Springtime of the Spirit

by Maureen Lang

  Weeks of tension left by Eisner’s death and the scattering of the assembly had made the balance of power precarious, anyone and everyone grabbing what they could. Spring in Munich—the first since the armistice—flowered no peace. Leviné’s Communists had proved their intentions in a battle at the Marienplatz. Christophe had once taken pride that during the entire four years of the war, not a single street battle had been seen on German territory. That was no longer true; now it was Germans killing Germans in their own homeland.

  Christophe had refused to participate, even though many of the men at the warehouse had looked to him for leadership. Ivo had been slower to decide but knew his disability made him weak. So they’d ended up hiding like anyone else who refused to fight. Day after day since the battle between Communists and tattered government forces began, they stayed off the street, keeping clear of roaming armed men from either side. A growing number of Communist soldiers might not look at them suspiciously due to their working-class clothing, but it was safer just the same to keep out of their way. Either fight for them or fight against them—there were no neutrals on the streets anymore.

  Christophe received the paper from Ivo, reading claims of the new Communist regime.

  “We need every man,” Leo said to them. “Government forces in Berlin are trying to gather the free corps—calling themselves the White army—to abolish us, and the Socialists are building an army of their own. We’ll join with them against the free corps if we have to—”

  “And turn on each other to see who will win after that?” Christophe asked. “The Socialists or the Communists? When you used to be Socialist yourself?”

  “Yes! Now is the time to be rid of the voices who don’t agree. Are you with us again? For the future of your families? for the future of the world?”

  Ivo was already shaking his head. “I can barely shoot a gun; you know that, Leo. What use would I be in street fighting the way it is now, with so many guns? I was only good to scare away thugs. And drive the truck.”

  “You can take a bullet, can’t you? For Jurgen, for Leviné? They can’t so much as leave the privy without protection—and if the free corps make it here, we’ll need every man we can gather. They’re already at Dachau. We need you more than ever.”

  “No, Ivo! No,” his mother called from the shadows. “All of that is behind you now.”

  Christophe looked at Ivo’s mother. She’d been more than relieved to take them in when the fighting had started, telling them both how worried she’d been when Ivo was involved with the Socialists—even though they’d never used guns, they threatened their use often enough. The Communists under Leviné had proven an entirely different sort since seizing the power left vacant by Eisner’s death. But Jurgen had joined with him anyway.

  “I’m sorry, Leo,” Ivo said. “Not this time.”

  Leo looked as if he might say something, then held back. He looked at Christophe, but only for a moment. Then he turned to the open door. “If you change your mind, we’re at the warehouse. All of us have moved to the barracks, where it’s safer.”

  “Leo, wait,” Christophe called. “Have you heard from her? from Annaliese?”

  Leo shook his head. “No.” He started to leave, then paused, putting a hand into one pocket. “But here. This came to the house for you. Before we left, a week or more ago.”

  Christophe nearly leaped at it, seizing the envelope extended his way, a return address scribbled in the corner. Düray!

  But his breathing stopped, his throat tight. Not Annaliese at all. Her parents, from their old home in Braedon. Though new to him, it was obviously an old letter, for surely they’d sailed by now.

  “Thank you,” he said, the words barely audible.

  Leo left without another word.

  Christophe exchanged a glance with Ivo. He didn’t look any sorrier than Christophe felt to see Leo gone.

  Then Christophe went to the light above the table, seeing the envelope had already been torn open. He unfolded the contents and read the script from Annaliese’s mother, tidy, small handwriting.

  It was dated weeks before, at the end of February. He skimmed the words.

  . . . and so we’re still here, for how long I do not know. Herr Düray remains too weak to travel, but he gains strength a little every day. If only our Annaliese were here, it would surely give him the medicine he needs.

  Christophe read the letter twice, confused, before realizing Frau Düray must have written another letter first, one that had no doubt been lost in all of the city’s chaos. Annaliese’s father . . . too ill to travel. So they were still here, in Germany?

