Springtime of the Spirit

by Maureen Lang

  The moment they were alone, Christophe drew Annaliese close. “I’ve missed you.”

  “Yes, me too.” She laughed. “I’m glad you let Ivo go. I don’t know what I would’ve felt had you not been here when I woke.”

  “I told you, Annalise. Whatever we do from now on, we do together.”

  * * *

  It was nearly dark when Ivo returned. His mother had insisted on keeping both locks bolted and ordered a bench dragged in front of the door. By the time Ivo was let in, nearly the entire family—four siblings, Ivo’s mother, Christophe, and Annaliese—stood waiting for whatever news he had of the outside city.

  “The trains are running—but not on any schedule” were his first words. “People are lined up at the station, waiting just in case one arrives. When one does, it’s swarmed like a dollop of honey by ants.”

  “But people are there? unafraid of the soldiers from either side?”

  He nodded. “They’re mostly bourgeoisie, wanting to get away from the fighting. The free corps isn’t letting any of the working class leave, for fear a revolutionary will get away. They want all of them arrested. Or worse.”

  Annaliese wanted to ask him what he meant, but a glance to the younger siblings reminded her why he hadn’t elaborated.

  “We’re working class!” Ivo’s mother said.

  “Which is why it’s best for everyone to stay inside.”

  “Even me?” one of his brothers asked.

  Ivo nodded and tousled the boy’s hair. “Especially you.”

  Christophe was already retrieving his knapsack, pulling from it familiar material. One of her old suits—a favorite skirt and short jacket of light green silk trimmed with black lace circles, a frothy white blouse beneath. Only her mother would have known it was a favorite, and the thought made her more eager than ever to be home.

  The suit, stockings, gloves, and small black hat were far different from the plain, sturdy black cotton skirts and serviceable white blouses she’d been wearing in solidarity with working-class women. She’d learned to do without frills and colors and soft material but couldn’t deny a small part of her was eager to wear it again—especially when she knew she could take out Giselle’s pin and put it on. Eagerness to do that nearly obliterated whatever capitalistic guilt might loom in her mind—something she would no doubt have to wrestle with, particularly when she saw her father again.

  And that, she hoped, would be soon.

  Annaliese did not want to go to bed. They had decided to wait one more day, since Ivo’s investigation had included evidence of sporadic fighting—or executions. Annaliese was almost sure he knew more because she saw him whispering to Christophe later, who received whatever news Ivo shared with a grim frown.

  At dawn they would say their farewells to Ivo and his family . . . and to all of Munich.

  But for now, they were as safe as they could be, and Annaliese wanted to keep it that way. Christophe sat in Ivo’s parlor at her side, close together on the little sofa in front of the cold fireplace. Ivo and his family were already abed, leaving them with their first real time alone since they’d arrived the day before.

  It was late and she knew they would need rest, but it was obvious Christophe didn’t want to say good night any more than Annaliese did.

  “Ivo’s mother is probably peeking out to make sure there is no mischief going on here,” Annaliese said.

  “Of course. We’ve been adopted, and none of her children are allowed to misbehave.”

  But to test that statement, he leaned closer and gave her a kiss, then sat back and listened. “There, we must truly be alone.”

  Annaliese laughed. “Having so many sons must have taught her how to stop a fight. Perhaps Germany should consult her.”

  Christophe looked as though he might have responded, but a tapping at the door called his gaze. She looked, too—with alarm. Everyone in the family was home, and no one called on friends, not anymore. Surely it couldn’t be a neighbor at this hour.

  But the tapping was too quiet to be a soldier.

  Christophe stood and approached the door. He waited, saying nothing. Annaliese hoped whoever it was would simply go away. And yet . . . hadn’t she been on that side of the door only a few days ago? alone and in need?

  The tapping sounded again.

  “Ivo . . .”

  The voice was too low and raspy to know more than that it was a man’s.

  “Should I get him?” Annaliese whispered.

