Springtime of the Spirit

by Maureen Lang

Christophe turned to the man, surprised by the clarity in that single word.

  “Don’t leave me . . . not without a gun. I can’t find it. I lost it.”

  The soldier’s rifle was still slung over his shoulder. Christophe shifted it to the man’s lap. Then, without another word, he continued his mission.

  * * *

  Tear sheets for bandages. Apply pressure to the wound to stop the bleeding. Tie a tourniquet. Dab iodine—vicariously wincing because the boys upon whom she performed the services were unconscious and couldn’t wince for themselves.

  Man after man was brought in, so many even Leo was shamed into helping. Even he could hold gauze to a wound. And then, amid the new smells, the groans, and the growing number of cots in use, Annaliese’s most fervent prayer was answered.

  A man entered on his own two feet, this one neither carried nor coerced. He toted a bag and claimed he was a doctor but needed to say no more than that before Annaliese asked him what to do.

  “You’ll direct me to the ones I can help,” he said as they walked. “Monitor those who are brought through those doors. The ones who come in on their own, cussing or angry, can wait. The ones carried in, delirious and barely able to call for their mother—those I cannot help. Take me to the ones who moan, Fräulein. It’s them I can help.”

  And so she did as directed, praying all the while to categorize the wounded as she’d been assigned. From afar, she watched while he performed any miracle he could while guards were commandeered to the duty of holding patients down for surgery. She heard the ping of bullets removed from wounds, dropped into a pan. She saw a guard hold open a grievous wound with a long silver instrument so the doctor had two free hands to explore. She saw men faint; she saw men die. And some, she saw survive.

  * * *

  The steady stream of fighters pouring in from around the city soon had the men in the streets either retreating or surrendering. Though it was difficult to tell one side from the other, surrender was clear enough in the relinquished weapons, the lifted arms, the growing silence.

  Once Christophe learned there was a makeshift medical station set up in the back of an empty garage, he’d carried men there one by one.

  He didn’t count the minutes or the hours the battle raged; instead he counted the men he’d helped.

  Twenty-three.

  Only when the bullets ceased and more men came out to help the wounded did he realize the significance of the number.

  Twenty-three was the number of men whose faces haunted him at night.

  There, at the threshold of the garage-turned-hospital, without caring who saw him, Christophe fell to his knees.

  35

  Annaliese brushed her forehead with the top of her wrist, only vaguely aware that the influx of injured men had gradually diminished. The needs before her went on, even though another doctor and three nurses were there now to perform more expertly what she’d attempted to do before they’d arrived.

  But there was water to be fetched, cotton cloths too precious to be discarded that had to be rinsed for use again, utensils to be cleaned in antiseptic. She did what she could, still too dazed to think about having acted as a nurse upon living souls who’d deserved someone with far more training than she. Hours passed before she spoke to anyone about something other than a task at hand.

  Odovacar was brought in, wounded. He’d donned a helmet he’d taken from a fallen man only moments before a bullet ripped through it. Nonetheless the impact had knocked him out, leaving his forehead bloodied and his mind disoriented. The doctors and nurses were still busy with more-severely wounded men, and so as soon as she could, Annaliese went to his side to clean his wound, though he soon fell unconscious again.

  She returned to him some time later, after a doctor had seen him. “I don’t think it would’ve been all that glorious in France after all, Fräulein,” Odovacar said to her. He held on to her hand as if he couldn’t bear for her to leave him. “It’s been only a couple of battles for me, and I’ve already had enough.”

  She looked around the barracks, thinking she would easily trade its newly acquired stench of death for the smells she’d tried banishing earlier. “I hope this will be the last of it.”

  But somehow she wasn’t convinced of that, and neither, she thought, was Odovacar. She looked at him again and saw a tear slide from one eye.

  “We’re losing, Fräulein. Our men are scattering—there are too many on the other side.”

  She pressed his hand in hers. “Someone must win. Maybe if the guns can be put away, we can go back to the idea of giving voice to the people—through voting.”

