Springtime of the Spirit

by Maureen Lang

  In fact, Jurgen was right. Heading south was not the most direct route to the nearest train station. The shortest walk would take them through the heart of the neighborhood they all knew best—where those of lesser means lived. Instead, by going a few blocks out of their way, they could travel through a more fashionable neighborhood. No one expected to be able to hire a taxi these days, but if one was to be found, it would be found in that neighborhood, not their own. At the very least, the streetcar was there.

  And as intended, the clothes they all wore fit the upper-class neighborhood, not this one.

  If he had allowed himself to look at Annaliese for more than a moment, he would have let his admiration show. She nearly looked like the Annaliese of the family portrait, even down to the onyx pin at her collar that winked light at him. Lovely. Happy, but as worried as he was about what this day might bring.

  * * *

  Despite all her worries, despite knowing there were thousands of men in this very city who wanted not just to arrest the man at her side but to execute him, Annaliese allowed herself a moment of enjoyment over the feel of the silk. In the past few months she’d told herself such luxuries went with greed, but she had to admit she’d missed some things she used to take for granted. Wearing Giselle’s pin reminded her that some of the things of this world really were lovely.

  It was one of the things she would have to reexamine now, through the new lens of faith. When did enjoying the gifts God provided become something other than just that? something self-serving . . . even idolatrous?

  She wanted to cling to such thoughts—mundane ones and serious ones, too—about God and faith and Christophe, thoughts even of her family, of the voyage her parents would soon take, of Christophe’s suggestion they might sail themselves. Not that she could really leave Germany, but knowing Christophe would do whatever it took to keep them safe, including leaving their home, made her trust him all the more. She wanted to fill her mind with anything but what might happen until they were free of this city.

  She would have been worried even without the added complication of having Jurgen with them. He kept up without complaint, as if he weren’t still recovering from a bullet wound and the loss of so much blood. He stared straight ahead, looking almost the part of an upper-class gentleman if one didn’t look too closely at the weave of his pants. His shirt, however, despite the wrinkles and that it was a trifle taut across the shoulders, was of the finest quality, embroidered on the pocket with the letter B. It would be difficult to see that and still think him anything but well-to-do, especially with the elegance of his face and the color of his eyes that the hat barely hid. Annaliese had never thought his face fit the look of a peasant, and in Christophe’s shirt her assessment was proven correct.

  Her gaze most often went to Christophe. He looked every bit the Christophe she’d known before the war, the one who was never late to church, who was always polite to her and to her family. He was more handsome than ever in the suit he’d worn on Sundays, and he certainly fit the part of a gentleman. The shirt he wore now was one of Ivo’s best, and although it was of inferior quality to the one Christophe had given Jurgen, there was nothing about it that seemed out of place with the higher-quality suit covering it.

  He’d left behind his knapsack, two guns, and the rest of his battle garb. Klaus had helped shine his boots, so that unless one looked closely, they blended in with the suit as well. They did the same for Jurgen’s old shoes.

  The day was uncommonly clear and warm for so early in the spring. And as expected, the streets were mainly quiet. Service on the streetcars was indeed sporadic, but they were able to catch one after a few blocks of walking. Christophe paid for all three of them. Whether because of the early hour or the condition of the city, there were several empty seats. She and Jurgen took spots next to each other, and Jurgen sank to the leather cushion with closed eyes, as if more relieved than he wanted to admit about being able to sit at last. Christophe stood next to them, one hand on the back of the seat, the other on the leather strap dangling from above.

  Annaliese barely noticed the avenues they passed. There was little to see, anyway, except closed shops and old, tattered pamphlets rustling along the gutters. Even here, in such fine neighborhoods, the old flyers reminded her of all the words she and Jurgen had used trying to convince others their way of thinking was right.

  She closed her eyes to all of that now. Instead, she prayed. It wasn’t until she felt the streetcar slow at the curve just before Munich’s main train station that she looked around again.

  The wide, cobbled avenue was busier than the rest of the city had been. There were even a few motorcars parked, as always, just outside the station entrance. Because the hour was early, the gaslights above still had a glow about them, but they were dulling in comparison to the rising sun.

  There were soldiers here too, milling rather than marching. Christophe led Annaliese and Jurgen away from the streetcar, but instead of keeping away from the nearest knot of soldiers, he walked up to them.

  “Do you know if the trains are running on schedule yet?”

  His voice was strong and bold, not a trace of the nervousness that ran through Annaliese—and, no doubt even worse, through Jurgen.

  All of the soldiers studied them, but only one spoke. “They are running, but not on schedule. Have they ever run on time here in Bavaria?”

  The men behind him laughed.

  Christophe led them on their way, and the soldiers let them go.

  “Was that wise?” Jurgen asked, once they stepped inside, among the columns of the station. His voice was terse, a little breathless. “Calling attention to ourselves?”

  Christophe didn’t look at him. “Better to act the parts we’re hoping to fill instead of letting them confront us first. We’re bourgeoisie, grateful for them, remember?”