  Perhaps that was where Annaliese had gone!

  29

  “But you can’t go back to the city!” Meika’s voice was high-pitched, piercing the calm of the morning.

  Annaliese held up the newspaper, having searched as she did every time they received news from Munich. She tracked events all over Europe, in Russia and Austria or anywhere. And there it was—Communism had taken over Hungary weeks ago. The paper was that old!

  “This is what they were waiting for, Meika. It’s supposed to spread, like a huge red wave. The Communist revolution has already begun. I must go!”

  Meika waved her hands as if to erase Annaliese’s words. “All the more reason for you to stay here! Besides, you said Christophe wouldn’t stay in the city, that he would go home. If you go anywhere, you ought to go there, not Munich. At least it’ll be safer in the rural towns.”

  She shook her head, already convinced. “But what if he’s still there, waiting for me? looking for me?” She wrung her hands. “I have to find him—it’s my fault he’s in the city at all. I should have told him where I’d gone. Why didn’t I?”

  Annaliese paced, involuntarily raising one hand to the sudden ache in her forehead. She must make plans. “If he isn’t at the flat, or if Leo and Jurgen don’t know where he is, then I’ll go home and see if he’s there. But I can’t go all the way home without stopping in Munich first. The train will take me seven blocks from Leo’s. Not so very far a detour.” She wondered if Meika heard the fear behind her words.

  Annaliese would have hurried away, but Meika ambushed her at the doorway and caught her by the hands.

  “Are you sure, Annaliese? very sure that this is God’s leading and not something you think you ought to do to prove to Jurgen you know what you believe now?”

  “I’ve done nothing but pray since the moment I saw the article this morning.” She drew Meika close, praying for strength with each word. “God will be with me no matter where I go. I know that now. These weeks of learning from each other, from God’s Word itself, from your church, haven’t been wasted. I’ve been praying for direction, to know when I would be ready to find Christophe.” She pulled back, holding Meika’s face between her palms. “That moment is now. I’m ready to tell him that his faith is my faith. I can claim that now, on my own, without having him think I’ve changed only to gain his love.”

  “But to go to the city . . .”

  “God will keep me safe. Somehow, Meika, I know Christophe’s there. Waiting for me.” She drew her friend into another hug. “Be happy for me.” Then she turned away, calling over her shoulder, “And pray!”

  * * *

  Christophe tried the gate but it was locked tight. Looking through the bars, he knew such noise would alarm the dogs, yet there was only unexpected silence.

  He wished he could see the house from where he stood, but even with the trees holding barely more than a promise of spring, the wood was too thick and the distance too far. Backing up, he looked down the road, noting the height of the fence in comparison to the sturdiness of the iron gate. There was no easy foothold on the gate, but he’d scaled higher walls than this from the depths of a trench.

  First he would make sure there were no dogs.

  “Hey! Hey!” He shook the gate and the lock rattled. Then he waited.

  Nothing.

  He frowned, myriad thoughts going through h
is mind. The letter had been weeks old; perhaps Herr Düray had made a quicker recovery than expected. Perhaps Annaliese had been the right medicine, as Frau Düray hoped. Perhaps they’d all sailed together and were already gone.

  He was tempted to walk into town, to see what anyone knew. He’d been in such a hurry to get here that he’d come straight from the train, half-expecting Annaliese to somehow spot him and meet him at this very gate. What he should do was walk back to town, make some inquiries. That would be the sensible thing.

  Instead, Christophe threw his bag over the gate, shifted his rifle behind him, grabbed a bar from the gate, and put his hand atop the brick, pushing the tip of his boot to one corner of the gate’s frame. Then he catapulted himself over.

  No dogs.

  Nonetheless, he didn’t waste any time getting to the front door of the mansion. He rapped with the knocker, and it echoed as if the place were empty. He waited.

  He knocked again. Waited.