  He offered a weak smile. “I should be too young to agree with such a dull solution to Germany’s troubles, but the last few hours have aged me.”

  The mention of politics made her think of Jurgen and Leo, neither of whom she’d seen in quite some time. Certainly not since the first doctor had arrived. Her gaze went to the tent.

  “They’re not in there.”

  The observation had come from the man in the cot next to Odovacar. He was wounded in the leg, sweating and restless but fully alert.

  “Jurgen?”

  “I saw Leo take him out that way.” He aimed his chin to the back door of the warehouse.

  “Probably to safety,” Odovacar offered, looking sympathetically at Annaliese. “You needn’t worry about him if Leo is with him. He’ll make sure Jurgen is taken care of.”

  “Then he’d better get him out of Munich altogether,” the other man said. “If the Whites stay, they’ll kill him—or any one of us who worked with Leviné.”

  Odovacar looked from the man to Annaliese, his eyes considerably wider. “Maybe all of us right here.”

  A shudder crossed her shoulders, but she shook it away. “They can’t possibly kill everyone who supported the Communists. Once order is restored, things will settle down again.” She gently pressed his hand, still in hers. “You mustn’t worry, Odovacar.”

  If only she could heed her own advice.

  * * *

  The worst of the battle might have passed, but Christophe knew the streets were anything but safe. He fit in well enough with the free corps troops still roaming the more affluent parts of the city, but because of his familiarity with so many men connected to the revolutionaries, he could safely walk into Ivo’s neighborhood too.

  It took several moments for Ivo to come to the door, and even then he only opened it wide enough to pull Christophe inside, then shut it tight behind them.

  “Is the fighting over?”

  Christophe shook his head. “I don’t know. The free corps are still spreading through the city. I heard the Communists in Dachau fell yesterday, and from the number of men I saw with the Whites here, I don’t think the Reds will last long.”

  From the corner, Ivo’s mother prayed a quick and audible prayer—about saving them from either of the armies. Christophe echoed the thought.

  “It’s best if everyone keeps hiding,” he said to her. “I’ll try to find provisions . . . but everything is still in chaos.”

  Ivo shook his head, mumbling something about having flour that would last, but his face was still far too solemn. “I need to tell you something, Christophe,” he said. “Leo sent someone here yesterday, looking for you.”

  “Why?”

  Ivo took a seat and waved a hand for Christophe to sit at the table too, but he didn’t. “He invited you to the warehouse because Annaliese is there. With Jurgen.”

  “With . . . ?” Now he did step closer and grabbed Ivo by the collar. “What do you mean, with Jurgen?”

  Ivo pried loose his shirt. “Sit, man, sit.”

  Christophe paced. She was at the warehouse? Right now? The last time he’d been there, it had been full to the brim with men. Why would Jurgen have brought her there, of all places? “Tell me exactly what the messenger said, Ivo.”

  “He told me Leo gave him a message that Annaliese had been away for a while, but she’d returned to Jurgen.”

&n
bsp; Suddenly Christophe needed the chair he’d refused before. He fell into it as if one of those bullets that had so miraculously missed him on the street had found him here.

  But something didn’t make sense. He eyed Ivo again. “Why seek me out to tell me she chose Jurgen? I would’ve found out, sooner or later. As soon as I found her on my own.”

  “Maybe they wanted you to know she is all right.”

  Christophe shook his head. “I don’t think it was kindness that made Leo want to tell me she’d returned.”

  Ivo shrugged. “Leo has always protected Jurgen. Maybe he’s doing that now so you won’t come looking for her to confuse her again.”

  Christophe pushed himself upright so violently that the chair behind him wobbled on its legs. “I won’t believe she chose him,” he said. “Not until she tells me to my face.”

  And then he went back out to the streets.

  36

  Gunfire pushed Christophe toward the shadows. He wasn’t sure the bullets had been aimed at him, but he was sure the streets weren’t safe for anyone yet.