  Christophe held up his hand for her to wait.

  “What do you want?” he asked through the door.

  “Help, Ivo. I need your help.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Let me in. Ivo, is that you?”

  The voice had gone up in volume, and for a moment Annaliese thought it familiar. But she wouldn’t believe it.

  “Tell me who you are, or I won’t open the door and I won’t tell Ivo you’re here.”

  “I’m a friend. Only a friend. I’m hurt. I need help.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yes.”

  Surely it wasn’t . . . it couldn’t be. . . . And yet . . .

  Christophe moved aside the bench and unlatched the lower of the two locks without removing the chain. Bracing himself on the doorframe, he opened the door wide enough to peer out. Annaliese could see nothing beyond his broad shoulders, but Christophe quickly shut the door, unlatched the chain, and opened it wide.

  In time for Jurgen to fall into him, unconscious.

  * * *

  Seeing Annaliese minister to Jurgen shouldn’t have made Christophe uneasy, and yet watching her gently clean his wound, nearly caress his forehead with a cool cloth, Christophe wanted to snatch her hand away.

  So he reminded himself, yet again, that she did only what he would want her to do as a follower of the Christ they both now served. If it were any man other than Jurgen. The man who hadn’t given a moment’s attention to making sure she was safe.

  As near as they could tell, Jurgen had been shot, but the bleeding had stopped and there was no bullet lodged inside. It traveled through the muscle in his shoulder, evidenced by the entry and exit wounds. And it must have happened some time ago, judging by his weakness and the crustiness of the blood. Annaliese had swabbed the area without even flinching, as well as any trenchside nurse might have done.

  Christophe intended to get what information he could from Jurgen, then send the man on his way as soon as he could walk. Certainly there were any number of men still willing to give him aid. Hadn’t he gathered men by the thousands to follow him and Leviné?

  And where was Leo, who never let Jurgen out of his sight?

  “He can’t stay,” Christophe said. “Not here. It’s too dangerous for Ivo’s family.”

  Annaliese nodded, but her face was so solemn he couldn’t guess what she was thinking. Jurgen was coming round to consciousness. Christophe stepped nearer, but Annaliese was already speaking.

  “Jurgen, can you hear me? It’s me, Annaliese.”

  “Anna . . . liese?”

  “Yes, Jurgen. It’s me. What’s happened to you?”

  “They came. . . . They found where we were hiding. They shot—at all of us.” He tried a smile. “The jacket . . . the one you gave me. It’s ruined.”

  Christophe stepped beside Annaliese, bending closer to Jurgen. “Where is Leo?”

  “Leviné . . .”

  “No, Leo. Where is Leo? and Huey and Bertita?”

  “They left me, all of them. Leviné—arrested.” He barely had his eyes open, bloodshot and rimmed with red. A stark contrast to the pastiness of his skin. “Will use a firing squad on him; that’s what they say.”

  Christophe thought he might be right about that.

  “What about Leo, Jurgen?” Annaliese asked again. “Where is he?”

  “I . . . don’t . . . know. We were given away. Free corps came. . . . Leo . . . he and the others fled before the first shot. Leo left me there.”

  “He left y
ou?”

  Her voice was as incredulous as Christophe felt. Leo? A coward, after all.

  Jurgen closed his eyes again, and Christophe faced Annaliese, who stood in front of him.

  “He’ll have to stay until morning,” Christophe said. “I’ll go and tell Ivo, and we can take him somewhere else before we go to the train station. Go to bed, Annaliese.”

  “I can stay up with you. His wound might be infected.”

  “I’ll be here, right on the floor next to him. Don’t worry.”

  He didn’t like his own tone, filled with more irritation than sympathy, and so when she smiled, he didn’t expect it.

  “You’re a good man, Christophe Brecht.”

  He accepted her kiss then but knew he didn’t really deserve it.

  40

  “He’s been hovering over you as if you were the one with a bullet hole through your shoulder instead of me.”

