by Maureen Lang
“You lost your sister, but they lost a daughter. Have you forgotten that? Do you really think their greed is bigger than their love for you or Giselle? If you do, you don’t know them at all. You don’t know me, either. What if I told you I’d be happy to deliver the letter, but that I would return here the same day? that I’m here watching over you because it’s exactly where I want to be, whether or not your parents had a say in it? that even now, with your red nose and crumpled dress, I might not want to leave your side?”
The knife in her throat jabbed her as she swallowed, but she suddenly wondered if she might be hallucinating. Maybe she was more sick than she realized. Did hallucinations come with the sniffles? Perhaps she did have the influenza.
He appeared to be waiting for her to reply, but she didn’t know what to say, at least not without making herself vulnerable to what she hoped he had meant.
He returned to her bedside, leaning over her. “Whether it’s true or not, Annaliese, I’m convinced you need me. If only to remind you of your parents’ love. And God’s.”
She released the breath she’d held. God again. . . . Christophe always spoke on behalf of God or her parents, never for himself.
“Don’t feel obligated,” she whispered, then took another sip of the soothing tea to mend her sore throat.
He stood straighter, turning away but going only as far as the chair by her desk. “I don’t. Somehow you make everything I say or do sound different from what I mean it to be. So I suggest you not talk. I won’t either. Let me just sit here with you. I’ll wait until you’re finished with the tea and I’ll return the cup to Bertita. I’ll bring more if you like. But don’t speak. All right?”
She started to tell him to go, claim she didn’t need a nursemaid, but held back. It hurt to talk, anyway.
And the undeniable truth was, she didn’t want him to leave. Not Munich. Not this room. Not her.
Christophe sat as promised, without saying a word, offering his company until she’d finished the tea and toast. In peaceful silence.
22
February 21, 1919
Annaliese tucked a handkerchief into the pocket of her jacket but doubted she would need it. She felt much better today—and just in time. She needed to go out on this day especially, as a show of support for Eisner and regret that his role in Bavarian politics would be more limited than it was before.
The flat was empty when she went downstairs. She knew Christophe had left already; he had tapped on her door with tea and toast again, telling her he would be at the warehouse if she didn’t need anything else.
Leo and Jurgen would join the council members today, though she had hoped they would wait for her. But even they were gone.
So she hurried out, making her way along the Promenadenplatz, tripping on one of the streetcar rails. She headed toward the Bavarian Chamber; the public gallery was probably already full, but that didn’t matter. She wanted to greet Herr Eisner on his way in so he would know he would be missed.
Even now, she could barely believe he had so soundly lost the election. More incredible still was that the council—the council their November revolution had created—would meet in one wing of this building while in another wing, the eight ministers of the Provincial Assembly would gather to hear Eisner’s resignation.
Surely Eisner still had plans, particularly for the council of which Jurgen was a member. She took comfort in that; somehow they would remain united in their support for the people. Jurgen wouldn’t abandon Eisner, no matter what Christophe thought. How could he, after working so hard for him?
A loud bang in the distance startled her, like a clanging of two metal cans or the backfire of an engine. Then another pop and another. She’d never heard such banging before, sounds close in succession, and she quickened her step.
A boy ran past her, nearly knocking her from her feet. She would have turned and cautioned him to slow down, or at least mind his manners, but he was gone so quickly, she knew he would pay no heed. He was just a boy, after all.
She walked no farther than a dozen steps before hearing shouts from around the corner, voices bouncing off the tarnished brick-and-mortar buildings. Hope sprang up. Perhaps it was a rally. A protest against Eisner’s resignation. But wouldn’t she have known about such a thing? She rushed toward the sounds.
Instead of the earnest clamor of a rally, chaos greeted her. Men shouted, people ran—both men and women, young and old. A few onlookers stood frozen in their step, while some pointed down the avenue.
“Shot him!”
“He fell there—he’s there!”
“A man yelled, ‘Down with the revolution!’ and shot him, just so.”
“And see the blood! Look, you can see it through the crowd.”
Annaliese followed their directions, and horror sprouted through her confusion. People clustered around a body splayed out on the street. Outside the crowd, others ran one way or the other, to or fro, as if no one knew which way to go.
Annaliese darted forward, then stopped, sickened at the sight between those swarming around the fallen man. So much blood, and the body only partially visible. But the name rang around her, repeated from every side as if it ricocheted from one set of lips to another.
Eisner, she heard through one ear.
Eisner, in the other.
The name resounded in her head, whether or not those around her still said it aloud. Already, police whistles burst through the sounds. New shouts, demands for order and authority overrode those of fear and chaos. The fringes of the crowd dissipated, and she heard the news spread along the street until the same sound came from everywhere.
“Eisner! Shot dead.”
“Right on the street!”
Annaliese stepped backward, away from the police who were already making arrests. Some cried out that they were only witnesses but were carried off in a police cart anyway, while Eisner’s body was left on the street. That no one bothered to tend him confirmed the truth. He really must be dead.