  The street outside the warehouse seemed a common destination. Trucks and soldiers were drawn to the same entryway Christophe approached, and orders were shouted for some of the wounded to be carried out to an ambulance truck.

  Even as soldiers scrambled to follow orders, Christophe heard the words he’d dreaded. These wounded were to be taken either directly to a commandeered prison or to the hospital nearest the police barracks. Apart from a sniper or two, it seemed all of Munich was slipping under the White army’s control.

  Newly placed sentries wouldn’t let him inside the warehouse, but even from the threshold he saw more than a dozen cots still full. Off to one side, a doctor performed what looked like emergency surgery, similar to the kind Christophe had seen closest to the front. Behind the doctor, men moaned, slept, or called for one of the nurses in the narrow aisles. He scanned those women, but none were familiar. Not that he’d expected to find her with a nurse’s apron on, anyway.

  Nor did he see Jurgen or Leo, and for one awful moment he wondered if they’d been taken into custody already. Sentencing Leo and Jurgen for crimes associated with the Communist activity was one thing. But Annaliese? Would she be considered guilty because of her association with him?

  He approached one of the sentries again, this time at the door rather than the wide delivery entrance, where the trucks awaited their imprisoned cargo. “I’m Major Christophe Brecht,” he said. “I’m looking for a woman who was here earlier. Not a nurse.”

  “A revolutionary?”

  He shook his head. “No. She only took shelter here.”

  The soldier scanned the large room, which was only half-full even with all of the activity. “Look around, Major, but I think there are only nurses here. The rest are men.”

  Christophe stepped inside, but even as he did so, he realized the risk. Should any of the men he used to train in this very building recognize him as a comrade, he would be taken captive as a Communist and be unable to prove himself otherwise. Certainly no one in the White army could vouch for him.

  So he stayed behind the cots, out of the line of vision of the men closest to him. Which brought him closer to the doctor who was just finishing with a wounded man. His hands were soaked red, and when he went to dip them in a pan, he saw it was already crimson.

  “I need more fresh water here!” The doctor held up his hands, scanning the area much the way Christophe himself was doing. “Where is she? She was here a moment ago.”

  Christophe felt obligated to answer, being so close by. “It appears all of your nurses are tending other patients.”

  “No, not a nurse. A girl. She was helping. She just brought me these instruments.” His gaze returned from wandering the room and settled on Christophe. “But she’s gone. What are you doing? Can you lend aid here?”

  “I . . .” He nearly refused, intent on finding Annaliese. But if he were going to ask about her, perhaps it would be easier to coax an answer in exchange for aid. He took the tin bowl of water and dumped it in the nearby sink, rinsing and filling it with more water.

  “Did you say you were helped by a girl?” Christophe asked. “Was she about this height?” He raised a palm to his own shoulder. “Pretty, blonde hair?”

  “Yes, I suppose. Here, I need these put in fresh antiseptic.” He handed Christophe a tray of blood-soaked surgical tools. “There is more in that bag, beneath the sink.”

  Christophe took the tray of instruments, but as he returned to the sink, he looked again around the room. If she wasn’t here now, surely she had been here not long ago. And might return.

  * * *

  “Here, in here.”

  Annaliese, hearing the hushed voice call from the shadows, was at first hesitant to heed it. But Odovacar, who countered his dizziness by leaning on her steadiness, headed in the direction of the man who’d spoken.

  “No guns.”

  Odovacar slipped the rifle from his shoulder, handed it to Annaliese, then leaned against the wall instead of against her. She looked around, wondering what she was supposed to do with it.

  “There.” A single hand, extended in the lusterless moonlight, accompanied the voice. It pointed behind her. “Lift the lid.”

  Two tin barrels stood near the brick wall at the back of the alleyway. She discarded the gun in one, repositioned the lid, then rejoined Odovacar.

  They’d been running in their best rendition of a drunken race since sneaking out the back of the warehouse, almost three blocks away, after the Red sentries had abandoned their posts and new soldiers took their places—all without a shot fired.