  Jurgen’s observation of Christophe was true, but Annaliese wasn’t about to complain. She’d just changed the bandage on Jurgen’s shoulder, and for the first time since last night, Christophe had left them alone. Ivo kept his family in the kitchen, well away from their visitor.

  Jurgen looked beyond her, at the kitchen door, where Christophe had disappeared with the soiled bandages. Leaning closer to Annaliese, he claimed one of her wrists. “Annaliese, I know you’re planning to get out of the city. I want you to take me with you.” The pressure on her wrist increased. “I should say, I want you to convince him to take me with you.”

  She might have answered—given an instant refusal—except Christophe had already returned. Jurgen let go of Annaliese’s wrist as if it had turned hot enough to scald him, something Christophe obviously didn’t miss. His gaze sought hers as if to make sure she was all right.

  “There is something Jurgen wants to ask of us, Christophe.” She kept her eyelids lowered, in case Christophe read too soon how she felt about what Jurgen would ask.

  Christophe turned his attention to Jurgen, waiting.

  “Are you still planning to leave the city?”

  Christophe nodded.

  Jurgen looked from Christophe to Annaliese, then back again. “I would like to ask you to let me come along.”

  Christophe folded his arms on his chest, but his eyes never left Jurgen. “Do you know what you’re asking?”

  Jurgen nodded. “I know it would be difficult. I know you have reason not to care for me. . . .”

  Christophe stepped closer to Annaliese and pulled her farther from the couch on which Jurgen sat, as if to protect her already from what he wanted. “You were a member of Leviné’s council, Jurgen. You, as much as he, gave the order to the Communists to take over this city. To cast people from their homes—”

  “Yes, to give shelter to the homeless.”

  “To raid the banks—”

  “How else could we govern, without money to right society’s wrongs?”

  “To arrest anyone who didn’t agree with you—”

  “To make the streets safe.”

  “To execute members of the most prominent families of Bavaria—”

  “That was Leviné, not me!” He leaned forward as if he would rise but didn’t. “They said he was doing what the Bible taught—the very book you tout!”

  The words silenced Christophe, surprising Annaliese, too. “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “They said there was a story in there about a husband and wife who weren’t sharing properly, as others were. They were living in perfect Communism, those people! But not this husband and wife. God struck down the two who only pretended to share what they had. Leviné—or someone with him—said no one should object to carrying out an example God set, for those who refused to share.”

  Christophe stepped forward. “So the Communists are God, now? They decide who is to live and who is to die?”

  Jurgen shook his head. “No! It’s only what someone said.”

  “And you did nothing to stop those executions.”

  “It’s true, he went too far. And so they’ll shoot him for it! But not me; I didn’t authorize any of that. I wanted only freedom—for all of us. Freedom to live in fairness.”

  Christophe bent over Jurgen with a look in his eye Annaliese hadn’t seen since the night she’d awakened him from his nightmares. “Don’t,” he said, his face only inches from Jurgen’s. “Don’t speak to me about freedom. You want to tell everyone what to do, like a father of little children who don’t know what is best for them. To decide what to take from some and what to give to others. That isn’t freedom. Not the kind I fought for.”

  Jurgen looked away. “I know you’ve never believed in helping others the way I do.”

  “Helping others! With guns? With decisions they have no part in?”

  Annaliese wanted to hear no more. Everything Christophe said made sense, and she agreed with him. But for all Jurgen’s faults, she’d never doubted his sincerity. The answers weren’t as easy as either man might think. She wished they were, because if she could condemn Jurgen for what he’d done—and maybe she could—then she might not have been able to hear the urging God was placing on her heart this very moment.

  “Christophe, we must help him. You know that, don’t you?”

  Her question was gently spoken, certainly not with as firm a tone as either of them had used. Yet it was loud enough to catch both men’s eyes. They stared at her, one in astonishment and the other with hope.

  “Do you know what you’re saying? what you’re risking to help him?”