  The station wasn’t nearly as chaotic as Annaliese feared. People walked about, and in between them a few soldiers wandered with bayoneted guns. They were like fish with great stingers swimming through the station, stopping now and then but questioning only people who were dressed to lesser means. “Where are you going?” she’d heard one soldier ask. “What have you been doing in the past few days?” Followed by a search for any weapons.

  She was glad, then, that Christophe had shown the restraint he had in leaving behind his own weapons.

  The largest groups were found at the ticket booths. Christophe chose a line behind an older couple at one of the two open counters. The woman’s hat was adorned with a tall feather, the man’s fedora trimmed with a miniature version of the same.

  “Have you been waiting long?” Christophe asked, so friendly they could have been going to Oktoberfest rather than standing near streets still tense with remnants of a suppressed revolution.

  “Just a half hour or so,” the man said.

  Christophe smiled. “It promises a fine day.”

  The woman nodded, then glanced at Annaliese, who tried to think of something to add, to pretend this was just any other day, but not a single word came to mind. She smiled in place of furthering the conversation.

  Jurgen stood behind them, but Annaliese guessed they weren’t even sure he was part of their group.

  “It could be much worse, young man,” said the man in the feathered fedora. “Between the few trains the Allies left us and the chaos the Communists have caused, those of us allowed to keep a home might all be confined to it.”

  The woman at his side nodded again, her nervousness betrayed by the quickness of her movement. “Yes, we always go to the countryside at this time of the year. We’ve already delayed it a week.”

  “So I said this morning,” the man added, “that we won’t wait another day. And here we are.”

  A pair of soldiers passed by, and Annaliese watched but only peripherally. She kept her gaze on Christophe instead; he might be listening to the woman in front of them as she talked about their home in the country, but his eyes followed the nearby soldiers.

&
nbsp; She nearly jumped when Jurgen’s arm brushed hers. It was barely a touch, perhaps unintentional, yet there was something in his eye that made her fearful just the same. He was staring at the soldiers too.

  Then they passed by, taking no notice of anyone. She wondered if it was her imagination that her own sigh of relief was echoed by Jurgen.

  The line they were in to purchase tickets did not move, and annoyance replaced whatever relief she felt at not having a soldier around. They had relative peace, relative safety, so she must squash any impatience. She wished only to be invisible, and in particular that Jurgen would be invisible too.

  Christophe encouraged the mindless chatter from the couple in front of them by asking questions, and they both seemed eager enough to talk. Anything to make it appear as though life were normal.

  By the time the line began to move, Annaliese had had ample opportunity to study the growing crowd around them. She was convinced they weren’t the only ones hiding something. A good number of those around them looked every bit as nervous as she felt.

  When finally they had their tickets and walked toward the trains, the station was busier than ever. She didn’t know if that was good or bad. Certainly it was good that people felt safe enough to leave their homes, but bad because she feared a train—whenever one arrived—might be rushed with passengers. Ticketed or not.

  “You—you there. Halt.”

  Annaliese’s heart plummeted just as Christophe took her hand in his while Jurgen, now clutching her arm, tightened his grip. But when she turned in the direction of the call, she saw the soldiers were addressing a man dressed in the garb of a worker.

  Christophe led them on, even as familiar questions echoed from the iron rafters. “Where are you going? What have you been doing the last few days? Do you have a weapon?”

  The man’s answers were too timid to be heard.

  Evidently the docility of his demeanor made no difference. A moment later Annaliese saw him marched off with a gun at his back, under arrest.

  * * *

  Christophe watched the man being taken away, knowing all he would have to do was whisper Jurgen’s identity in the ear of any one of these soldiers and Jurgen, too, would be hauled away.

  But bringing attention to Jurgen meant bringing attention to Annaliese, and that he would not do.

  The closer they came to the tracks, the noisier it became, even without a train in sight. The platforms teemed with people carrying their own luggage. He scanned the area, knowing they would have to fight for a place closer to the track to have even a hope of boarding.

  He held Annaliese in front of him, directing her by the shoulders which way to go. Jurgen was close at her side. Christophe’s height allowed him to see farther above the crowd, but they were jostled all the way.

  Soon, though, they had inched and pressed and squirmed their way as near to the rails as they were likely to get.

  Christophe noticed the stares first. They seemed to be looking at Annaliese—or just beyond her. He followed the gaze, seeing Annaliese was as bewildered as he.

  “Look—look at him!”

  Then he saw Jurgen on her other side. The pure white of the shirt Christophe had given him was stained with a shocking red; the assault of the crowd had evidently battered his wound open. Between the size of the blotch and the paleness of his face, it was a wonder the man still managed to walk.

  Christophe slipped out of his jacket and put it around Jurgen. Then he pulled him along, supporting him with one arm, the other around Annaliese. He guided them beside the edge of the track without backing away, as far down the platform as the crowd permitted.

  Was it his imagination, or was there a whisper rippling through those around them, even here? A crowd of strangers suddenly seemed to be connecting. A crowd that Jurgen might once have charmed with his poetry and passion. But Christophe saw suspicion in the glances closest to them, in a finger pointed at Jurgen.

  Whispers about recent fighting sounded from here and there. The victors were the only ones patrolling the streets now, one reminded another. The losers were in hiding . . . or trying to flee.