  At last he took a few steps back, assessing each window, wondering if he should make his way around to the back to see if there might be a gardener’s cottage, some other place where a caretaker might reside.

  He might have done just that, but movement from one of the windows caught his eye. There was someone inside, though reluctant to answer.

  He knocked again and called out, “It’s me, Christophe Brecht. Frau Düray! Come to the door.”

  He wasn’t at all sure it had been Frau Düray, but it had certainly been a woman. The hand pulling aside the lace curtain was small, the shadow behind it slight. Surely not Annaliese, or she would have let him in already.

  “Frau Düray!” He announced his name again, pounded once more.

  Then he heard movement. Someone was standing just behind the door.

  “I’m looking for Herr or Frau Düray,” he said through the barrier. “Or their daughter, Annaliese. Are they here? Can you tell me where they are?”

  “Go away,” the voice said. A woman’s, as he’d suspected, but unfamiliar. Young.

  Then he heard a commotion, another voice from farther away that he couldn’t quite make out. The girl behind the door called back that she wouldn’t unbolt the door for anything. And then she said his name.

  A moment later the door flew open.

  Frau Düray stood there, fully dressed and yet not quite herself. Circles surrounded her eyes in a grayish brown that made her appear older, tired. She clutched at the collar of her gown, which, he noticed now, was wrinkled as if it hadn’t been pressed at all.

  “Christophe!” She nearly fell against him, her arms tight around his neck. “Oh, you’ve come! Thank God. Is she with you? Is Annaliese with you?”

  She pulled away to look around, past Christophe, around the doorway, over his shoulder. Only to step back, pressing her stomach with one hand and the collar of her gown again with the other as if the pain of disappointment was too great to bear.

  But her greeting hadn’t been the one he wanted, either.

  “So . . . she isn’t here,” Christophe said gently. “I’m sorry. I’ve lost her—but I think she’s safe. She left the political group she was working with weeks ago, when they went Communist. She left of her own free will, without any trouble.”

  Frau Düray looked so desperately unhappy, he rambled on to assure her. As they went inside, he talked about how Annaliese had been working for the hope of Germany, and she didn’t want to be found just yet, that was all. She thought her family gone, or he was sure she would have come here.

  Movement caught his eye and he let his voice fade away. A door opened, not from the parlor but from what he’d thought was the dining room. Upstairs, too, he noticed a set of shadows that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

  Like uncertain children coming forth after the call of authority, one by one people appeared from behind other doors and hallways. Old and young, men and women. One woman even held a little lapdog, which yapped the moment she untied a string from around its snout.

  Without a word, Christophe looked at Frau Düray.

  “Friends from the city,” she said softly, “and . . . friends of friends.”

  In Munich, anyone unwilling to “fairly share” with those of lesser means had been ousted from their homes under threat of being shot, allowing those from the proletariat class to take up any excess room. But he hadn’t expected this in the countryside.

  He leaned closer to Frau Düray. “Is anyone . . . forcing you to alter your living arrangements?”

  She shook her head. “They’ve fled the city to come here. I don’t blame a single one after the stories they brought with them.” Then she smiled. “Truly, it’s been a blessing. So many brought provisions with them, and we’ve been able to share. Sharing is easier when it’s voluntary.”

  “I came as soon as I learned you hadn’t sailed in February. How is Herr Düray?”

  Frau Düray looked up the stairs, and for the first time Christophe saw past the others. There, at the top, stood Herr Düray. Leaning heavily on a cane, half his face drooped in an unnatural frown, yet dressed as neatly as he always had.

  “Who is it? Edith—you are . . . here? Vera?”

  “I’m coming, Herr Düray,” the servant behind Frau Düray said as she held her black skirt out of the way and hurried up the stairs.

  “It’s Christophe Brecht, Manfred. He came to tell us about Annaliese.”

  Frau Düray took Christophe by the elbow with one hand and with the other smoothed her hair back and out of the way, pulling a ribbon from her pocket and freeing her hand to tie her hair away from her face. “Come into the parlor, Christophe, where we can talk. Vera, bring Herr Düray along, please.”

