Springtime of the Spirit

by Maureen Lang

  The train sat still for so long she began to fret they would never move forward. It was so crowded, and in such close quarters, the air soon staled. Few people spoke, only a mumble now and then. Barely a single complaint made it through the unease.

  “Is there someone in there?”

  Annaliese ignored the question, spoken by a man trying to make his way through the crowded aisle of the train car. She pretended she hadn’t heard him, only held on to the latch behind her back even tighter.

  “Is there anyone in this lavatory?”

  Annaliese stared straight ahead.

  Another man, one who had held a place so close beside her that his shoulder was pressed to the same door she held closed, tilted his face toward her. He wore the white suit and straw hat of a gentleman, and of all of those around them, he appeared the least flustered with the delay or the jammed space.

  “I believe this gentleman—and the soldier behind him,” he said, “are addressing you, Fräulein.”

  Heart pounding so loudly in her ears she wasn’t sure she would be able to decipher what anyone else said, she looked past the man in the white suit to two others squeezing through those pinched into the train car with them.

  “My husband is using this lavatory,” she called when they stopped in front of her. How easily the lie passed from her lips under such desperation. “He’s ill. Please leave him alone.”

  Voices rose around her.

  “I saw her with him—the man with the blood.”

  Several others around them nodded along.

  “It was a wound!”

  “If her husband is in the lavatory, he must be the one with the bloodstain.”

  “He must have been fighting in the revolution. How else would he have become wounded like that—with so much blood?”

  The soldier held a gun across his chest. “Ask your husband to come out here, if you please.”

  “I—I don’t know if he can.”

  “Please, if you would allow me to help?” said the man in the white suit beside her. “I need to use the lavatory anyway.”

  “But—”

  Annaliese’s protest went unheeded the moment the door opened from the inside. There was Christophe, unable to open the door very wide for the press of people around them, particularly the man in the white suit at Annaliese’s side.

  “If you please,” the man said. Then despite Christophe’s attempt to stop him, he moved out of the way for the door to open farther, pulling Christophe out and forcing himself into the lavatory, effectively switching their places.

  Christophe stood at her side, dressed in the once-white shirt that he’d loaned to Jurgen, which was now irreversibly stained in red.

  “There it is!”

  “See all that blood!”

  The soldier had little room to point his rifle anywhere but straight up, yet his intention to use it was clear enough. “You will come with me.”

  Christophe looked as confused as Annaliese felt. The man in the white suit was inside the lavatory—with Jurgen. And hadn’t said a word. Surely Jurgen wasn’t strong enough to overpower him?

  “Why should I come with you?” Christophe said, snapping Annaliese from her own confusion. They had no choice but to take advantage of whatever time Jurgen extended them, and Christophe was clearly acting the part she’d set up a moment ago. He leaned heavily against the door, shrouding his eyes with what looked like heavy lids and drooping his shoulders.

  “I told you he is sick,” Annaliese said. Now she was glad she’d said such a thing. “He’s coughed up so much blood—he’s terribly ill. We’re going to the country, to the doctors at the sanitarium.”

  A rumble originated somewhere in the crowd, whisper of a new threat. TB. What else could cause someone to cough up so much blood?

  First one seemed to withdraw; then from the other side another moved away, then another, allowing more room between Christophe and the crowd.

  But the soldier was clearly skeptical. He remained standing where he was, right in front of Annaliese and Christophe. “Coughed up that much blood?” he said. “I don’t think so.”

  For good measure Christophe coughed again, and with his hands already stained from holding Jurgen, it might have convinced Annaliese herself had she not known the truth.

  “You will remove your shirt,” the soldier commanded, attempting to shift his rifle but not succeeding in lowering it enough to be of any real threat.

  “This is a public place,” Christophe protested weakly. “Half disrobing might . . . upset some of the ladies.”

  “You can do it here, or you can do it in the presence of my other officers. I will place you under arrest if there is a wound beneath that shirt.”

  Christophe tried to unbutton the shirt but fumbled with mock frailty. Annaliese helped him free the last few buttons and then he removed the shirt. He held up his arms, even turned around, proving the blood did not come from a wound on any part of his body. There was a smear of blood on him from the shirt itself, but with a clean corner he wiped it away.

  The soldier looked at the man who’d brought the accusations, whose face was beginning to take on a pallor of its own.

  “It was very confusing on the platform,” he said slowly. “We all saw the blood. It looked as though—we heard no cough. We thought perhaps . . . he had been shot.”

  The soldier told the man to mind his own business, then faced Christophe once more, this time with a smile.

  “I can see from your boots you were in the army. Where did you serve?”

  “On the Somme.”

  Annaliese smiled broadly. “Yes, he was a Major and served our country bravely.”

  She added a glare over the soldier’s shoulder, aimed at the man who had tried to have him arrested. How bold the ruse had made her, when she should still be quaking in her own shoes.

  But it was only the truth, what she’d said about Christophe. He had served their country bravely, and if anyone deserved freedom, it was he.