Fear and confusion filled Annaliese. She tore her gaze from what she could see of Eisner’s body, looking at those around her instead. In their fear-sparked excitement, none of them understood the loss—not even her. What would it mean to the councils? to Jurgen? How could anyone on this street know what would happen if Eisner was really gone?
News of the shooting outpaced her as she headed back toward the Assembly Building. Every step she took echoed the shock. Eisner—dead! The path she followed was the same one he would have taken to the Assembly Building for his resignation. The image of his body dizzied her, but no other picture could squeeze in to take its place.
Guards surrounded the Assembly Building already—guards who wouldn’t let her in.
“I need to go in!” she protested. “I work with Jurgen, and he is there with the council. I need to speak to him.”
The guard only shook his head, ignoring her as more people approached from behind. He told them all to go away.
But she didn’t. She would wait. All day, if necessary.
“Annaliese!”
She didn’t know when her name had become entwined with the growing noise around her. The crowd had thickened, all wanting access to the same building as she. What did everyone want but the same thing? Assurance that inside this building someone was still in power, still there to set limits. If any authority was to be found, it would be found right here, inside this place of power.
She turned, but Christophe was already upon her, his eyes full of worry, his grip on her arms frantic.
“I called and called to you through the crowd. Couldn’t you hear me? Are you all right?”
“Yes . . . yes. It’s Eisner—”
He was already nodding, pulling her close even though people in front of the Assembly Building thronged the steps, uncertain about where to go instead.
“Come back to the flat,” Christophe said, “away from here. Out of the streets altogether.”
“But . . . Jurgen is inside. He might not k
now.”
“He must, by now. The whole city is crying the news. Look, they’re not letting anyone inside, anyway.”
She glanced back to the door of the Assembly Building, where guards pushed people away. But some had slipped inside anyway, she’d seen it happen herself. With Christophe at her side, perhaps she might succeed.
“We should go inside—or at least try!”
But he shook his head and started to lead her away. She could barely follow. Her limbs moved as if filled with lead, while her head was so light, it seemed filled with air. She leaned on Christophe, thinking he was surely right, she should go with him away from the chaos.
Even as she did, someone rushed past, a man as broad-shouldered as Christophe, cloaked and indomitable, despite an apron flowing out from beneath his coat. One arm was stiff, as if he concealed something underneath. Judging by his face alone, he was set on some grim mission.
Annaliese stopped, watching the man force his way inside, past guards who had enough to deal with from those in the crowd more stoppable. “Wait,” she said to Christophe. “Did you see him? that man?”
Christophe shook his head. “No. Come away from here with me. Come now.”
“But that man! Did you see his cloak? The way he held his arm, his hand in one pocket. As if he had a gun.”
“Half the city is armed, and you shouldn’t be out. Come now.”
“No! Let’s go after him—to see what he’s doing.”
Christophe’s gaze followed hers, between the door she pointed to and the guards closer to them. “I doubt we can get in.”
“Tell them you’re one of Jurgen’s bodyguards. It’s true enough.”
She pulled his hand, grateful when he followed. But the crush of the crowd was great, and they made slow progress through a knot of others being pushed away from the door, more forcefully than ever.
“We’re with Jurgen! On the council,” she called to the guards over the noise around them.
“Step back! No one is allowed inside.”
“But I saw a man get past you—with a gun!” Only after the words left her lips did Annaliese regret them for fear of panicking the crowd. Like a shudder, the words rang out from one end to the other. “A gun! A gun!” As if some of them weren’t carrying a weapon of their own or didn’t see armed men every day of the week.
“What did you say?” At last a guard turned to Annaliese, the one nearby. “What man?”
Annaliese couldn’t see through the doors, though they were open. There were too many people in the way.
“Where is the council meeting?” she called. “Are there guards there, too?”
The sentry was still too intent on holding people back, including Annaliese and Christophe. “Step back!”
From behind them whistles blew and soldiers arrived, cutting through the crowd with their shouts and commands. Some obeyed orders to disperse, but instead of following those who went away, Annaliese stumbled toward an officer.
“I saw a man go inside—I think he had a gun.”
“Go home, Fräulein,” he shouted above the cries around them, then directed his gaze to Christophe. “Take her home. Do you want to be trampled?”
“He’s right, Annaliese. There’s nothing we can do.”
“But—”
Christophe was already tugging at Annaliese, and she knew she had no choice. What could she do? Christophe was right . . . and yet, to leave . . .
Another commotion sounded from inside the doors, shouts raised to new heights, a swarm of people no longer intent on getting in, but the opposite. People rammed the door from within, pushing at anyone in their way.
“Shots!”
Annaliese saw an opportunity to run through the crowd, in the space left open behind those fleeing the building. But Christophe held firm, throwing an arm around her shoulders, hovering over her as any of the bodyguards might have done in a crowd mixed with supporters and protesters. He gave her no choice.
Only when they were blocks from the Prannerstrasse did he loosen his hold, settling only for her arm looped inside his. Still, he said nothing, just led her on the shortest route back to the house they shared.