  There was a different smell in the mansion, of dust and shut-in air, of musty clothing and old food. Of dampness, too, and he saw why when he stepped into the parlor. Laundry lines hung from the chandelier, hidden evidence of those living inside this mansion. Christophe had smelled far more unpleasant scents, but it was so unexpected that he swiped at his nose, hoping to brush it away.

  “Is there coffee, Vera?” Frau Düray asked in her old voice, and if Christophe would’ve closed his own eyes to the barrenness of the room, to Frau Düray’s appearance, closed his nose to the staleness of the air and the odd placement of the laundry, he might have believed everything was all right from the assurance in her tone.

  “No, Frau Düray. But I believe there’s tea.” She handed Herr Düray off to his wife.

  “No tea for me,” Christophe said. “I don’t want to take what you have.”

  “There is enough. Serve it in here, Vera.”

  There were no knickknacks left, no vases nor piano, no side chairs nor occasional tables upon which those knickknacks once rested. But the painting was still there, an image of days long gone for the Düray family. And the two sofas still sat opposite one another, a small table in between.

  Christophe’s gaze settled for a moment on Annaliese in the portrait, reminding him with a twist to his gut how deeply he missed her.

  Herr Düray shuffled toward the sofa, one hand on his cane and the other still on Frau Düray. He was clearly impaired, perhaps even blind, though he did look as if he were peering Christophe’s way.

  “So where . . . ? My . . . my Ann-liese?” Herr Düray’s voice was gruff and garbled, as if he were trying to talk with a mouthful of marbles.

  Christophe waited until they were settled, then took a seat opposite them. “I’m afraid I can only tell you where Annaliese isn’t,” he admitted. “She won’t be found in any familiar place in Munich. I’ve searched everywhere. Then—” he pulled out the letter he’d received from Frau Düray—“when I received this, learning you were still here in Germany, I came hoping to find her here, with you.”

  “And you can see she isn’t here,” Frau Düray said. “We’d hoped you were still with her.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry. She must believe what I believed, that you’d already sailed. I’m sorry to hear of your illness, Herr Düray.”

&nbs
p; “We cope,” he said. “With . . . God’s help.”

  “Herr Düray is much stronger than he was,” Frau Düray said with a smile. “He’s gaining more strength every day. And more of his vision. We thank God for his progress.”

  “I can see,” Herr Düray protested.

  But Frau Düray shook her head, something he clearly did not notice. “He sees light, and he does have a small window of vision.”

  Vera came in with the tea and set the tray in front of Frau Düray before disappearing again.

  “I apologize for the state of the house,” Frau Düray said as she poured. “It’s been so hard on those who’ve lost their homes.” She looked toward the doors that opened to a dining area, evidence of the state of affairs. The hall and rooms were empty now, others having given them privacy, but her face was grave.

  “What happened to the guard and the dogs?”

  “When people started coming from the city, the guard left. He said he wanted to join the revolution.” She handed a cup of tea to Christophe. “I suppose it’s just as well he’s gone. His dogs might well have eaten poor little Freddie. That’s Frau Traugott’s dog. We have children here now, too. I don’t think I’d have wanted them around those dogs.”

  “There was no one else to hire, to take his place?”

  Frau Düray shook her head. “While our friends fled the city, workers flocked to it. But what could we do, except offer what we have anyway? We heard stories of the banks having all of their cash removed, of factory owners shot down and anyone who wasn’t Communist taken to prison. We planned to be gone by the time the Communists came all the way out here . . . but to look at us, you would think us already set upon, wouldn’t you?”

  She seemed to want his affirmation, and he nodded. It was true, except for her clothes. Wrinkled silk was still silk.

  “We’ve let all of our help go except Vera, who does her best, but there is too much to do.”

  “More help . . . come,” Herr Düray said, “if she would pay.”