  * * *

  Christophe watched the soldier make his way from the train, while the others who’d accused them backed away as far as the confines allowed. He sent a glance Annaliese’s way; then with another cough to emphasize his role, he prepared to return to the lavatory, to see what Jurgen had done with the man in the white suit.

  He tapped on the door.

  A moment later the man came out, the sleeves of his suit coat splattered with blood. The look on his face was a mix of fear and annoyance. “You’ve left the lavatory entirely unusable. Look! Would you look at my clothes? I don’t doubt this man has some kind of horrible disease that might kill anyone who uses that lavatory.”

  His words renewed murmurs of TB as he made his way to one of the newer spots left open from a crowd now eager to give them any room that was left.

  Then the train began to roll blessedly forward.

  “I suggest you are the only one to use that lavatory,” he said with obvious affront aimed Christophe’s way, “until the conductor has a chance to clean it. But who can find a conductor on this train? None to be found, I’m sure of that. No room!”

  Exchanging a glance with Annaliese, Christophe tried hiding his astonishment, and then he went back inside the lavatory. Jurgen was there, fully conscious, still sitting on the closed toilet lid.

  “What happened?” he whispered to Jurgen.

  “I was about to ask you the same.”

  “The man who was just in here with you,” Christophe said. He knew the question was absurd even as he had to ask. “Didn’t he . . . see you?”

  Jurgen nodded. “He said he was from Berlin, that he worked with Leviné and was trying to escape Munich.”

  “Did you know him?”

  Jurgen shook his head. “I never saw the man before today.”

  Christophe knew Communists were fleeing Munich faster than rats from a sinking ship, so he didn’t doubt the story. It was one thing to help Jurgen get away, but altogether different to help anyone else. He was reli
eved the other man didn’t need his help—and had, in fact, helped them instead.

  Not that Christophe held much hope that the free corps would act mercifully if either one were caught. Not with their guns ready to spread their own form of justice.

  He leaned against the closed lavatory door, feeling the rattle of the wheels beneath them. All he wanted to do now was get Munich—and really, all of Germany—behind him.

  43

  Annaliese kept guard over the lavatory door. She had no intention of moving, no matter who showed an interest in using the facility. Not that anyone did; TB was as frightening as the influenza. The man in the now-stained white suit occasionally smiled her way but never said another word.

  She knew they wouldn’t be safe leaving the train—at least with Jurgen—until most of those who had boarded with them were gone.

  How far could the others travel? Germany was only so big.

  The train was unable to take on more passengers within the city limits and so it crept through all the outlying stations without stopping at all.

  At such a slow pace, the train ride seemed to go on forever, even beyond the city. After the first few stops without a soul departing, Annaliese began to fret that no one would disembark, and they would be trapped indefinitely aboard this awful carriage. Christophe trapped in the confines of a lavatory with Jurgen, and he without any help.

  Gradually, though, the train began to lighten its load of humanity at countryside stations. From where she stood, she had only a scant view but knew they would soon come to Braedon, where she and Christophe had grown up.

  She also knew they would have to pass it by.

  And so they did. She sent only a fleeting glance in its direction, and she heard nothing from the lavatory, though certainly Christophe had guessed from the time spent on the train, even at this snail’s pace, that they must have passed their destination.

  Before much longer the man in the once-white suit departed, tipping his hat her way, then disappearing through the vestibule exit.

  She watched a pack of original accusers share a meal at midday, guessing them to be part of the same family. They were well dressed: two women, three men, a youth. Though the women didn’t wear much jewelry beyond earrings and a few rings on their fingers, she could tell they weren’t only acting the part of the bourgeoisie; they were authentic. They mostly ignored Annaliese, which she welcomed. She didn’t want any attention at all.

  Seeing them eat made her own stomach twist with hunger, surprising her. She had no desire for food. How could her body hint at an interest in such a thing when the remnants of a crowd who’d been only too eager to accuse Jurgen were still around?

  Furtively she studied those other faces left who might have been witnesses. Most had already departed, each taking with them one small piece of the burden from her shoulders.

  Another man caught her eye beyond them, one she hadn’t noticed earlier. He was alone and sat staring out the window, not looking her way, not paying attention to anyone on the train. Had he been part of the crowd on the platform? Certainly he hadn’t boarded recently; he might have come from another, more crowded train car. She couldn’t be sure.

  At last the family departed, a full hour past Annaliese’s home village. She looked around at those who were left. Everyone had a seat, and there were even a number of empty ones now.

  The man she’d noticed was still aboard. He was finely dressed, his pants of dark linen. Were his shoes just tattered by the effects of the war, or were they castoffs from someone else? Were his clothes a disguise, like Jurgen’s, to present himself as bourgeoisie when in fact he was another escaping Communist?

  She wished there were some kind of code, some way to find out, some way she could inquire that would let him trust her enough to answer the question. Because if he was no danger to Jurgen, they could get off at the very next stop.

  As if in answer to her unspoken thoughts, the man stood to disembark. Good; that meant they could get off the train at the stop after, once he was gone.

  She watched him open the door to the vestibule. But to her dismay he merely went on to the next carriage.