  Christophe made sure Jurgen’s wound was well concealed and prayed as never before that the whistle of a train might miraculously sound.

  But it did not.

  The murmurs grew louder, the crowd closer, as if everyone wanted to see what kind of wound the man sported. There was no place left for them to go; they were as far down the platform as it allowed.

  Christophe could hide the blood, but he couldn’t hide the paleness of Jurgen’s skin, the increasing sag in his stance. He adjusted the tweed hat, lowering it a bit to cover more of Jurgen’s face. He was drooping by the moment, his eyelids falling shut. He stood now only because he leaned against Christophe. Without him, Jurgen would surely fall.

  Then what Christophe had prayed for sounded in the distance. The brakes, the steam, the whistle. Though the train was still beyond sight of the platform, Christophe knew his first moment of optimism, even as the whispers from the crowd around him grew louder.

  “That man is bleeding.” The accusation was repeated so often it became an echo of itself.

  “Bring a soldier here!”

  “For help?”

  “A wound from a battle!”

  “Probably a bullet!”

  “Then he must be—”

  The word they all feared rang from every direction. Communist.

  Even as the train neared at last, Christophe caught Annaliese’s eye. He could protect Jurgen, or he could protect her. She must know which he would choose.

  And yet her gaze, so full of compassion, was on Jurgen. Not on Christophe. He couldn’t tell her, over the hue and cry of the accusing crowd, that he would stay by Jurgen’s side if that was what she wanted. That he would push her aboard if he had to, that he wouldn’t let the crowd have Jurgen’s red blood.

  Because he knew if he failed Jurgen, he failed her.

  The huge shadow of the locomotive pulled in behind Annaliese, and at that moment the crowd turned its attention there. Everyone scrambled forward, intent on getting aboard.

  Christophe pushed Annaliese forward even as he tugged Jurgen along. Over his shoulder he heard another whistle, a different kind, from a free corps soldier fighting through the swarm of those who a moment ago were intent on fingering Jurgen. Now they had abandoned their cries in favor of getting aboard.

  He saw Annaliese trip on the silk of her skirt, saw the hem tear when someone else caught it as they stepped onto the car’s iron stair. Someone behind him pulled at Jurgen, who was like a rag doll between them. He was fully unconscious now, falling first one way and then the other.

  Christophe heaved him up like a child, Jurgen’s feet dragging, blood seeping from beneath the jacket now, dripping down to warm Christophe’s hand.

  Up one step, just behind Annaliese. Then another.

  They were on board but pushed from behind through the vestibule ever deeper into the car.

  Left with no choice, he took up a place behind Annaliese through first one carriage and vestibule, then another, until she was stopped on the other end from as furious a force as pushed from behind. Another set of passengers had gained access to a carriage farther up the track.

  “In here,” he called to Annaliese, who had taken only two steps past the lavatory.

  Christophe tried to reach the handle, but Jurgen was too heavy to free either hand. Annaliese pulled the door open before the crush of the crowd made it impossible.

  Christophe slipped inside, wanting to pull Annaliese in too. But the space was too small.

  She shook her head. “I’ll stay right here.” Then she closed the door before he could say another word.

  Even this seemed too much of a separation, with her on the wrong side of the door. Christophe settled Jurgen on the closed toilet seat and tried the door, but it wouldn’t easily budge. The crowd must be too thick.

  “Annaliese?”

  “I’m here! Don’t worry.”<
br />
  He couldn’t stop himself from doing just that. Yet Jurgen needed attention. Christophe pulled the jacket away from him, seeing the red stain was worse even than on the platform. There was little to do about it except try stopping the flow, using the shirt itself. All he could do was pray—and listen through the door to make sure Annaliese was all right.

  42

  Annaliese tried not to stare at those around her but glanced surreptitiously anyway, trying to guess which were the faces of those who had accused Jurgen on the platform, if any of them were still nearby. Had the frantic crush to board the train separated her from those who had suspected Jurgen of being a revolutionary? Or were they too relieved at having found a place on the train to worry about him now?

  Most faces turned away when her glance fell in their direction; they were pressed too tightly, and the indignity of desperation left little pride even in her own heart. But she still had to know. Were there any accusers around her or not?

  The train lurched forward and her heart leaped with hope. But then the wheels scraped to another stop, only to lurch forward again.

  And then to stop once more.

  Annaliese could barely see through the narrow openings of the throng between her and the window. When she caught sight of a free corps officer on the platform, her breath stopped.

  But all he did was stare at the train; those who’d cried accusations and suspicions at Jurgen were no longer at his side.

  She looked around. That meant they were on this train. Perhaps ready to point the finger again if they were assured it wouldn’t endanger their spot.

  With her back smashed to the lavatory door, Annaliese refused to budge, refused even to look at those around her now. She closed her eyes and prayed the train would move away from the station.

  She wished she could see Christophe now, if only to glimpse his face, his eyes, to catch some kind of hope from him, even if it was nothing more than a shared wish for it. A shared prayer, the assurance that God was with them. But she knew he needed to wait in silence, and she mustn’t allow anyone the use of this lavatory.