  She thanked God no one from the White army descending on the warehouse had seen them go, or surely they would have been stopped. She wasn’t entirely sure the White army would believe she was without ties to the Communists. Even she couldn’t convince herself of that. No ties to its politics, that was certainly true. But to those who’d advanced it? Maybe they would think her guilty enough.

  She hadn’t quite believed it was safe until now.

  A priest opened the door wide enough to let them both inside. “We can give you food and shelter for only a few days at most.” The solemn priest had a circle of gray extending from the temples to the back of his head, giving the impression of a halo. He looked at Annaliese. “You know, of course, that you cannot stay?”

  She glanced at him, startled. Where else could she go? Back to the barracks, taking a chance on being arrested? She looked around. There was no one else in sight.

  “Couldn’t I stay . . . even here, in the corner, out of sight?”

  “I have no loyalties to either side, but the men I have downstairs are Red. Twice I’ve had to turn away White soldiers looking only for a roof over their head. It wouldn’t be safe to have you stay, and I cannot take you to where I’m hiding the men.”

  She would have argued if any words came to mind, but she had none. She wouldn’t endanger others because of her own hopelessness.

  “I only came to help my friend,” she said, and Odovacar nodded even as he leaned against the wall.

  “Say your farewells, then. Quickly.”

  “You’ll be all right here,” she assured Odovacar, then hugged him. “I will pray for your safety.”

  He looked at her curiously as if wondering if she’d been sincere or said it only for the benefit of the man of God waiting to take him away. She smiled and hoped he read her candidness.

  “Maybe it’s only the wound to my head, or maybe it’s that I’m headed to the cellar of a church, but I think I’ll join you in that praying, Fräulein.”

  * * *

  The last thing Christophe wanted to do was act as nurse to those who might finger him as one of their associates, and yet he found himself with little choice if he wanted to wait for Annaliese’s return—if she returned. There were more than a dozen men he’d trained to use a rifle taking up cots, but thankfully for Christophe—unfortunately for the men—most were unconsci
ous. The rest never looked his way.

  But he soon doubted she would return. If Leo had his way, he would have spirited Jurgen to a safe place, most likely with Annaliese at their side. What Christophe needed to do now was find that safe place.

  Christophe looked around again, deciding it was no use to wait. If she’d been here within a half hour, she might still be nearby.

  He went to the back of the warehouse, saluting the soldier who stood guard, then walked outside and into the darkness.

  The night was quiet, deathly so. Evidently neither the White nor the Red army thought itself firmly in control, since neither side took the risk of assigning patrols. The only men Christophe came across were gathered in huddles outside a beer hall two blocks from the warehouse.

  He approached cautiously, holding up his hands, introducing himself as a Major in the German army. He was welcomed immediately.

  “Come off the streets, Major! Have some schnapps.”

  The invitation came with a decidedly Prussian dialect, so Christophe chose his words carefully, making sure he gave no clue that he’d been born right here in Bavaria. “I’m looking for someone who was working for Leviné, the Communist leader. His name was Jurgen. Do you know if he’s been arrested yet?”

  “Maybe he’s one of the dead! We shot eight of them at the municipal building in the first wave of the attack.”

  “Do you know names?”

  The soldier shook his head, then took a long drink from the mug in his hand. “Wait until morning. Whatever leaders are left will be rounded up; you’ll see.”

  “And shot!”

  Christophe turned away to continue his hunt.

  “You’d best stay with us, Major,” one of the men called from behind him. “We haven’t arrested all the revolutionaries yet.”

  Christophe kept walking, sticking to the shadows, traveling a wide radius of the warehouse, looking for anyone or anything that might give him a clue as to where Leo had taken Jurgen. He wasn’t sure where else to go, what else to do. Clearly it was useless to roam the streets. He found himself tracing a familiar path, not far from Leo’s house, and then going there. He climbed the porch, recalling how many times he’d seen Annaliese in this very spot.