  The train stopped to let other passengers off, then slowly started its journey again. She looked out the window to see who had been left behind on the platform and saw a handful of people. But not that man.

  She tapped on the door, and Christophe opened it just wide enough to see her face.

  “No one is left who boarded with us,” she whispered. “There was a man here, but he’s gone to another carriage. I think he’s still aboard.”

  “If he doesn’t see us, we can get off at the next village. Jurgen needs a doctor—I can’t stop the bleeding. I don’t think we should wait any longer.”

  She nodded. They would have to take the chance. She saw that Christophe wore the bloodstained shirt, but he’d covered it with his jacket. If Jurgen was still bleeding, that would be two shirts with stains, making it all the harder to escape notice.

  As the train slowed, the speed of Annaliese’s heartbeat picked up. She tapped on the lavatory door just as Christophe opened it. Jurgen was there, pale but alert, his blue eyes flitting nervously about. He wore the unstained shirt, though even now a small spot was forming.

  “Walk out with him,” Christophe whispered. “I’ll follow in a moment.”

  Jurgen walked steadily enough at her side with nothing more than the lightest of touches to her forearm. She pulled open the door to the vestibule; then as the slow train stopped altogether, she stepped down to the platform before waiting for a conductor to appear with a step.

  She looked back to see if Christophe followed, but to her horror she saw instead the other man, the one who might have boarded with them in Munich.

  “Come along, Jurgen,” she said quietly. “There is a man behind us we’ll want to avoid.”

  He stepped down behind her more agilely than she would have expected considering the extent of his injury and loss of blood. But in spite of that, a shadow closed in behind them.

  She continued to lead Jurgen, who stumbled once.

  “Wait, please.” The man’s voice was cool, calm. Close.

  Annaliese acted as if he were nothing but a pest following them, an overeager follower from one of the crowds they used to draw. Sometimes members from their crowds would get too close, would separate themselves from the rest in hope of capturing some of their essence, some of the magnetism that had drawn them and so many others.

  The shadow grew taller, closer. She felt it in the swirl of air closing in around them. Jurgen stumbled again and the stain that had been the size of a coin a moment ago spread larger. Annaliese accepted some of his weight, helping him along.

  “You were there,” the man said, still too close. “In Munich.”

  Annaliese refused to acknowledge the words, refused even to look at him.

  “You were with Leviné.”

  At last Annaliese looked back, not to confront the man but in search of Christophe.

  “You were with him when he ordered them shot. For no other reason than that they were wealthy.”

  Her eyes still searched for Christophe. There—he was just getting off the train.

  But something else caught her eye, taking her breath away. The man was so close behind them, and he had a gun.

  “Christophe!”

  He surged toward them, but not before the gun went off. Jurgen stumbled at her side just as Christophe pounced on the man behind them. His gun went off again, but Annaliese saw that this time it had been aimed at the sky.

  The first bullet, however, had found its target. Jurgen leaned against her, into her arms, even as from the corner of her eye she saw Christophe wrestle the man who had fired, kicking away his gun. Another man rushed from the station house to help Christophe subdue him.

  Behind her, the train shot steam and sparks, then chugged away, oblivious.

  Annaliese could support Jurgen no longer, so together they sank to the platform. He stared at her as
if all he could see was her face, smiled as if there were no pain. “You made me a better man, Annaliese. For a little while, anyway.” Something pulled at his face, a pain from a wound she couldn’t see, though the evidence of the new wound bathed her hands. “But it doesn’t matter . . . anymore.”

  Tears heated her cheeks as his blood heated her hands. “No, Jurgen! You’ll be all right. We’ll get a doctor—”

  Christophe appeared at their side. “She’s right, Jurgen. They’re sending for a doctor right now.”

  Jurgen’s gaze found Christophe. “I think . . . I think I will be seeing that God of yours before a doctor can get here.”

  “No, no!” Annaliese said. “Don’t give up. You mustn’t. . . .”

  Jurgen looked straight up, past both Annaliese and Christophe. “He was right. I was with Leviné. I could have stopped him, maybe. I could have rescued some of the bourgeoisie he murdered. But I didn’t.”

  Annaliese leaned even closer so that he was forced to look at her again. “You didn’t cause it, Jurgen,” she told him. “I know you wouldn’t.”

  “Tell that . . . to God . . . on my behalf.”

  And then he closed his eyes.

  44

  Annaliese walked with Christophe at her side, her hand in his. They’d barely spoken since seeing to Jurgen’s body, entrusting him to the local authorities. She and Christophe were as vague as they needed to be about how the murder had taken place, explaining that Annaliese had merely helped him from the train and the other man had come up behind them. She squashed the betrayal in her claim of not knowing Jurgen, and yet she told herself she really didn’t, not anymore. The Jurgen she knew wouldn’t have stood by and allowed innocent victims—even capitalists—to be shot for no reason. The shooter had been taken away in custody, and she would let that man identify Jurgen. They had left their names and addresses, but with homes in Braedon, Annaliese hoped to be spared anything that had happened in Munich.