  “I don’t believe he would’ve ordered anyone to be executed, Christophe. Do you really believe that of Jurgen?”

  Christophe took a step back, turned away, rubbed a hand through his hair. “No,” he said at last, over his shoulder.

  “Then we have to help him. Only God should decide whether or not he’s to die, not the free corps.”

  Peace flooded Annaliese’s soul the moment she uttered those words. In this, she knew she was right.

  41

  “We can’t wait another day,” Christophe said to Annaliese. They sat across from one another, having just finished breakfast before the sun had even risen. Ivo and his mother were at the table as well, but the children were still asleep in their room, while Jurgen lay in the parlor. “It’s dangerous to have him here, and if you want to see your parents before they sail, we need to hope a train can take us out as soon as possible.”

  Annaliese nodded; she knew he was right. They had no choice—no easy choice. Jurgen was barely recovered from his wound; they’d already delayed their departure another day for him.

  “Let’s tell him.”

  She took up a cup of coffee and some bread for Jurgen, then followed Christophe into the parlor. Ivo and his mother came along.

  “What is this?” Jurgen asked with a smile. He was fully awake, sitting up on the sofa. “All of you to deliver one man’s breakfast?”

  Annaliese gave him the hot coffee and hard bread.

  “When you are finished with that,” Christophe said, “we’re leaving. It isn’t safe to wait any longer. You’ll have to walk on your own, possibly all the way to the train station if the streetcars aren’t running. When we’re there, if there is a fight for space on the train, you’ll have to fend for yourself. I’ll do what I can, but Annaliese is my first priority. Do you understand?”

  Jurgen nodded.

  Christophe still stared. “I want you to fully understand. If you are recognized, neither I nor Annaliese will protect you. We won’t give our lives for you.”

  Jurgen’s gaze lingered on Annaliese. Christophe’s words were harsh, but she also knew they were true.

  Jurgen sipped the coffee. “Perhaps it is better out there today. Last night was certainly quiet. Maybe the trains are running more regularly.”

  “That’s true,” Ivo’s mother said, “about the streets.” The room Annaliese shared with Ivo’s mother overlooked the street, and being near a corner, they had a wide view.

>   “It only means the free corps are fully in control,” Christophe said. “They will be no help, and we won’t be armed.”

  Jurgen frowned. “Not armed?”

  “They’re not likely to allow rifles on anyone but their soldiers, and I won’t risk being suspected.”

  He’d already shared that part of the plan with Annaliese, but she’d guessed it had as much to do with his unwillingness to take another life as the risk in being identified as a revolutionary.

  “But I thought—since you have military-issue boots, a military rifle—you would present yourself as a free corps member. Perhaps I, too—”

  “We have no way to act out such a charade if we’re questioned at the train station. No orders, no names, no information at all that I could present to prove I’m one of them. So we will go as bourgeoisie.”

  Annaliese fully expected Jurgen to protest this as well, but he waited silently for Christophe to continue.

  “I have a full suit for myself, and I will give you the shirt and the hat I meant to wear with it. You’ll have to go without a jacket. The stain is too deep on yours, even if the bullet hole can be sewn shut. But the weather is warmer today. Perhaps no one will think it odd if you go without.”

  “And you, Annaliese?”

  “I have the proper clothing.”

  “We’re going to change now,” Christophe said. “Ivo will bring the shirt to you. Do you understand everything I’ve said? Are you strong enough?”

  He smiled and leveled his gaze at Christophe. “I’ll have to be, won’t I?”

  Christophe did not reply. He glanced at Annaliese, then left the room.

  * * *

  Christophe led the way from Ivo’s house, heading south under a sky that showed only a promise of morning.

  “Shouldn’t we go the other way?”

  But Christophe didn’t reply to Jurgen’s halfhearted inquiry. He could see the man kept up well, better than Christophe would have expected. He didn’t trust Christophe, though, and that was something Christophe had little intention of trying to change.