She wanted to fight him, to cry out that he should have let her go. But outside the crowd—which had offered protection of its own kind—the fear started to take hold, and she was grateful they were away. Along every street people ran amid cries of news or alarm, accompanied by the screech of automobile tires or the zoom of an engine going too fast.
Not until Christophe hurried her up the porch and got her inside the flat did he speak. “Isn’t it time, Annaliese? to leave Munich?”
Heart still racing, knowing he might be right, she still shook her head. Never mind that it was only Jurgen’s inconsistent attention that sometimes made her feel wanted. Leo no longer talked of a Women’s Council, not since the party had gained so few seats in the assembly. No matter how hard she worked to start one anyway, support for the councils themselves was in question. Never mind that under the whispers of everyone connected to Leo and Jurgen, she’d heard the word Communism too often to ignore. In truth, none of that mattered.
Hadn’t Christophe himself said her parents were leaving for America? Perhaps they were already gone; he’d told her they were sailing this month. Surely they’d sold everything, including that mansion she detested.
Annaliese couldn’t leave Munich.
Munich was home. She had no place else to go.
23
The horror of the day was slow to fade, particularly when neither Leo nor Jurgen returned. Even Huey didn’t come home, convincing Annaliese that Eisner’s death had ignited more than just a few hours of panic and confusion on streets that were always too close to desperation anyway.
That night she didn’t have to open her window to hear the noise from two blocks over, of shop windows being smashed, guns firing, men shouting or—more than once—women screaming.
By morning Annaliese was eager for news of any kind.
“I’ll go over to the warehouse with you,” she said to Christophe at the breakfast table, which they shared only with Bertita. “That must be where Leo took Jurgen.”
Christophe’s stare lasted just long enough to emphasize his words. “You’re not going anywhere, not until we know it’s safe.”
She started to open her mouth to protest, but he was already shaking his head.
“Nowhere, Annaliese.” His glance landed briefly on Bertita. “Neither of you. I’m staying here too.”
“That’s exactly what Huey told me to do, and I have no intention of doing otherwise.” Bertita looked at Annaliese. “We stay here. Right here.”
The day dragged on, made worse by Christophe’s pacing. He held his rifle across his chest, standing guard like the most loyal defender. But it made talking to him senseless. All she saw was his gun.
By the next day, she wanted a glimpse of the city, to see if the chaos had settled, if anything had changed. She longed for normalcy, for fresh air. But Christophe kept a watchful eye on the front door, night and day, leaving open the door of the flat he used, beyond which no one could come or go. After a couple of attempts to leave on her own, Annaliese not only gave up trying, she gave up speaking to him altogether. She stayed resolutely in her room, asking Bertita to bring her meals so she wouldn’t have to look at Christophe, the warden of her prison.
Although the street below Annaliese’s window usually remained empty, eerily so, occasionally someone would run by, or a march would pass that was blatantly absent any women or children. Once she saw a band of men being arrested for no apparent reason.
She guessed most women hid in their homes . . . or were hidden against their will, like her.
By the third day of being closed up in her flat, she had no intention of letting her imprisonment continue. At the very least, she wanted to see if a newspaper could be found. Even if it was full of half-truths, intentional lies, or mistaken errors, it would be more news than she’d had lately. The least she coul
d do was go on a surveillance run. She wanted to know who killed Eisner and why.
She decided to leave and return before first light; Christophe would never know. She would tell him after she returned, with a newspaper in hand if she was lucky. Surely she could find something, and if not, at least she would see for herself if the streets were as dangerous as Christophe claimed.
Annaliese crept down the stairs, stopping abruptly when the stair beneath her feet creaked. It was still dark, but moonlight shone through the transom above the door. Slowly, slowly, she moved on, taking one step, then another until she was nearly at the bottom.
The door to Jurgen’s flat was open as it had been the night before and the night before that. From inside the room, she heard Christophe breathing. Deep, steady. Another pair of careful strides and Annaliese was at the landing. Nearly free.
The breathing changed then, drawing her vision inside the room. There he was, not in the bedroom he could have called his own, or any of the other two he could have taken over since Leo and Jurgen had disappeared. Christophe lay on the couch, fully dressed, without a blanket, his head on a pillow so small it didn’t seem to offer any comfort at all. Boots still on.
His breathing was erratic now, as if something far heavier than his own folded arms burdened his chest. Leave, just leave. She should go outside before he woke, or she would never have her taste of freedom, of air, of counterfeit peace in a street now quiet.
Yet she couldn’t go. She stood rooted at the threshold, watching him sleep, hearing his breathing become yet more strained.
Until he popped right up as if afire, eyes wide, a low cry escaping his lips. He stared straight ahead, directly at her. And yet he didn’t see her; whatever he saw, it couldn’t be her. Not with such a look in his eye.
Sweat glistened on his brow, despite the chill in the nighttime air and his lack of any blanket.
“Christophe?”
She took a step closer and he moved again, jumping from the couch, his gaze bouncing around the room as if he’d forgotten where he was or even who she was.